The Secret Cardinal Read online

  “Clean him up,” Liu ordered. “And put him in a new uniform. The rags he’s wearing should be burned.”

  The lead guard nodded and gave the orders to his men. They marched Yin a short distance to the motor pool, where they stripped him of his threadbare garments and shackled him to a steel post with his arms above his head. Two jets of icy water pounded the bishop’s frail body, the guards laughing as they directed the high-pressure streams at his face and genitals. Yin choked, coughing up blood and water, his lungs desperate for air.

  With the same brushes used to clean the prison’s trucks, the guards attacked Yin’s flesh until it was raw. Yin shivered uncontrollably, his body confused by the combination of numbness and the burning of industrial cleansers.

  “Hold him still,” a guard barked as he pulled out a knife.

  A pair of hands roughly clasped Yin’s head, and the sharp blade scraped and tore at his facial hair. Years of growth fell away, and blood-tinged water streaked the bishop’s emaciated body. While hacking at Yin’s mustache, the guard sliced a narrow strip of skin from Yin’s nose, and blood flowed freely from the wound.

  After shearing fistfuls of Yin’s ragged mane, the guards turned on the hoses once more to finish the job. They then brusquely dried him off and gave him a new prison uniform, its cloth stiff and rough against his skin.

  The guards reattached Yin’s restraints and again presented him to Liu. At Liu’s nod, Yin was handed over to the soldiers accompanying Liu and loaded into the back of an armored military transport. Two benches ran down the sides of the windowless compartment. Yin sat where he was told.

  As the soldiers secured Yin’s restraints to the steel loop bolted to the floor, Liu signed the paperwork authorizing transfer of the prisoner into his custody and dismissed the prison guards. Liu then donned a pair of sunglasses, slipped into the passenger seat of a dark gray Audi sedan, and signaled his driver to get moving. It would be a long drive to Beijing.

  ACCOMPANIED BY FOUR SOLDIERS, Yin moved across the countryside inside the steel box on wheels. The men did not converse with him, or even among themselves, and they acknowledged his existence only once with a meager meal and a scheduled relief stop. Yin knew this was partly due to his status as a prisoner and an enemy of the state, labels that made him less than human in their eyes. Too, the soldiers’ masters feared his faith like a contagion—the bishop of Shanghai was hazardous cargo. Yin felt no animosity toward the soldiers but rather sympathy for their predicament. To protect them from risk of punishment, Yin kept his silence and prayed for them.

  The two vehicles reached the outskirts of central Beijing shortly after sunset. In a modern metropolis teeming with nearly thirteen million people, the rundown district seemed oddly abandoned. Soldiers manning one of the roadblocks that cordoned off the area scanned Liu’s papers and waved him past.

  The long journey from Chifeng ended a few blocks farther in an alley behind a modest theater. The brick building dated to the waning days of the imperial era, and the intervening years had not been kind. Armed men clad in riot gear stood guard at the theater doors, which appeared both solid and new. An officer approached the Audi and opened the passenger door.

  “Is everything ready?” Liu asked as he stepped from the car, ignoring the soldier’s salute.

  “Per your orders, sir.”

  Liu nodded approval. “Have the prisoner brought inside.”

  “Bring the prisoner out,” the officer ordered.

  The small pass-through window between the transport’s cab and the rear compartment slid open, and the soldiers guarding Yin looked up expectantly. The bishop took no notice and continued his silent prayers.

  “Out!” the driver barked through the opening.

  The soldiers unlocked the section of chain connected to the floor bolt and lifted Yin to his feet. Two of them stepped out of the truck and assisted in lowering the manacled bishop to the ground. Yin glanced heavenward and saw only a handful of stars through the hazy glow of Beijing’s night sky.

  After the remaining soldiers exited the transport, they escorted Yin into the backstage area of the theater. The air inside the building was stuffy and spiked with the stink of mold. Yin detected something else in the air—the pungent scent of sweat and fear.

  Liu approached Yin. He towered over the bishop.

  “Look at me,” Liu demanded.

  Yin raised his head to look into Liu’s empty eyes.

  “Is it true that this man you worship as a god likened himself to a shepherd and his followers to sheep who must be led?”

  “Yes.”

  “So in this, he was much like Mao Zedong, no?”

  “Jesus Christ was a good shepherd, the kind who would lay down his life for his flock. The same cannot be said of Mao.”

  “Perhaps, but China has evolved during your time of confinement. Tonight, you have the opportunity to walk out of this building a free man and bishop of Shanghai.”

  “And what price must I pay for the freedom you offer?” Yin asked flatly.

  “Spoken like a Jesuit. The price is your cooperation. The government has no quarrel with your religion, only the foreign leadership of your church. Publicly renounce your allegiance to the Vatican and proclaim yourself a Chinese Catholic, and you will be free.”

  “I am a Roman Catholic bishop. If I denounce the Holy Father, I would no longer be a bishop or a Catholic. You can cut off my head, but you can never take away my duties.”

  “But what is a bishop without a flock?”

  “I am the good shepherd,” Yin quoted, “I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”

  “I see. Are you not curious as to why I have brought you here?”

  “You have already revealed your purpose. I can only assume that you have assembled an audience for my public declarations.”

  “Indeed I have,” Liu said with trace of a smile. “Over five hundred of your sheep are in this theater, awaiting their shepherd. Their lives are in your hands.”

  Yin turned his palms up. “My hands are empty. All life comes from God.”

  Liu had to acknowledge a grudging respect for the strength of Yin’s resolve, but recalled the credo that understanding an adversary is one key to defeating him. He turned from Yin and motioned to the officer in charge. A moment later, a small group of soldiers brought a family of five backstage.

  The patriarch of the family recognized Yin and immediately dropped to his knees.

  “Your Grace,” the man said reverently before kissing Yin’s hand.

  A soldier pistol-whipped the man before he could receive Yin’s blessing, sending him sprawling to the floor. The granddaughter, a girl no older than ten, pulled away from her parents’ arms and rushed to her grandfather’s aid. She, too, was brutally struck.

  “Enough,” Liu commanded.

  The soldier who had beaten the pair stepped back and holstered his pistol. The patriarch cradled his weeping granddaughter as oozing blood matted the girl’s long black hair.

  “Kneel before your bishop, sheep,” Liu commanded.

  The three adults still standing—a man with his wife and mother—knelt before Yin. As Liu walked behind the family, a soldier handed him a pistol, the barrel lengthened by a silencer. Without hesitation, Liu quickly executed three generations of a family of underground Catholics. Yin forced himself to keep his eyes open—to take in the horror and weep as he silently offered a prayer for the five martyrs.

  Liu holstered his weapon and turned to Yin. “And I say your hands are full.”

  “What is your name?” Yin asked softly, his eyes locked on the gory scene.

  Liu studied the horrified bishop and sensed his point had been made. “Liu Shing-Li.”

  “I will pray for you, Liu Shing-Li.”

  “Better pray that you choose your words wisely tonight.”

  Liu left Yin with the bodies of the slain family. From the stage, an amplified voice exhorted the audience to renounce the foreign Church of Rome and to practice their Christian fait
h with full government sanction as members of the Chinese Catholic Patriotic Association (CCPA). Yin ignored the droning propaganda and meditated on the teachings of Christ, wondering what Jesus would do in this situation.

  Yin had no idea how much time had passed when Liu returned for him. The soldiers removed the bishop’s restraints, and his extremities tingled with the sudden flow of blood. Unconsciously, Yin rubbed his wrists.

  “It is time,” Liu said coldly.

  As the soldiers led Yin to the edge of stage right, he heard his name announced to the audience. In the harsh white glow on stage, a smiling priest motioned for Yin to come out.

  Yin took a single, tentative step and waited, but the soldiers beside him did not move. He quickly realized he was to enter the stage alone, since a quartet of armed guards would ruin the moment. Yin’s first steps out into the light were met with murmuring from the crowd.

  The priest moved quickly to the side of the stage, bowed deeply, and kissed the bishop’s hand. All eyes were on Yin, and he felt the burden of the moment. Hundreds of souls were packed into the dilapidated theater—husbands and wives, children and elders—ordinary people who shared with Yin a bond of faith.

  Lord, you know I am willing to die for my faith, Yin prayed, but can I ask the same of these innocent people? Is it a sin for me to act in a way that might result in their deaths?

  The priest led Yin to a microphone at center stage. The murmuring gave way to a silence broken only by the brief wail of an infant. Yin looked out on the frightened, yearning faces. Some people crossed themselves, while others stood with hands folded in prayer, eyes fixed on a man who had disappeared into the laogai decades earlier. They were looking to him for something they could not name, for their spirits to be moved in a way they could not anticipate. Yin inhaled deeply and felt the Holy Spirit give him strength.

  “Long live Christ the King!” Yin shouted, his voice erupting from the loudspeakers like thunder. “Long live the Pope!”

  As one, the audience was on their feet.

  “Long live Christ the King! Long live Bishop Yin!”

  Over and over, the crowd repeated the chant, each cycle growing in strength and confidence. In Yin’s desperate moment, his faith and the faith of these people had brought forth the Holy Spirit. The government-sanctioned priests stood uncomfortably, for with two simple sentences, Yin had galvanized the audience in a way they could not hope to understand.

  “Cut the power,” Liu ordered, recognizing the danger. “And get him out of here.”

  The theater went dark as soldiers rushed Yin off the stage and out the back door, chaining the exit behind them.

  “Seal the theater,” Liu ordered as the last of his soldiers exited.

  “But, sir,” the officer in charge said, “what about the people from the CCPA?”

  “They won no converts today. Burn it down!”

  The order went out, and the soldiers quickly retreated to predetermined safe areas. The transport followed Liu’s car, then parked behind the Audi a short distance up the street. Liu sprang from his car and pounded angrily on the side of the transport.

  “Bring him to me now!” Liu ordered.

  The soldiers rushed Yin out of the transport, half-dragging the manacled bishop.

  “You hypocritical piece of filth!” Liu shouted, looking down on Yin. “You have led your precious flock to their deaths.”

  “I do not wish for them to die any more than I wish for my own death, but to live a life without faith, without hope, is a far more terrible thing.”

  “What you did in there condemned those people.”

  “What I did was ensure they understood the choice being offered them.”

  Bright flashes erupted from several points inside the building as the pyrotechnicians detonated the incendiaries. As the fire grew in strength and began to roar, a second wave of sound rose from the doomed building—the sound of human voices.

  “Do you hear them?” Liu shouted. “With their dying breaths, they curse you and your imaginary god.”

  Yin ignored Liu’s ranting and listened to the distant voices. What he heard wasn’t screams but a familiar melody.

  “They’re singing,” one soldier said incredulously.

  “What?” Liu hissed.

  From the raging fire, the song grew as those inside the building added their final breaths. Yin, humbled by the display of faith, added his voice to the chorus.

  “Tu es Petrus et super hane petram aedificabo Ecclesiam mean.” Yin sang, though his heart heard the words: You are Peter and upon this rock I will build my church.

  Liu punched Yin in the stomach to silence him. The bishop staggered back and fell but continued to sing.

  “Return him to his hole in Chifeng,” Liu commanded.

  As the transport pulled away, Liu pulled out his cell phone.

  “Tian direct,” he said clearly.

  The phone matched Liu’s voice command to a digital file and dialed the direct number for Tian Yi, the minister for state security. Tian answered quickly—he was expecting Liu’s call.

  “Does Yin Daoming remain unbroken?” Tian asked as calmly as if inquiring about the weather.

  “Yes,” Liu replied.

  “I see.”

  “You don’t seem surprised, Minister.”

  Tian sighed. “Not at all.”

  “He is a stubborn fool.”

  “Yin is neither,” Tian said, “and it is a mistake to underestimate him. What about the fire?”

  “It’s spreading to adjacent structures. I have been assured the entire block will be razed by morning.”

  As Liu spoke, the theater roof collapsed, and the song inside was at last silenced.

  “Good. Then the clearing of the district will get back on schedule.”

  In preparation to host the Olympic Games, Beijing was undergoing a spate of urban renewal that rivaled London’s following the Great Fire of 1666. With a hard deadline and the nation’s international prestige at risk, Beijing was removing anything and anyone that detracted from the beauty and harmony of the Chinese capital.

  “I should have been permitted to kill him,” Liu said.

  “Yin has never feared the loss of his own life. It would have given you no leverage.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about leverage.”

  “Ah, but you forget that a live prisoner is far less trouble than a dead martyr.”

  The officer in charge of the theater and the audience wore a concerned look as he briskly approached Liu. He stopped a few feet away and stood at ease, waiting for his presence to be acknowledged.

  “A moment, Minister,” Liu said into the phone before covering the tiny microphone. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Sir, our technicians have detected a brief transmission originating from the theater.”

  “What kind of transmission?”

  “Internet access from a cell phone, specifically a file upload.”

  “Were my instructions on searching those people not explicit, Captain?” Liu asked.

  “Your orders were clear, sir.”

  “Yet someone still managed to smuggle a cell phone past your men. Were your technicians able to intercept this file?”

  “No, but they are actively tracing the data packets to determine the intended recipient. The delays we have set on international e-mail traffic will allow us to trap the file before it can cross the border. If the destination is inside China, we will attempt to capture the file while it is still on an e-mail server, before it can be retrieved. We have since lost contact with the cell phone and it is presumed destroyed, but while the phone was still active, our technicians extracted all the information stored on its SIM card. That information should prove useful in the recovery operation.”

  “Do your technicians know what was sent?”

  “Based on a few captured packets, we believe it’s a video clip of what happened inside the theater.”

  “Captain, this lapse in your security is inexcusable, but your failure to q
uickly contain that file could prove fatal. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

  Dismissed, the captain nodded, turned on his heel, and strode away. Liu pressed the phone to his ear as the man moved out of earshot.

  “Minister, I apologize for the interruption,” Liu said calmly, “but I have just been notified of an unfortunate development.”

  2

  ROME October 10

  This is where it ends, Liu thought as he stared at the front entry of the opulent Residence Barberini in the heart of Rome. Although it had been days since he slept, Liu felt his exhaustion give way to the excitement of the kill.

  He sat in the back seat of a dark blue Alfa Romeo 166, watching from behind tinted glass as slivers of early morning sunlight advanced against the shadows in the narrow streets of the Ludovisi District. In the weeks following the theater fire, Beijing’s greatest fear was the prospect of having news services worldwide broadcasting Yin Daoming’s pro-Vatican outburst and the deadly aftermath. The Tiananmen Square massacre paled in comparison with the wanton immolation of five hundred people, and it was Liu’s responsibility to ensure that this political and public relations nightmare never materialized.

  After the fire, Liu was certain the damning video clip would swiftly find its way onto the Internet. Of course, Beijing would denounce the clip as a hoax, but the damage would be done. Still, the underground Catholics he’d interrogated were consistent in their belief that for the deaths of the five hundred martyrs to have any meaning, the world must first learn of the tragedy from the Vatican.

  Their strategy of keeping the video clip off the Internet initially served to protect the small group of conspirators, but it also provided Liu with the time he needed to conduct his search and for Beijing to take countermeasures. In addition to establishing a massive data filtering program that all but slowed China’s domestic Internet traffic to a halt, the elite hackers working for the Ministry of State Security mounted a denial of service attack against the Vatican that forced the Holy See offline.

  Deprived of the instantaneous connectivity of the Internet, the conspirators had only two options. The first was simply to mail a disk to the Vatican, but in an era when packages from unknown senders and data files of unknown provenance were treated with grave suspicion, there was high probability the Vatican would discard the disk upon receipt. The other option was the oldest in the history of espionage: a courier.