Leighton Merriweather Fox and Nicholas Reid were there to offer condolence and aid. Harmon Alley and James Eaton to assess the politics of the situation. It was the same worldwide: ranking diplomatic officials visiting the Chinese Embassy in the country to which they were assigned, offering help on one hand, assessing the political implications on the other. The speculation was whether Beijing was capable of safeguarding its people, or whether the fear that a simple drink of water could kill you, your family, and thousands of your neighbors in a single stroke would be enough to cause the provinces to pull away, choosing to rely upon themselves instead. Every foreign government knew Beijing was hovering on the precipice. The central government might weather Hefei, but if the same thing happened again anywhere else in the country, tomorrow, next week, or even next year, it would be the clap of thunder that would leave the People's Republic on the verge of total collapse. It was a nightmare every foreign government knew was China's deepest and most profound fear. Water had suddenly become her greatest weakness.

Which was why, in the name of human suffering and tragedy, the diplomats were gathered here at number 56 Via Bruxelles and in Chinese embassies around the world, hovering to see what would happen next.

Bowing politely, taking a cup of tea from a tray proffered by a young Chinese woman in a gray jacket, Eaton made his way across the crowded room, stopping now and then to take a familiar hand. As first secretary for Political Affairs, his presence here was not so much to offer sympathy to the Chinese, but rather to determine who else was there and doing the same. And now, as he chatted with the counselor for Political Affairs from the French Embassy, there was a stir at the main entry, and both men turned toward it.

What Eaton saw was not unexpected: the entrance of Vatican Secretariat of State Cardinal Umberto Palestrina, dressed in his emblem simple black suit with white clerical collar, and followed immediately by three others of the Holy See's ranking nobility, wearing their robes of office – Cardinal Joseph Matadi, Monsignor Fabio Capizzi, and Cardinal Nicola Marsciano.

Almost immediately the din of conversation faded, and diplomats stepped aside as Palestrina approached the Chinese ambassador, bowed, and took his hand as if they were the oldest and dearest of friends. That relations between Beijing and the Vatican hardly existed made little difference. This was Rome, and Rome represented nine hundred and fifty million Roman Catholics around the world. It was those millions Palestrina and the others represented in the name of the Holy Father. They were here now to offer sympathy to the people of China.

Excusing himself from the French diplomat, Eaton crossed the room slowly, watching Palestrina and the clergymen with him as they talked with the Chinese. Watching with even greater interest as the group of seven left the room together.

This was the second public interaction between the Vatican and ranking diplomats from China since the assassination of Cardinal Parma. And more than ever, Eaton wished Father Daniel Addison were there to tell him what it meant.

Trying to keep his sanity and at the same time praying to God to show him some way to stop the horror, Marsciano entered the small pale-green-and-beige parlor and sat down with the others – Palestrina, Cardinal Matadi, Monsignor Capizzi, Ambassador Jiang Youmei, Zhou Yi, and Dai Rui.

Palestrina was directly across from him, sitting in a gold-fabric armchair, speaking Mandarin to the Chinese. Every part of him, from the plant of his feet on the floor to the look in his eyes to the expressive way he used his hands, conveyed heartfelt empathy and vast concern for the tragedy playing out halfway around the world. He made his entire outpouring intimate and very personal, as if he were saying that if it were at all possible, he would go to Hefei and minister to the sick and dying himself.

Suddenly, and for the first time since she'd been in the hospital room in Pescara listening to the sound of Danny's breathing over the intercom, she was becoming sexually aroused. The night was still thick with heat, and she had taken off her habit and lay naked under the sheets. And now, as the feeling increased, she began to feel a warmth move through her. Reaching up, she touched her breasts.

Again she saw Harry step out of the cave, felt his eyes on her. In that moment she knew her feelings of wanting to be a woman in the fullest sense, wholly and physically, were real; the difference was, she was no longer afraid of them. If God had been testing her, it was not so much that He was challenging her inner strength or her spoken vows of chastity and obedience, but instead, helping her search for herself. Who she really was and wanted to be. And maybe that was the why of all this. And why Harry had come into her life. To once and for all help her make that decision. His presence and manner alone touched her in a way she had never before experienced. It was tender and fresh and reassuring and somehow lifted the guilt and sense of isolation her feelings had always brought her. It was like opening a door and finding that on the other side, life was safe and joyous and that it was all right to be alive, with the same passions and emotions other people had. That it was all right to be Elena Voso.

Harry heard the soft knock, then saw the door open in the darkness.

'Mr Addison,' Elena whispered.

'What is it?' He sat up, quickly alert.

It was a posture and generosity the Chinese took courteously and appreciatively, if not gratefully. But Marsciano – and, he knew, Palestrina as well – could see they were merely going through the motions. As much as their thoughts and concerns were with the people of Hefei, they were first and foremost politicians, and the focus of their attention was their government and its survival. Beijing, and what it did, was clearly under a world microscope.

Yet how, in their wildest nightmares, could they know, or even consider, that the prime architect of the disaster was neither nature nor a decaying water-filtration system, but instead the white-haired giant who sat only inches away, consoling them in their own language? Or that two of the three other highly distinguished prelates in the room with them had, in the last hours, become that architect's steadfast disciples?

If Marsciano had held any secret hope – now that the horror had started and Palestrina's 'Protocol' was exposed for the awful and savage reality it was – that either Monsignor Capizzi or Cardinal Matadi would be rocked to his senses and take a forceful stand against the secretariat, it had been quashed by an internal letter of support, hand delivered that morning by both men to Palestrina personally (a letter Marsciano was asked to sign but refused), fully backing the secretariat's rationale for his actions. A rationale maintaining that Rome had sought rapprochement with Beijing for years, and for years the Central government had spurned it; and would continue to spurn it for as long as they remained in power.

To Palestrina, Beijing's stance meant one thing – the Chinese had no religious freedom at all and never would have it. Palestrina's answer to that was simply that he was going to give it to them. The cost was irrelevant, those who died would be martyrs.

Obviously Capizzi and Matadi wholeheartedly agreed. Pursuit of the papacy was everything, and either would be foolish to defy the man who could put him there. In result, human life became merely a tool in that pursuit. And vile as it was now, it would get infinitely worse, because there were still two lakes yet to be poisoned.

'If you will excuse me.' Knowing what was to come, sickened by the awful hypocrisy and obscenity before him, unable to participate in it further, Marsciano suddenly stood.