Magnificat by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

German seminarians, shaking his head. “Nothing from Moscow.”
    “Aw, shit,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Van Hooven had real hopes for the Metropolitan. That’s all of them but mine, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “And Jung is getting restive. He wants to reconvene the conclave day after tomorrow, no more delays. We can’t manage that, not with fifteen of us still unavailable until next week, as we arranged originally. I hope that mess in Honduras doesn’t get any worse between then and now.”
    “Well, we can’t oblige Jung, so he’ll have to learn to live with it. Any word from the mission?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, momentarily distracted from his search for Zhuang Renxin.
    “Not today; it’s early there,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “I wish they wouldn’t confuse the guerilla war with the priests who put snakes around the statues of the Virgin.” He smoothed back his thinning grey hair. “I don’t like the snakes, but they’re not revolutionary statements, just heretical ones.”
    “No, they’re Voodoo,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Much different. Mind you, it could be just as dangerous in the long run. No matter what, it’s irresponsible to send four Cardinals and a Papal Nuncio off to check it out at a time like this. I know it’s supposed to make it look like we’re doing our best to be socially responsible, especially to third world Catholics, but this—”
    “It keeps us from having the conclave,” Cardinal Bradeston pointed out. “Think about that, Charles, and give thanks for it. Cardinal Jung can’t dispute it.”
    “All right, I’m thankful,” said Charles Mendosa. “I’m also getting damn worried.”
    “You’re certainly going in for expletives today,” said Cardinal Bradeston.
    “You telling me they’re not appropriate?” Cardinal Mendosa asked in his broadest Texas drawl.
    “No,” his Bostonian counterpart allowed. “But it isn’t good form and you’d better confess it.” He found a bench and sat on it. “We don’t have much time. That’s what troubles me the most, that we’ll run out of time—”
    “And we’ll be stampeded into making the same mistake again,” said Cardinal Mendosa for him. “Yep. It’s been on my mind, too. And suppose we do end up having another election? What happens when that guy drops dead in a week or two or three? There are those who say the Church is dead already; they keep talking about those damn…blasted picture frames and the prophecy about them. If we keep doing Pope-of-the-Month, it’ll only serve to make those myth-mongers more credible, and we don’t need any more of that than we already have, even in our own ranks.”
    “Right you are,” said Cardinal Bradeston, his face somber but his eyes glinting with humor. “Charles, no wonder Jung would like to strangle you with your intestines.”
    Cardinal Mendosa gave an impish smile. “Figures, doesn’t it? He’d like to fry me up like a hornytoad on a griddle.”
    “That’s appalling,” said Cardinal Bradeston as he tried to suppress a chuckle. “You Texans use the most peculiar metaphors.”
    “Specially for the hornytoad, it’s appalling,” Cardinal Mendosa said with a wink. “And that was a simile.”
    The answering smile was brief. “Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung has ideas. When he says Pope, he is speaking about himself.” Cardinal Bradeston was quiet as they both considered that unwelcome possibility. “Do you think your investigator has a chance of finding Zhuang Renxin?”
    “Naturally, or I wouldn’t have asked him.” He put the tips of his fingers together. “He’s a good man, sensible and down-to-earth. And he knows I won’t forget what he’s done. That makes it worth his while to be tenacious. And I think he’s getting curious.”
    “You mean you struck a deal with him?” Cardinal Bradeston wanted to be outraged but was more amused.
    “Indirectly. Why not? Where’s the error in it? The Church has done it time out of