The Secret Cardinal

34

The Chinese Catholics aiding Kilkenny’s team led them on a circuitous route out of Chifeng and into the grasslands of the Inner Mongolian steppe. Northwest of the city, they switched from cars and trucks to horses and rode off into the wilderness. Yin beamed like a child when he mounted a soft brown horse with Kilkenny, thrilled with the experience. Throughout the journey, the smile never faded as he rode tall in the traditional wooden saddle, stretching his body like a sail to capture the sunlight and fresh air that he had been without for so long.

The journey ended near sunset as they approached a large circle of yurts, the original encampment having grown since their departure the previous night. Trails of smoke spiraled from openings in the conical roofs, and the aroma of grilled meat and vegetables filled the air. Several people, all ethnic Mongolians, ran to meet them, while others excitedly announced their arrival to those inside.

‘You made it!’ Gates roared as Kilkenny and Tao dismounted. ‘Everybody in one piece?’

‘Pretty much,’ Kilkenny replied. ‘How’d you guys make out?’

‘Still shaking the sand out of our boots, if you know what I mean. Nothing a few bottles of Baadog and some barbecue won’t cure. What the hell happened back there?’

‘Beijing decided today would be a good day to execute Yin,’ Tao replied. ‘The man they sent to do the honors showed up just as we were preparing to leave.’

‘Sorta sent things right down the shitter. Think it’s a coincidence?’ Gates asked in a low voice.

‘No,’ Kilkenny replied. ‘So quietly remind the guys to stay sharp because we don’t know where the leak is.’

‘At least we covered your exit pretty well. There’s been a distinct lack of movement from Chifeng toward the prison, so I suspect your buddy Grin cut ’em off real good.’

Kilkenny nodded. ‘The brief time we were in the city it was business as usual — no checkpoints or increased police patrols. In that regard, our luck is still holding.’

Gates rapped a couple of knuckles against the side of his head. ‘Knock on wood, it’ll hold until we’re outta Dodge.’

‘Seems our hideaway has gotten popular with the locals.’

‘Yep. The folks who collected me and the boys from our extraction point planted roots overnight. Gives the place a real lived-in look, and as a bonus, three of those yurts are hangars for the BATS. When you give the word, we can be wheels-up in ten minutes.’

‘Good work. Where’s my gear?’ Kilkenny asked.

‘Hangar number three,’ Gates replied, pointing at the third yurt from the left.

Inside the yurt, Kilkenny discovered a group of grinning children playing in one of the BATs. He checked the aircraft to verify the controls were locked out and that the children could not accidentally start the engine.

Kilkenny unzipped a small duffel bag and pulled out his helmet. A few children climbed out of the BAT to watch him. He made a great show of struggling to put on the helmet, acting as though it was too small, and the children laughed at his performance. When the helmet was on, the children peered through the dark visor but could not see his face. They waved hands in front of the visor to test if he could see them, and he played along with the game.

As the children roared with laughter, a woman poked her head through the open doorway and, with a flurry of rapid-fire Mongolian, cleared the children from the yurt. Kilkenny was sorry to see the youngsters go.

Alone, he toggled the BAT’s electronics and, through the helmet, tapped into the aircraft’s powerful burst transmitter.

‘Message encrypt, three words: Gandalf Isengard Eagle.’

‘Message confirmed.’

‘Bombadil.’

The uplink compressed Kilkenny’s message into a focused pulse of energy just a few picoseconds in length. A pair of satellites in a constellation circling the earth in a low orbit, and tuned to the frequency of the uplink, captured the pulse and redirected the three-word message toward Rome.

Kilkenny rejoined the others as the evening meal was being served. Several families had gathered inside the largest of the yurts, the men on one side, the women on the other, and Yin seated in the center at a place of honor. Kilkenny started to sit down with his team when the patriarch of the family beckoned him forward.

‘Please, sit,’ the man said in halting English, indicating a place beside Yin.

Kilkenny hesitated, then caught Tao motioning sharply for him to do as the man asked. He bowed to their host and sat on the floor at Yin’s left side. Yin smiled warmly at him, intoxicated with joy during his first hours of freedom. In his youth, Kilkenny had enjoyed his moments of athletic glory and the fleeting glow that followed a hard-fought victory. But here he felt like an interloper in a moment that belonged to Yin and his people.

‘The food smells so wonderful,’ Yin said, his voice almost choked with tears. ‘I had forgotten.’

‘Try to go easy,’ Kilkenny advised. ‘Your stomach might not be up to real food just yet.’

Despite their modest means, their nomadic hosts put on a feast worthy of a visiting Khan. Traditional courses of shaomai dumplings, buckwheat noodles, cheese, and roast lamb, all served with milk tea, sated everyone with delirious warmth.

When the inevitable bottles of baijiu came out, Kilkenny leaned close to Tao. ‘Please inform our host that we mean no disrespect, but my men and I won’t be drinking tonight. We’ll be leaving when it’s fully dark and will need our wits about us.’

Tao relayed Kilkenny’s message, and though disappointed, the host seemed to understand Yin’s safety mattered most. After a brief exchange of questions and answers, he walked up, placed a glass in Kilkenny’s hand, and filled it to the brim.

‘Roxanne?’ Kilkenny asked, unsure of the etiquette of the situation.

‘It’s a compromise,’ Tao explained. ‘I told him we would be flying tonight, and he countered that not all of us could be pilots. He point-blank asked if you were a pilot. Nolan, you are responsible for Yin’s liberation, and these people know it. You must drink.’

‘Here, here!’ Gates shouted. ‘You have the honor of the team to uphold. Drink up!’

Kilkenny glanced up at Yin, who smiled, holding his own glass of liquor. The alcohol in the baijiu was so strong, Kilkenny was thankful the fumes didn’t ignite in the confines of the yurt.

‘To freedom!’ Yin toasted.

‘Amen to that,’ Kilkenny seconded.

Both men drank heartily, much to the roaring approval of the assembled families. Kilkenny nursed the rest of his drink slowly, but the host made sure his glass was never less than half full. After several rounds, the host called for quiet and approached Yin. As he spoke, Tao quietly translated for Kilkenny.

‘Bishop Yin, you have honored my family and me with your presence among us.’

The man bowed deeply as he spoke, showing both humility and deeply felt respect.

‘And we are truly thankful that God has bestowed such a gift upon us. For many years, we have prayed for the day you would be free.’

‘God answers all prayers in time, even those of a stubborn priest.’

‘I hope you will forgive my rudeness, but I have a request that I hope you will consider,’ the man trembled as he spoke. ‘The priest who used to visit us was arrested last year; we do not know his fate. We continue to pray for him, but without him we have had no mass, no sacraments. Will you celebrate mass for us?’

Yin’s eyes teared up at the request, his voice too choked with emotion to speak. As he regained his composure, Yin turned to Kilkenny.

‘Do we have time?’ Yin asked.

‘Just enough for a mass, I think. Are you up to it, though? It’s been thirty years.’

‘I celebrated mass on each day of those thirty years,’ Yin said, ‘except for today.’

‘The day’s not over yet,’ Kilkenny replied.