As for the next man to enter the Casa Santa Marta, Cardinal Tutino, the Prefect of the Congregation for Bishops, he would surely have gone in the New Year. He had been exposed in the press for spending half a million euros knocking two apartments together to create a place big enough to house the three nuns and the chaplain he felt necessary to serve him. Tutino had been given such a mauling in the media, he looked like the survivor of a physical attack. Someone had leaked his private emails. He was obsessed with finding out who. He moved furtively. He glanced over his shoulder. He found it hard to meet Lomeli’s eyes. After only the most cursory of greetings, he slipped into the Casa, ostentatiously carrying his belongings in a cheap plastic holdall.
*
By five o’clock it was becoming dark. As the sun dipped, the air chilled. Lomeli asked how many of the cardinals had yet to arrive. O’Malley consulted his list. ‘Fourteen, Your Eminence.’
‘So a hundred and three of our sheep are safely in the pen before nightfall. Rocco,’ he said, turning to his priest, ‘would you be so kind as to bring me my scarf?’
The helicopter had moved away, but the last of the demonstrators could still be heard. There was a steady, rhythmic beating of drums.
He said, ‘I wonder where Cardinal Tedesco has got to?’
O’Malley said, ‘Perhaps he isn’t coming.’
‘That would be too much to hope! Ah, forgive me. That was uncharitable.’ He could hardly admonish the Secretary of the College for lacking respect if he didn’t show it himself. He must remember to confess his sin.
Father Zanetti returned with his scarf just as Cardinal Tremblay appeared, walking alone from the direction of the Apostolic Palace. Slung over his shoulder was his choir dress in a dry-cleaner’s cellophane wrapper. In his right hand he swung a Nike sports bag. It was the image he had projected ever since the Holy Father’s funeral: a Pope for the modern age – unpretentious, informal, accessible – even though not one hair of that magnificent silvery helmet beneath his red zucchetto was ever out of place. Lomeli had expected the Canadian’s candidacy to fade after the first couple of days. But Tremblay knew how to keep his name before the media. As Camerlengo, he was responsible for the day-to-day running of the Church until a new pontiff was elected. There was not much to do. Nevertheless, he called daily meetings of the cardinals in the Synod Hall and held press conferences afterwards, and soon articles began appearing, quoting ‘Vatican sources’, saying how much his skilful management had impressed his colleagues. And he had another, more tangible means of ingratiating himself. It was to him, as Prefect of the Congregation for Evangelisation of Peoples, that the cardinals from the developing world, especially the poorer countries, came for funds, not just for their missionary work but for their living expenses in Rome during the time between the Pope’s funeral and the Conclave. It was hard not to be impressed. If a man had that strong a sense of destiny, perhaps he had indeed been chosen? Perhaps he had been given a sign, invisible to the rest of them? It was certainly invisible to Lomeli.
‘Joe, welcome.’
‘Jacopo,’ said Tremblay amiably, and lifted his arms with a smile of apology, to show that he couldn’t shake hands.
If he wins, Lomeli promised himself as soon as the Canadian had passed, I shall be gone from Rome the very next day.
He knotted his black woollen scarf around his neck and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He stamped his feet against the cobbles.
Zanetti said, ‘We could wait indoors, Your Eminence.’
‘No, I’d prefer to get some fresh air while I still can.’
Cardinal Bellini didn’t appear until half past five. Lomeli noticed his tall, thin figure moving through the shadows around the edge of the piazza. He was pulling a suitcase with one hand. In the other he carried a thick black briefcase so crammed with books and papers it would not properly close. His head was bowed in meditation. By general agreement, Bellini had emerged as the favourite to succeed to the throne of St Peter. Lomeli wondered what thoughts must be passing through his mind at the prospect. He was far too lofty for gossip or intrigue. The Pope’s strictures about the Curia had not applied to him. He had worked so hard as Secretary of State that his officials had been obliged to provide him with a second shift of assist-ants to come on duty at six every evening and stay with him until the early hours. More than any other member of the College he had the physical and mental capacity to be Pope. And he was a man of prayer. Lomeli had made up his mind to vote for him, although he had been careful not to say so, and Bellini had been too fastidious to ask him. The ex-Secretary was so wrapped up in his thoughts he seemed likely to walk straight past the welcoming party. But at the last minute he remembered where he was, glanced up and wished them all good evening. His face looked more than usually pale and drawn. ‘Am I the last?’
‘Not quite. How are you, Aldo?’
‘Oh, fairly dreadful!’ He managed a thin-lipped smile and drew Lomeli aside. ‘Well, you’ve read today’s newspapers – how else would you expect me to be? I’ve twice meditated on the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius just to try to keep my feet on the ground.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the press, and if you want my advice, you’d be wise to ignore all these self-appointed “experts”. Leave it to God, my friend. If it’s His will, it will happen; if not, not.’
‘But I’m not merely God’s passive instrument, Jacopo. I have some say in the matter. He gave us free will.’ He lowered his voice so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘It’s not that I want it, you understand? No sane man could possibly want the papacy.’
‘Some of our colleagues seem to.’
‘Well then they’re fools, or worse. We both saw what it did to the Holy Father. It’s a Calvary.’
‘Nevertheless, you should prepare yourself. The way things are going, it may well fall to you.’
‘But what if I don’t want it? What if I know in my heart I’m not worthy?’
‘Nonsense. You’re more worthy than any of us.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then tell your supporters not to vote for you. Pass the chalice to someone else.’
A tortured look passed across Bellini’s face. ‘And let it go to him?’ He nodded down the hill to where a squat, bulky, almost square figure was marching up the slope towards them, his shape rendered all the more comical by the tall, plumed Swiss Guards flanking him. ‘He has no doubts. He’s perfectly ready to undo all the progress we’ve made these past sixty years. How am I to live with myself if I don’t try to stop him?’ And without waiting for a reply, he hurried into the Casa Santa Marta, leaving Lomeli to face the Patriarch of Venice.
Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco was the least clerical-looking cleric Lomeli had ever seen. If you showed his picture to someone who didn’t know him, they would say he was a retired butcher, perhaps, or a bus driver. He came from a peasant family in Basilicata, right down in the south, the youngest of twelve children – the kind of huge family that used to be so common in Italy but had almost vanished since the end of the Second World War. His nose had been broken in his youth and was bulbous and slightly bent. His hair was too long and roughly parted. He had shaved carelessly. In the fading light he reminded Lomeli of a figure from another century: Gioachino Rossini, perhaps. But the rustic image was an act. He had two degrees in theology, spoke five languages fluently, and had been a protégé of Ratzinger’s at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, where he had been known as the Panzer Cardinal’s enforcer. Tedesco had kept well clear of Rome ever since the Pope’s funeral, pleading a severe cold. Of course nobody believed him. He scarcely needed any more publicity, and his absence added to his mystique.
‘Apologies, Dean. My train was delayed in Venice.’
‘Are you well?’
‘Oh, not too bad – but is one ever really well at our age?’
‘We’ve missed you, Goffredo.’
‘No doubt.’ He laughed. ‘Alas, it couldn’t be helped. But my friends have kept me
well informed. I’ll see you later, Dean. No, no, my dear fellow,’ he said to the Swiss Guard, ‘give me that,’ and so, a man of the people to the last, he insisted on carrying his own bag inside.
3
Revelations
AT A QUARTER to six, the Archbishop Emeritus of Kiev, Vadym Yatsenko, was pushed up the slope in a wheelchair. O’Malley made an exaggerated tick on his clipboard and declared that all 117 cardinals were now safely gathered in.
Relieved and moved, Lomeli bowed his head and closed his eyes. The seven officials of the Conclave immediately followed suit. ‘Heavenly Father,’ he said, ‘Maker of heaven and earth, You have chosen us to be Your people. Help us to give You glory in everything we do. Bless this Conclave and guide it in wisdom, bring us, Your servants, together, and help us to meet one another in love and joy. Father, we praise Your name now and forever. Amen.’
‘Amen.’
He turned towards the Casa Santa Marta. Now that all the shutters were locked, not a gleam of light escaped the upper floors. In the darkness it had become a bunker. Only the entrance was illuminated. Behind the thick bulletproof glass, priests and security men moved silently in the yellowish glow like creatures in an aquarium.
Lomeli was almost at the door when someone touched his arm. Zanetti said, ‘Eminence, remember Archbishop Woźniak is waiting to see you.’
‘Oh yes – Janusz; I’d forgotten him. He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he?’
‘He knows he has to be gone by six, Eminence.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I asked him to wait in one of the downstairs meeting rooms.’
Lomeli acknowledged the salute of the Swiss Guard and entered the warmth of the hostel. He followed Zanetti across the lobby, unbuttoning his coat as he walked. After the healthy cold of the piazza, it felt uncomfortably hot. Between the marble pillars, several small groups of cardinals stood talking. He smiled at them as he passed. Who were they? His memory was going. When he was a Papal Nuncio, he could remember the names of all his fellow diplomats, and of their wives and even their children. Now every conversation came freighted with the threat of embarrassment.
At the entrance to the meeting room, opposite the chapel, he gave his coat and scarf to Zanetti. ‘Would you mind taking these upstairs for me?’
‘Do you want me to sit in?’
‘No, I’ll deal with it.’ He put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Remind me, what time is vespers?’
‘Six thirty, Eminence.’
Lomeli opened the door. Archbishop Woźniak was standing with his back to him at the far end of the room. He appeared to be staring at the bare wall. There was a faint but unmistakable smell of alcohol. Once more Lomeli was obliged to suppress his irritation. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with!
‘Janusz?’ He advanced towards Woźniak, intending to embrace him, but to his alarm, the former Master of the Papal Household sank to his knees and made the sign of the cross.
‘Your Eminence, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was four weeks ago—’
Lomeli stretched out his hand. ‘Janusz, Janusz, forgive me, but I simply haven’t time to hear your confession. The doors will be closing in a few minutes and you’ll have to leave. Just sit down, please, and tell me quickly what is troubling you.’ He raised the archbishop to his feet, guided him to a chair and sat down next to him. He gave a smile of encouragement and patted the other man’s knee. ‘Go on.’
Woźniak’s pudgy face was damp with perspiration. Lomeli was close enough to see the smear of dust on his spectacles.
‘Your Eminence, I should have come to you before now. But I promised I wouldn’t say anything.’
‘I understand. Don’t worry.’ The man seemed to be sweating vodka. What was this myth that it was odourless? His hands shook. He reeked of it. ‘Now when you say you promised not to mention it – to whom did you make this promise?’
‘Cardinal Tremblay.’
‘I see.’ Lomeli drew back slightly. After a lifetime spent listening to secrets, he had developed an instinct for such matters. The vulgar always assumed it was best to try to know everything; in his experience it was often better to know as little as possible. ‘Before you go any further, Janusz, I want you to take a moment to ask God if it’s right for you to break your promise to Cardinal Tremblay.’
‘I have asked Him many times, Your Eminence, and that is why I’m here.’ Woźniak’s mouth trembled. ‘If it’s embarrassing for you, though . . .’
‘No, no, of course not. But please just give me the straight facts. We have little time.’
‘Very well.’ The Pole took a breath. ‘You remember that on the day the Holy Father died, the last person to have an official appointment with him, at four o’clock, was Cardinal Tremblay?’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, at that meeting, the Holy Father dismissed Cardinal Tremblay from all his offices in the Church.’
‘What?’
‘He sacked him.’
‘Why?’
‘For gross misconduct.’
Lomeli couldn’t speak at first. ‘Really, Archbishop, you could have picked a better time to come and tell me such a thing.’
Woźniak’s head drooped. ‘I know, Your Eminence, forgive me.’
‘In fact you could have come to see me at any time in the past three weeks!’
‘I don’t blame you for feeling angry, Eminence. But it wasn’t until the last day or two that I started hearing all these rumours about Cardinal Tremblay.’
‘What rumours?’
‘That he might be elected Pope.’
Lomeli paused just long enough to convey his displeasure at such frankness. ‘And you see it as your duty to prevent that?’
‘I no longer know what my duty is. I’ve prayed and prayed for guidance, and in the end it seems to me that you should have the facts, and then you can decide whether or not to tell the other cardinals.’
‘But what are the facts, Janusz? You’ve given me no facts. Were you present at this meeting between the two of them?’
‘No, Eminence. The Holy Father told me about it afterwards, when we had supper together.’
‘Did he tell you why he’d dismissed Cardinal Tremblay?’
‘No. He said the reasons would become clear soon enough. He was extremely agitated, though – very angry.’
Lomeli contemplated Woźniak. Might he be lying? No. He was a simple soul, plucked from a small town in Poland to be a chaplain and companion for John Paul II in his declining years. Lomeli was sure he was telling the truth. ‘Does anyone else know about this, apart from you and Cardinal Tremblay?’
‘Monsignor Morales – he was at the meeting between the Holy Father and Cardinal Tremblay.’
Lomeli knew Hector Morales, although not well. He had been one of the Pope’s private secretaries. A Uruguayan.
‘Listen, Janusz,’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely certain you’ve got this right? I can see how upset you are. But, for example, why hasn’t Monsignor Morales ever mentioned anything about it? He was there in the apartment with us on the night the Holy Father died. He could have brought it up then. Or he could have told one of the other secretaries.’
‘Eminence, you said you wanted the straight facts. These are the straight facts. I’ve been over them in my mind a thousand times. I found the Holy Father dead. I summoned the doctor. The doctor summoned Cardinal Tremblay. Those are the rules, as you know: “The first member of the Curia to be officially notified in the event of the Pope’s death is to be the Camerlengo.” Cardinal Tremblay arrived and took control of the situation. Naturally, I was hardly in a position to object, and besides, I was in a state of shock. But then, after about an hour, he drew me aside and asked me if the Holy Father had had anything particular on his mind when we had supper. That’s when I should have said something. But I was frightened, Your Eminence. I wasn’t supposed to know of these matters. So I just said that he seemed agitated, without goi
ng into any details. Afterwards, I saw the cardinal whispering in the corner with Monsignor Morales. My guess is that he was persuading him not to say anything about the meeting.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because later I did try to mention to the monsignor what the Pope had told me, and he was very firm about it. He said that there had been no dismissal, that the Holy Father had not been his normal self for several weeks, and that for the good of the Church I shouldn’t raise the subject again. So I haven’t. But it’s not right, Eminence. God tells me it’s not right.’
‘No,’ agreed Lomeli, ‘it’s not right.’ His mind was trying to work through the implications. It might easily all be nothing: Woźniak was overwrought. But then again, if they did elect Tremblay Pope, and some scandal was subsequently discovered, the consequences for the wider Church could be appalling.
There was a loud knock on the door. Lomeli called out, ‘Not now!’
The door was thrown open. O’Malley leaned into the room. All his considerable weight was balanced on his right foot, like an ice-skater; his left hand clung to the door frame. ‘Your Eminence, Archbishop, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but you are needed urgently.’
‘Dear God, what is it now?’
Conclave Page 5