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.’