‘As witnessed by his decision to create a cardinal in pectore?’
‘Indeed. Why in heaven’s name did he do that? Let me say at once that I hold Cardinal Benítez in high esteem, as clearly do several of our brothers – he is a true man of God – but was it really necessary for him to be elevated in secret, and in such haste?’
‘Especially as he had only just tried to resign as archbishop on the grounds of poor health.’
‘And yet he seems perfectly fit in mind and body to me, and last night when I asked after his health, he seemed surprised by the question.’ Lomeli realised he was whispering. He laughed. ‘Listen to me – I sound like a typical old maid of the Curia, gossiping in darkened corners about appointments!’
A minibus drove into the courtyard and pulled up opposite Lomeli. The driver opened the doors. There were no other passengers inside. A blast of hot air-conditioned air fanned their faces.
Lomeli turned to O’Malley. ‘Do you want a lift to the Casa Santa Marta?’
‘No, thank you, Your Eminence. I need to go back to the Sistine and put out fresh ballot papers, and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.’
‘Well then, goodnight, Ray.’
‘Goodnight, Your Eminence.’ O’Malley offered his hand to help Lomeli up on to the coach, and for once Lomeli felt so tired he took it. The Irishman added, ‘Of course, I could undertake a little further investigation, if you would like me to.’
Lomeli paused on the top step. ‘Into what?’
‘Cardinal Benítez.’
Lomeli thought it over. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t think so. I’ve heard enough secrets for one day. Let God’s will be done – and preferably quickly.’
When he reached the Casa Santa Marta, Lomeli went straight to the elevator. It was just before seven o’clock. He held the door open long enough to allow the archbishops of Stuttgart and Prague, Löwenstein and Jandaček, to join him. The Czech was leaning on his stick, grey-faced with fatigue. As the door closed and the car began to rise, Löwenstein said, ‘Well, Dean, do you think we will finish this by tomorrow night?’
‘Perhaps, Your Eminence. It’s not in my hands.’
Löwenstein raised his eyebrows and glanced briefly at Jandaček. ‘If it drags on much longer, I wonder what the actuarial odds are that one of us will die before we find a new Pope.’
‘You might mention that to a few of our colleagues.’ Lomeli smiled and gave him a slight bow. ‘It may concentrate minds. Excuse me – this is my floor.’
He stepped out of the elevator, passed the votive candles outside the Holy Father’s apartment and walked along the dimly lit corridor. From behind several of the closed doors he could hear showers running. When he reached his room, he hesitated, then went on a few paces and stood outside Adeyemi’s. Not a sound came from within. The contrast between this deep silence and the laughter and excitement of the previous evening was awful to him. He felt appalled by the brutal necessity of his own actions. He tapped lightly. ‘Joshua? It’s Lomeli. Are you all right?’ There was no reply.
His own room had again been tidied by the nuns. He took off his mozzetta and rochet, then sat on the edge of his bed and loosened his shoelaces. His back ached. His eyes were swimming with tiredness. Yet he knew that if he lay down, he would fall asleep. He went to his prie-dieu, knelt, and opened his breviary to the readings for the day. His eye fell immediately upon Psalm 46:
Come, behold the works of the Lord;
see what desolations He has brought on the earth.
He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow, and shatters the spear;
He burns the shields with fire.
As he meditated, he began to experience the same premonition of violent chaos that had almost overcome him during the morning session in the Sistine Chapel. He saw for the first time how God willed destruction: that it was inherent in His Creation from the beginning and that they could not escape it – that He would come among them in wrath. See what desolations He has brought on the earth. . . ! He gripped the sides of the prie-dieu so hard that a few minutes later, when someone rapped loudly on the door behind him, his entire body seemed to jolt, as if he had been given an electric shock.
‘Wait!’
He hauled himself back up on to his feet and briefly put his hand on his heart. It kicked against his fingers like a trapped animal. Was this how it had felt for the Holy Father just before he died? Sudden palpitations that turned into an iron band of pain? He took a few more moments to gather his composure before he opened the door.
Standing in the corridor were Bellini and Sabbadin.
Bellini stared at him with concern. ‘Forgive us, Jacopo, are we disturbing your prayers?’
‘It’s of no consequence. I’m sure God will excuse us.’
‘Are you unwell?’
‘Not at all. Come in.’
He stood aside to let them enter. As usual, the Archbishop of Milan looked as professionally mournful as an undertaker, although he brightened when he saw the size of Lomeli’s room. ‘Dear me, this is tiny. We both have suites.’
‘It’s not so much the lack of space as the lack of light and air that I find oppressive. It’s giving me nightmares. But let us pray it won’t be for too much longer.’
‘Amen!’
Bellini said, ‘That is what we’ve come about.’
‘Please.’ Lomeli removed his discarded mozzetta and rochet from the bed and draped them over the prie-dieu to allow his visitors to sit down. He pulled out the chair from the desk and turned it round so that he was seated facing them. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but foolishly, unlike Guttuso, I’ve failed to bring in my own supplies.’
‘It won’t take long,’ said Bellini. ‘I simply wanted to let you know I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have sufficient support among our colleagues to be elected Pope.’
Lomeli was taken aback by his directness. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Aldo. It isn’t over yet.’
‘You are kind, but I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, it is. I’ve had a very loyal cohort of supporters – among whom I’ve been touched to number you, Jacopo, despite the fact that I replaced you as Secretary of State, for which you would have had every right to harbour a grudge.’
‘I have never wavered in my belief that you are the best man for the job.’
Sabbadin said, ‘Hear, hear.’
Bellini held up his hand. ‘Please, dear friends, don’t make this any harder for me than it is. The question now arises: given that I can’t win, whom should I advise my supporters to vote for? In the first ballot I voted for Vandroogenbroek – the greatest theologian of the age, in my opinion – even though of course he never stood a chance. In the last four ballots, Jacopo, I have voted for you.’
Lomeli blinked at him in surprise. ‘My dear Aldo, I don’t know what to say. . .’
‘And I should be happy to go on voting for you, and to tell my colleagues to do the same. But. . .’ He shrugged.
‘But you can’t win either,’ said Sabbadin with brutal finality. He opened his tiny black notebook. ‘Aldo got fifteen votes in the last ballot; you got twelve. So even if we delivered you all of our fifteen in a block – which frankly we can’t – you’d still only be in third place, behind Tremblay and Tedesco. The Italians are divided – as usual! – and since we three agree that the Patriarch of Venice would be a disaster, the logic of the situation is clear. The only viable option is Tremblay. Our combined total of twenty-seven, plus his forty, takes him to sixty-seven. That means he only needs another twelve to win a two-thirds majority. If he doesn’t get them on the next ballot, my feeling is he’ll probably get them on the one after that. Do you agree, Lomeli?’