Devereaux stood at the door and waited.
Cardinal Ludovico considered his hand in his lap as though it were a small work of art. “And you Americans. With your open arms and your promises of good fellowship and friendship based on equality. You overwhelm the world with your love for it and you do not understand why love cannot be a commodity, bought and sold. And besides, what a fragile base of friendship is love: It is not the strongest bond; it is the weakest, the more precious for its fragility.”
Devereaux’s voice was not altered. It was plain and flat and hard. “What did Tunney know? Why did you deal with the Soviets?”
“You are a relentless man, November. I cannot offer you honey in my words.” Ludovico smiled.
“What did Denisov, the KGB, what did they have over you?”
“Me?” The laughter was musical. “I am beyond reproach, I can assure you. In the name of the Church, I have faithfully done the work of the Pontiff.”
“What work?”
“You must seek the answer elsewhere. From Denisov, who has defected.”
“There is no time left.”
“Why?”
“Martin Foley informed you of everything. He told you about Rita Macklin, the reporter who found Tunney.”
“Ah. The newswoman. In that hotel with the name of your country’s most infamous moment, is it not true? Was she very involved in all this? Perhaps it would have been better — for her and for us, even for poor Leo Tunney — if your CIA had kept him a while longer.”
“She has the journal.”
Ludovico did not move for a moment. And then he turned slightly in his straight chair and stared at Devereaux. Very slowly, he said: “How do you know this?”
“Because it is the only possibility left.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“She will be in danger, I think.”
“Yes.”
“And does that affect you, November?”
Devereaux stared at him patiently. His eyes were ice, his manner pitiless.
“Why was the Church making a deal on this with the Soviets?”
Ludovico made a tent of his fingers and glanced at them. “I cannot say.”
“Yes. You can say.”
Ludovico was silent.
Devereaux said, “The Church has made an agreement with the Soviet Union.”
“Do you guess this?”
“It is the only possibility.”
“You are a man of logic. You rely too much on it.”
“We are not talking now of miracles.”
“No.” Ludovico paused and twisted the ring of his office on his finger. “In six weeks. Before Christmas, there will be an announcement. A certain reconciliation between great powers, one temporal, one spiritual. It will be a good thing — a positive thing, a gesture toward peace — for millions of people in the world.”
“By whose judgment will it be a good thing?”
“The judgment of all concerned. This is a complex, very complex matter. There has been a shift in the world, in the axis of the earth. Even in an unreasonable age, a few men must act in a reasonable way. Do you understand me?”
“What is reasonable?”
“Martin Foley is dead. Martin is dead.” The words fell like notes in a dirge. “Leo Tunney died and he did not even understand why. And Father McGillicuddy. There was so much death that did not need to happen.” Ludovico stared at his white hands. “I do not think I can tell you more than I have.”
Devereaux said, “You were in Prague. You were making a deal with the Soviet Union.”
“Deal? It is such a common word.”
“Deals are common things. You made an agreement to respect the status quo. To share power with the Soviets.”
Ludovico smiled. “You have made a guess.”
“But it’s not far wrong. In the past eighteen months, there has been unrest in Poland and it is spreading. The Church has cautioned moderation, has worked with the existing Polish government to temper the demands of the Solidarity movement.”
“So that the few gains it has made will not be crushed.”
“Perhaps,” said Devereaux.
“The Soviets have become practical. In Afghanistan, in Poland, they have begun to see, as you Americans have, that they have limits to their power. Ideology can wait for tomorrow. Perhaps they have come to see the need for a reasonable new alliance.”
“And the Church was willing.”
Ludovico looked up, annoyed for the first time. “And did your President Nixon make détente with the Soviets because it suited America? Did your President Carter reject his friends — the great friends of America in Taiwan — and embrace China as a check to the Soviets in the East? All men work in their self-interest. That is a reasonable assumption of the way of the world and you are a reasonable man. Our own interest may impel our actions.”
“The Church has agreed to share power in the Eastern Bloc. To reinforce the Soviets.”
“I cannot say this,” Ludovico said. He paused and stared out the window. “We live in a cynical age. But all ages pass; all times are cynical in their turn. Must the Church of Christ reject the embrace of the Presidium more than it rejected the embrace of a King of another age? Constantine gave us the world to save and we accepted the world from his bloody hands and we took it and civilized it. We must accept the compromises of the world to survive in it. There are few absolutes in this life.”
“What is the agreement, Cardinal?”
“To recognize the reality of things. To realize and define the spheres of our mutual influence.”
“And what did all this have to do with a half-crazy old priest from Asia?”
“Asia is not our sphere. It never was.”
“What was Tunney doing there in the first place then?” His voice was savage. “What did any of this have to do with Leo Tunney?”
“Perhaps I do not have the answer.”
“No. Perhaps not,” Devereaux said. “Perhaps you did the bidding of Denisov and the KGB because they assured you that the agreement with the Church in Prague would be endangered by this priest. By his secret.”
“Yes. You understand. It is their secret that they wanted to protect, not ours.”
“And you sent Foley here to get it out of Tunney, to use it as a lever against the Soviets.”
“I cannot say.”
“And Denisov killed Martin Foley.”
Ludovico’s face registered shock and then a calm veneer replaced it. “Do you know this is true?”
“Denisov killed Foley. It must be the reason for it.”
“Damn him.”
The face was still calm, the voice was still soft, but the words carried a passion that seemed to shake the old man to his heart. “Do you suppose this pleases me?” Ludovico said. “Have you asked me my politics? I have lived a long time and I have seen the world torn and torn again. By fascism, by communism, by your greedy capitalism. What is more dangerous? The Black Shirts strutting through Italy or the vices of luxury in America? A man will lose his soul to both. But I am as you are. I am a servant to my cause and we must both obey our masters.”
Who had said the same thing? Denisov? But was it always true?
Devereaux had disobeyed his masters and was now stranded alone in a game rapidly closing around him.
Devereaux’s voice was still hard, still without pity: “My master did not ask me to kill three men or try to kill a woman. My master did not ask me to embrace the Soviets.”
“Not yet. Not this time and not in this place.”
“I don’t want to talk corrupt philosophy with you. I want to know the details of the agreement you’ve made with the Soviets.”
“Why? Will it help you to find this woman you will look for? Or to find the journal?”