“If a nominating pope dies without revealing the name of the ‘in pectore’ appointment, the nomination is void. Mutatis mutandis, the same rule should apply when a pope abdicates. The in pectore nomination should lapse. We should burn the document.”
“Why don't we just ask Benedict who it is and give him his hat?” Cardinal Reysin shouted out his remarks as he walked down the center aisle of the meeting room.
“It's a question of canon law, Cardinal Reysin. Even if Benedict announced the name today, the appointment would be void.”
“Krause, I thought you said that the rule specifically applied only to a papal death, not to a papal abdication.”
“Yes, but a rule of canon law must also be applied ‘in consimili casu’—for these purposes, an abdication is similar to a death.”
Reysin muttered for all to hear, “Between canon lawyers and the Curia, it's amazing that the Catholic Church has managed to survive and surge into the eighteenth century.”
As the cardinals left the meeting room at the end of the afternoon session, Cardinal Desion walked out beside Barbo. “I would say it's been a good day for Diefenbacher. Obregon won't be around to speak against him. And Tien! He would never have voted for Diefenbacher if he were the last candidate on earth. As for Reysin—his little exchange with Krause probably pushed the American farther into Diefenbacher's camp.”
Professor Baldini handed the wet sheet to Fellows. “Martin, the preliminary carbon dating results confirm my earlier test. The parchment is first century—it's not a forgery.”
Fellows's face was impassive as he looked at the results of the test. After a few moments, Fellows excused himself and left Baldini's office. “I must call Cardinal Barbo with this information.”
Barbo walked back to his apartment on Via Mascherino. As he passed the Church of San Dominico, he stepped inside and knelt in a back pew. When he had first been appointed secretary of state, Barbo often stopped at the church to say Mass on his way to the Apostolic Palace. But it must have been two years since he had done so.
Barbo saw an old woman patiently cleaning the votive candle-holders throughout the church. Picking up each holder, she would scrape off the congealed wax and insert a new candle. Barbo could see that for the woman arranging each new votive candle was a prayer.
“Signora, I would like to say Mass at one of the side chapels. Could you open the sacristy so I can vest?”
The woman was about to refuse Barbo's request when she noticed his skullcap and the scarlet piping on his black cassock. “Of course, Your Eminence.” The woman hurried to unlock the sacristy. She had never spoken to a cardinal before. Her children would be impressed.
“Serve the Mass for me, Signora.”
“The pastor does not permit women to do such a thing, Your Eminence.”
“It will be our secret then.”
“I do not know the words.”
“They are not hard. I will help you.”
At approximately 9:15, the phone rang in Barbo's apartment. Nervously, he picked up the receiver. “Well, Martin, what are the results?”
“The carbon dating shows the parchment to be first century—it was probably made sometime around 30 A.D. I'm sorry.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Not absolutely certain. I would have preferred doing the test in a more up-to-date lab, but even if we did, I doubt there would be a material change of results.”
“There must be other tests.”
“One of Baldini's colleagues tested the parchment for pollen. There were spores on the manuscript that are characteristic of Palestine.”
“Could the translation be wrong?”
“Anything's possible, Your Eminence, but I wouldn't hold out too much hope. I'll go over the whole document again myself to be absolutely sure, but from a quick read it does seem to say that Jesus and the Magdalene were married according to Jewish law in their year 3791. It also mentions the birth of two children.”
Barbo put down the phone. Trust in God does not bring immediate results. He looked in his Rolodex and dialed Visconti's home number.
“Ah, Eminenza, I'm sad to say the results of your carbon dating test coincide with Baldini's. They both show the manuscript to be genuine. You probably had hoped for a different result.”
“Yes, but it doesn't really matter, Visconti. I've decided not to accept the demands of your clients.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “As you wish Cardinal Barbo. Diefenbacher will pay us handsomely for the manuscript. Think of the impact it will have in the conclave. It could very easily make him pope.”
“Thank you for the warning, Visconti. By the way, commend your clients in Sicily. Theirs was one of the more innovative attempts at blackmail.”
“I admire your courage, Eminenza, but I question your judgment. I hope we do business again. Religion and business are separate sides of life. One should not interfere with the other.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PRELATE FRM DURBAN
SEVERAL BUSES PULLED up in front of the Arch of Titus, disgorging scores of Japanese tourists intent on photographing whatever there was to see in the Roman Forum. Sitting on a bench in the shade of the arch, Cardinal Hans Diefenbacher looked on in amusement as tour guides with their pennants and handheld microphones divided their customers into manageable groups. With his graying hair and round face, Diefenbacher was the epitome of ordinariness.
An elegant-looking man climbed out of a taxicab on Via Imperiale and walked toward the seated cardinal. “It is good to see you again, Your Eminence.”
Diefenbacher stood and shook Pietro Visconti's hand. “Your telephone call intrigued me. What was it you wanted to show me?”
Visconti raised his hands in mock self-defense. “Eminence, first a bottle of wine and perhaps some risotto ai funghi_....There's a wonderful trattoria across Via Imperiale near the Church of San Pietro in Vincoli.”
Diefenbacher shook his head. “I appreciate your offer, but I do not drink alcohol. The conclave begins in a few days and there's much to do.”
“As you wish, Your Eminence.” Visconti opened his attaché case and laid a photocopy of a manuscript on a large stone.
“What's this?” Diefenbacher asked.
“Read the Hebrew yourself, Eminence — particularly the place I've marked.”
Diefenbacher looked at the lines Visconti had circled. When he had finished reading, the cardinal smiled and handed the copy of the manuscript back to Visconti. “Did you really think I would be fooled by this?”
“Then you might want to look at these, Your Eminence?” Visconti took a manila envelope out of his attaché case and handed it to Diefenbacher. “Inside the envelope are the results of carbon and pollen tests conducted by a Professor Baldini from the University of Rome. They show that the parchment originated in first-century Palestine.”
Diefenbacher took the copy of the manuscript back from Visconti and read it a second time. Diefenbacher stared at Visconti. “Where did you get this?”
“Two American professors took the manuscript from the Vatican Library and offered to sell it to one of my clients. My client thought it prudent to take the parchment away from them. Unfortunately in the process one American was killed and the other is in critical condition in Gemelli Hospital.”
“How much do you want for this?” Diefenbacher's voice was matter of fact, as though he were pricing a cassock.
“Ten million euros in cash.”
Diefenbacher stood up angrily. “That's preposterous.”
Visconti made his point directly. “I would have thought the papacy would be worth much more.”
For a second, Diefenbacher seemed to waiver. “I need time to think,” was all he said.
“The offer expires today. Why do you need time to think? You've always wanted the papacy. Here's your chance to have it.”
“You forget one thing, Visconti. Suppose this professor in Gemelli Hospital recovers and accuses me of posses
sing stolen property?”
Visconti looked at Diefenbacher. “She would have very compelling reasons not to do something so foolish. Also, my clients can make sure that such an event will never happen.”
Diefenbacher picked up the parchment and read it a third time. “It will take me several days to raise such a large sum of money.”
Visconti spoke in an understanding tone. “The particulars of payment are always subject to negotiation.”
“Signor Visconti, under the circumstances, I will accept your offer for some risotto. We must discuss specifics.”
Leaving the Forum, the two men crossed Via Imperiale and walked toward San Pietro in Vincoli.
As the days counted down to the opening of the conclave, Cardinal Barbo spent the better part of his time in meetings of the General Congregation. Although curial appointments were terminated upon the death or abdication of a pope, Barbo continued to act as the de facto secretary of state. Dispatches had to be answered, ongoing foreign policy matters had to be managed, and a relief fund for victims of the Israeli assault on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had to be set up. Barbo asked Cardinal Calvaux to monitor issues relating to Pope Benedict's peace initiative. Phone calls were coming in from those who had pledged to assist in the effort, wondering whether the Vatican would scrap the initiative now that Pope Benedict had abdicated.
Along with Cardinals Chavez and Diefenbacher, Barbo was frequently mentioned in the media as “papabile.” Rome's II Messaggero emphasized Barbo's detailed knowledge of the Vatican bureaucracy. The secretary of state knew intimately each and every member of the Curia. He was also an Italian and, as the newspaper pointed out boastfully, the country most heavily represented in the College of Cardinals was still Italy. The weekly magazine Panorama noted Barbo's linguistic and diplomatic skills and called him an “effective consensus builder.” The only negatives mentioned were his lack of pastoral experience and his age. At seventy, some might regard Barbo as a little too old for the job. But as one Vatican pundit wrote, older men than Barbo have been elected to the papacy—John XXIII for one.
During the final sessions of the General Congregation, Barbo carefully watched Diefenbacher for the smallest hint of what he was thinking. By now, Barbo had to assume that Visconti had offered to sell Diefenbacher the parchment. Barbo knew that the South African was shrewd and calculating. Two things would worry him: the manuscript's authenticity and its provenance. The carbon dating and pollen tests should convince Diefenbacher that the parchment was authentic. The provenance of the manuscript, however, was a different matter. A cardinal with papal aspirations would not wish to be caught in possession of a stolen manuscript, no matter what it said.
Barbo suspected that Visconti would not divulge Barbos involvement in the matter. Mentioning Barbo would only scare Diefenbacher off. But Visconti would likely tell Diefenbacher about Bielgard and Michellini. From Diefenbacher's perspective, with Bielgard dead, only two people knew the parchment was stolen—Visconti and Michellini. Diefenbacher knew that Visconti would not incriminate his client. Therefore the person who posed the greatest threat to Diefenbacher's papal ambitions was Jane Michellini. Was Diefenbacher capable of murder if it would assure him the papacy? Barbo feared that the answer was yes.
Barbo dialed Detective Cameri's office.
“Cardinal Barbo! I hope you're not calling about last night. The doctors were unable to save the baby.”
After a moment's hesitation, Barbo responded, “Maybe I can save another life instead.”
The detective was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“The American professor in Gemelli Hospital, Jane Michellini.”
“Yes, what about her?” asked Cameri.
“Her life is in danger.”
“What evidence do you have?” Cameri quickly became the trained professional.
“None.”
“Is Visconti involved in this?” Cameri asked bluntly.
“Yes,” Barbo responded.
“I'll station someone outside Michellini's door.” Cameri suspected that he had just been handed the break of a lifetime.
When he awoke the next morning, Barbo dialed the main number of Gemelli Hospital. The cardinal sat patiently as a recording ran through an interminable list of extensions. As if begrudging the release of the information, the recording finally yielded the schedule of visiting hours. Except for members of the immediate family, regular visiting hours began daily at ten in the morning.
Barbo dialed Cardinal Marini's number. “Agostino, we begin the conclave in two days. I'm coming around to your point of view. Whoever makes the best landlord for St. Peters will also make the best steward for the faithful.”
Marini chuckled. “There could be worse ways of choosing a pope. By the way, Francesco, I spent a good part of last night assigning each cardinal elector a room in the Domus. I put Diefenbacher on a corridor with his liberal supporters. Fie can preach to the choir.”
Barbo laughed. “Pope Benedict believed that he owed his election to Cardinal Misteau, the camerlengo at the time. Misteau lodged Benedict between two highly influential members of the Sacred College. ‘Grand electors’ was what he called them.”
“Well, Francesco, I gave you a room on a corridor with Reysin and two other Americans.”
“Why?”
“Because they're rumored to be Diefenbacher supporters! Maybe you can change their minds.”
“In all your electoral manipulations, My Lord Camerlengo, leave some room for the Holy Spirit.”
Marini spoke playfully. “He needs no allocation of space from me.”
Barbo decided to take an early morning walk before visiting Professor Michellini in Gemelli Hospital. If he moved quickly enough, he could walk to the Trevi Fountain and still arrive at the hospital by ten o'clock.
The Trevi Fountain always intrigued Barbo — not for the romance associated with it, but for the purity of its waters. Legend has it that the spring water cascading through the Trevi is the sweetest in all of Rome. Before reaching the fountain, the water flows through much of the city, bringing life and beauty with it. To the cardinal, the waters of the great fountain were a symbol of God's grace flowing freely through the world—available to all who needed it.
As Barbo sat on the steps of the fountain, the first tourist bus arrived. In a matter of seconds, a crowd of men and women were throwing coins in the water to assure their return to Rome. Barbo glanced at his watch. It was already 9:30, and the ride to Gemelli would take close to half an hour. He walked over to a taxi stand in front of the Church of Saints Vincenzo and Anastasio.
As the taxi threaded its way through the narrow streets around the Trevi, a profound sense of peace came over Barbo. He had felt it years ago as a young priest in the hospitals of Lourdes. He could remember the tears of joy in the eyes of the sick as he blessed them and absolved them of their sins. He had felt it again two nights ago when he knelt beside the dying prostitute Maria. She and the others were his reason for becoming a priest, not the endless piles of communiqués that awaited him every day in his office. Over the years, he had allowed the communiqués and the telexes to dominate his life — to become his life.
When the taxi pulled up to the hospital, Barbo hurried up the entrance steps and stopped at the information desk. He asked the receptionist for Professor Michellini's room number.
“Are you a relative?”
“No, a friend.”
“Professor Michellini died this morning at 7:32A.M. We are contacting her family.”
Barbo was stunned. “How did it happen?”
“For that, you must talk to someone on staff. I'll page Doctor Tolato.”
In five minutes, a young intern arrived at the information desk. “Dr. Tolato is performing surgery at the moment. He asked me to meet with you. I understand you are a friend of Professor Michellini?”
“Yes, how did she die?”
“Dr. Tolato had just finished aspirating her right lung. She seemed fine until she started to cough
up blood. We rushed her to the emergency room, but it was too late. I'm being frank. We just don't know what happened.”
Cardinal Barbo asked for an envelope. “Do me a favor, Doctor. If Professor Michellini has any remaining hospital charges, take them out of this.” Cardinal Barbo took off his ring and put it in the envelope. “If there's anything else that I can do, please contact me.” Barbo handed the intern a business card.
“Certainly.”
When the intern read the name on the card, he was at a loss. “Your Eminence, I'm sorry—perhaps some coffee — the director of the hospital will insist on greeting you.”
“I'm sorry, but I must return to the Vatican. The conclave begins tomorrow.”
The intern looked at a patient list. “Your Eminence, are you aware that Cardinal Galliardin was admitted to the hospital last night?”
“Pierre Galliardin?”
“Yes, his secretary brought the cardinal to the emergency room. He's resting in a private room. The cancer has spread.”
Barbo was visibly upset. “Take me to his room. He is an old friend.”
The intern escorted Barbo to a floor reserved for cancer patients. “Cardinal Galliardin is in the last room on the right.” The intern hurried off to tell the hospital director that a leading candidate for pope was in his hospital.
Barbo tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. Galliardin sat propped up in bed reading a magazine.
“Pierre, no one told me you were here.” Barbo was shocked at how pale and gaunt Galliardin looked. His cheeks were as white as the sheets on his bed.
“Francesco, I have grown old. Unfortunately, my cancer has grown as well. Now there are lesions in the liver. But enough talk about my health. Tell me about the General Congregation. Does Diefenbacher have a chance? I hope not.”
“There are many who support him.”
“Fools, all of them!” Galliardin hurled his magazine to the floor. “Are they blind to the harm he will cause the Church? I'm eighty-eight, but they won't let wise old owls like me be heard in the conclave.” Barbo could see that Galliardin was becoming agitated.
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