Magnificat by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

mind, so why not this one Cardinal?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “It isn’t going to imperil his soul or mine, so where’s the harm in a little quid-pro-quo? It would be wrong of me to ask so much and offer nothing back.”
    “But doing a deal…Charles.” Cardinal Bradeston got slowly to his feet. “Well, let me know as soon as you talk to your source. And I pray with all my heart you have something for us.”
    “So do I, Alex,” said Cardinal Mendosa.
    * * *
    A small but determined squall had blown in from the Philippines, turning what would have been time set aside for tea on the veranda to a restless couple of hours wandering around the Residence. Dame Leonie Purcell was trying to think what to do with herself before changing for cocktails—she had correspondence to answer and an article to write but neither sparked her interest—when a visitor called.
    “Who is it?” she asked the butler as he stood just inside the library door.
    “Mister Liang Zempo,” he answered.
    “Liang? Already?” Leonie looked around the loving disorder of the shelves. “This ought to do. Have the kitchen send up a proper British tea, Hastings. Liang may be a loyal citizen of the People’s Republic, but he’s mad about clotted cream and scones.” As the butler withdrew, she straightened her skirt and felt her hair, nervous habits she had had since she was girl. She decided to take the high-backed grandmother chair by the fireplace and had just settled into it when the butler admitted Liang Zempo. “How very good to see you again,” she said as they finished their exchange of greetings. “I was afraid that you would not be back so quickly.” Her Chinese was faultless but her visitor preferred to speak in English.
    “Yes. I assumed it would be harder than it was.” He sat down. “I am told the storm will pass by midnight.”
    “I have heard the same,” said Leonie, aware that Liang would tell her very little beyond social pleasantries until tea had been served. She was willing to talk about sports and travel with Liang, though she was anxious to know what—if anything—he had discovered for her.
    At last Hastings brought the tray, complete with a silver bud vase with a single rose. “Is there anything else, Ma’am?” he asked when he had put the tray down.
    “No, thank you, Hastings.” She watched as he turned and left the room. Was he the one assigned to watch her and report to British Intelligence Bureau she wondered, as she had for half a year. Someone in the embassy was, and she was fairly certain it had to be Hastings or Sanderson. On the whole, she preferred the BIB man be Sanderson, her social secretary, instead of her butler.
    “What is it, Dame Leonie?” asked Liang. “You seem.…” He ended with a slight toss of his head.
    She made herself pay attention. “It’s nothing. The storm irritates me. I’m sure you know the feeling.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Liang. “It is hard for those who have bursitis as well.” He patted his legs. “At my age, the bones complain.” He reached out for the cup of tea she had poured him. “Ah, just as I like it, with milk and sugar. And scones! I’ve missed scones at teatime.”
    “Have all you want. There are more in the kitchen if these aren’t sufficient.” She had her tea straight and her crumpet with blueberry compote. “Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?” she asked when he had made his way through his first cream-heaped scone.
    “Oh, I will tell you,” said Liang, his eyes shining with amusement. “I have been looking forward to telling you all about Zhuang Renxin.”
    Leonie felt a pleasant twinge of satisfaction. “Do you mean you’ve actually located—”
    “Zhuang Renxin of near-Hongya? Most assuredly. Yes, most assuredly.” He chuckled more and helped himself to a second scone.
    By the time Liang had finished and left, Leonie had several pages of notes; she read through them before placing her call. She let the phone ring a long