Magnificat by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

himself and began to pray.
    * * *
    “Sadly, we must be very careful,” said Cyril Obata as he closed the door and pressed the lock home. The stretch limousine belonged to Obata-MacMillian, and it boasted not only a telephone-with-fax, television and CD stereo, but also a vibrating unit on the wide rear seat. Leather upholstery and damask accessories made the automobile luxurious. The windows were tinted and bullet-proof and the chauffeur was skilled in pursuit driving and the use of light arms.
    Although it was late, traffic along the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II was heavy; a filmcrew had staked out the Piazza del Campidoglio and the spill-over made for slow going.
    “What is the film about?” asked Cyril Obata as he offered his tight-lipped passenger some superior champagne.
    “I don’t know,” snapped Cardinal Hetre. “I’ve heard it was another of those ludicrous spy stories. The actors are Italian and English.” He dismissed the whole thing with a click of his tongue.
    “They must be well-financed, to be able to do this,” Obata observed, in no hurry to get to the reason for their meeting.
    “So I hear,” said Cardinal Hetre.
    Obata drank a little of his fine champagne but it did nothing to disperse the sense of gloom that had taken him over. “I had hoped to give you better news,” he said at last. “I regret that I cannot.”
    Cardinal Hetre looked at him, his lean face appearing almost skull-like in the subdued shine of the interior lamps. “What is it?”
    “We have made inquiries,” said Obata slowly. “I cannot do more without abandoning the confidentiality you insist upon. Under the circumstances, I can offer nothing but my apologies.” He indicated the champagne flute. “May I fill that for you?”
    Absently Cardinal Hetre held out his glass, though his eyes were supremely blank. “Nothing?”
    “About China?” Obata ventured. “No, I am very sorry,” he said as he poured. “We have few contacts in the inner parts of the country, you understand. They buy few sailing ships in the Tibetan foothills.” His feeble attempt at humor made both men more gloomy. “From what we have been able to discover, the town of Hongya does not depend on water for the greater part of its shipping. I’ve asked our various agents who might have relatives in Szechwan Province, thinking there might be some connection that would enable us to learn more.…” He lifted his glass. “Zhuang Renxin.”
    “We do not yet know who he is.” Cardinal Hetre tasted the sparkling wine. “Very good,” he approved in a distracted tone.
    “Thank you,” said Cyril Obata, taking consolation in the knowledge that he had done something to please the dour Canadian. “If you do not get information from your other sources, speak to me again, and it might be possible to hire someone in China to do the work for you.”
    “If it comes to that, we’ll probably resort to diplomatic channels.” said Cardinal Hetre. “You know why we would rather not do so.”
    “I have some notion, yes,” said Obata.
    The limousine stopped once more and Cardinal Hetre scowled. “I suppose we have to wait.”
    “So it would appear,” Obata agreed.
    * * *
    “Well?” asked Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston as he at last found Charles, Cardinal Mendosa in the Cortile del Belvedere. The gardens were not crowded, though several small groups made their way around the grounds, a few with guides, many in clerical garb; in secular dress Cardinal Mendosa blended with the visitors and drew no attention to himself.
    “Well what?” Cardinal Mendosa countered.
    “Oh, come on, Charles,” said Cardinal Bradeston, who was in a more standard cassock, and so was also as unnoticeable as Cardinal Mendosa. “Any news? Has your contact got anything?”
    “I’ve got an appointment to talk with him tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I get back.” He glanced at the Bostonian’s face. “Another washout?”
    Cardinal Bradeston peered at a group of