wearing the semi-civilian attire adopted by their American counterparts. Ryan and Adler were parked briefly in a waiting room, more to appreciate the surroundings than to inconvenience them, Jack was sure. A Titian madonna adorned the opposite wall, and Ryan admired it while Bishop O'Toole announced the visitors.
“God, I wonder if he ever did a small painting?” Ryan muttered. Adler chuckled.
“He did know how to capture a face and a look and a moment, didn't he? Ready?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. He felt oddly confident.
“Gentlemen!” O'Toole said from the open door. “Will you come this way, please?” They walked through yet another anteroom. This one had two secretarial desks, both unoccupied, and another set of doors that looked fourteen feet tall.
The office of Giovanni Cardinal D'Antonio would have been used in America for balls or formal occasions of state. The ceiling was frescoed, the walls covered with blue silk, and the floor in ancient hardwood accented with rugs large enough for an average living room. The furniture was probably the most recent in manufacture, and that looked to be at least two hundred years old, brocaded fabric taut over the cushions and gold leaf on the curved wooden legs. A silver coffee service told Ryan where to sit.
The cardinal came towards them from his desk, smiling in the way that a king might have done a few centuries earlier to greet a favored minister. D'Antonio was a man of short stature, and clearly one who enjoyed good food. He must have been a good forty pounds overweight. The room air reported that he was a man who smoked, something he ought to have stopped, since he was rapidly approaching seventy years of age. The old, pudgy face had an earthy dignity to it. The son of a Sicilian fisherman, D'Antonio had mischievous brown eyes to suggest a roughness of character that fifty years of service to the church had not wholly erased. Ryan knew his background and could easily see him pulling in nets at his father's side, back a very long time ago. The earthiness was also a useful disguise for a diplomat, and that's what D'Antonio was by profession, whatever his vocation might have been. A linguist like many Vatican officials, he was a man who had spent thirty years practicing his trade, and the lack of military power that had crippled his efforts at making the world change had merely taught him craftiness. In intelligence parlance he was an agent of influence, welcome in many settings, always ready to listen or offer advice. Of course, he greeted Adler first.
“So good to see you again, Scott.”
“Eminence, a pleasure as always.” Adler took the offered hand and smiled his diplomat's smile.
“And you are Dr. Ryan. We have heard so many things about you.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.”
“Please, please.” D'Antonio waved both men to a sofa so beautiful that Ryan flinched at resting his weight on it. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you,” Adler said for both of them. Bishop O'Toole did the pouring, then sat down to take notes. “So good of you to allow us in at such short notice.”
“Nonsense.” Ryan watched in no small amazement as the cardinal reached inside his cassock and pulled out a cigar holder. A tool that looked like silver, but was probably stainless steel, performed the appropriate surgery on the largish brown tube, then D'Antonio lit it with a gold lighter. There wasn't even an apology about the sins of the flesh. It was as though the cardinal had quietly flipped off the “dignity” switch to put his guests at ease. More likely, Ryan thought, he merely worked better with a cigar in his hand. Bismarck had felt the same way.
“You are familiar with the rough outlines of our concept,” Adler opened.
“Si. I must say that I find it very interesting. You know, of course, that the Holy Father proposed something along similar lines some time ago.”
Ryan looked up at that. He hadn't.
“When the initiative first came out, I did a paper on its merits,” Adler said. “The weak point was the inability to address security considerations, but in the aftermath of the Iraq situation, we have the opening. Also, you realize, of course, that our concept does not exactly—”
“Your concept is acceptable to us,” D'Antonio said with a regal wave of his cigar. “How could it be otherwise?”
“That, Eminence, is precisely what we wanted to hear.” Adler picked up his coffee. “You have no reservations?”
“You will find us highly flexible, so long as there is genuine good will among the active parties. If there is total equality among the participants, we can agree unconditionally to your proposal.” The old eyes sparkled. “But can you guarantee equality of treatment?”
“I believe we can,” Adler said seriously.
“I think it should be possible, else we are all charlatans. What of the Soviets?”
“They will not interfere. In fact, we are hoping for open support. In any case, what with the distractions they already have—”
“Indeed. They will benefit from the diminution of the discord in the region, the stability on various markets, and general international good will.”
Amazing, Ryan thought. Amazing how matter-of-factly people have absorbed the changes in the world. As though they had been expected. They had not. Not by anyone. If anyone had suggested their possibility ten years earlier, he would have been institutionalized.
“Quite so.” The Deputy Secretary of State set down his cup. “Now on the question of the announcement…”
Another wave of the cigar. “Of course, you will want the Holy Father to make it.”
“How very perceptive,” Adler observed.
“I am not yet completely senile,” the Cardinal replied. “And press leaks?”
“We would prefer none.”
“That is easily accomplished in this city, but in yours? Who knows of this initiative?”
“Very few,” Ryan said, opening his mouth for the first time since sitting down. “So far, so good.”
“But on your next stop…?” D'Antonio had not been informed of their next stop, but it was the obvious one.
“That might be a problem,” Ryan said cautiously. “We'll see.”
“The Holy Father and I will both be praying for your success.”
“Perhaps this time your prayers will be answered,” Adler said.
Fifty minutes later, the VC-2oB lifted off again. It soared upward across the Italian coast, then turned southwest to re-cross Italy on the way to its next destination.
“Jesus, that was fast,” Jack observed when the seatbelt light went off. He kept his buckled, of course. Adler lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the window on his side of the cabin.
“Jack, this is one of those situations where you do it fast or it doesn't get done.” He turned and smiled. “They're rare, but they happen.”
The cabin attendant — this one was a male — came aft and handed both men copies of a print-out that had just arrived on the aircraft facsimile machine.
“What?” Ryan observed crossly. “What gives?”
In Washington people do not always have time to read the papers, at least not all the papers. To assist those in government service to see what the press is saying about things is an in-house daily press-summary sheet called The Early Bird. Early editions of all major American papers are flown to D.C. on regular airline flights, and before dawn they are vetted for stories relating to all manner of government operations. Relevant material is clipped and photocopied, then distributed by the thousands to various offices whose staff members then repeat the process by highlighting individual stories for their superiors. This process is particularly difficult in the White House, whose staff members are by definition interested in everything.
Dr. Elizabeth Elliot was Special Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs. The immediate subordinate to Dr. Charles Alden, whose title was the same, but without the “Special,” Liz, also referred to as “E.E.,” was dressed in a fashionable linen suit. Current fashions dictated that women's “power” clothing was not mannish but feminine, the idea being that since even the most obtuse of men would be able to tell the difference between themselves and women, there was little point in trying to conceal the truth. The truth was that Dr. Elliot was not physically unattractive and enjoyed dressing to emphasize the fact. Tall at five feet eight inches, and with a slender figure that long work hours and mediocre food sustained, she did not like playing second-fiddle to Charlie Alden. And besides, Alden was a Yalie. She'd most recently been Professor of Political Science at Bennington, and
