‘I do – unfortunately.’
Bellini said, ‘I’m no more of an enthusiast for Tremblay than you are. Even so, we have to face the fact that he has demonstrated broad appeal. And if we believe that the Holy Spirit is operating through the Conclave, we have to accept that God – improbable as it may seem – wishes us to give the Keys of St Peter to Joe Tremblay.’
‘Perhaps He does – although it’s strange that until lunchtime He also seemed to want us to give them to Joshua Adeyemi.’ Lomeli glanced at the walclass="underline" he wondered if the Nigerian was listening. ‘Can I add that I am also slightly troubled by this. . .’ he gestured back and forth, ‘by the three of us meeting in collusion to try to influence the result? It seems a sacrilege. All we need is the Patriarch of Lisbon with his cigars and we’d be in a smoke-filled room, just like an American political convention.’ Bellini gave a thin smile; Sabbadin frowned. ‘Seriously, let us not forget that the oath we swear is to cast our ballot for the candidate whom before God we think should be elected. It’s not enough for us just to vote for the least-worst option.’
‘Oh really, with respect, Dean, that is sophistry!’ scoffed Sabbadin. ‘On the first ballot, one can take the purist view – good; fine. But by the time we reach the fourth or fifth ballot, our personal favourite is likely to have long since gone, and we are obliged to choose from a narrowed field. That process of concentration is the whole function of the Conclave. Otherwise nobody would change their mind and we would be here for weeks.’
‘Which is what Tedesco wants,’ added Bellini.
‘I know, I know. You are right,’ sighed Lomeli. ‘I came to the same conclusion myself in the Sistine this afternoon. And yet. . .’ He sat forward in his chair, rubbing his palms together, trying to decide if he should tell them what he knew. ‘There is one other thing you ought to be aware of. Just before the Conclave began, Archbishop Woźniak came to see me. He said that the Holy Father had fallen out badly with Tremblay – to such an extent that he was intending to dismiss him from all his offices in the Church. Had either of you picked up this story?’
Bellini and Sabbadin looked at one another in bewilderment. Bellini said, ‘It’s news to us. Do you really believe it’s true?’
‘I don’t know. I put the allegation to Tremblay in person, but naturally he denied it – he blamed the rumour on Woźniak’s drinking.’
Sabbadin said, ‘Well, that is possible.’
‘Yet it can’t be entirely a figment of Woźniak’s imagination.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I discovered afterwards that there was a report of some kind into Tremblay, but it was withdrawn.’
There was a moment’s silence as they considered this. Sabbadin turned to Bellini. ‘If there had been such a report, surely as Secretary of State you would have heard of it?’
‘Not necessarily. You know how this place works. And the Holy Father could be very secretive.’
Another silence. It went on for perhaps half a minute, until at last Sabbadin spoke. ‘We’ll never find a candidate who doesn’t have some kind of black mark against his name. We’ve had a Pope who was a member of the Hitler Youth and fought for the Nazis. We’ve had Popes who were accused of having colluded with communists and fascists, or who ignored reports of the most appalling abuses. . . Where does it end? If you’ve been a member of the Curia, you can be sure someone will have leaked something about you. And if you’ve been an archbishop, you’re bound to have made a mistake at one time or another. We are mortal men. We serve an ideal; we cannot always be ideal.’
It sounded like a rehearsed speech for the defence – so much so that for a moment Lomeli entertained the unworthy thought that perhaps Sabbadin had already approached Tremblay and offered to try to secure him the papacy in return for some future preferment. He wouldn’t put it past the Archbishop of Milan: he had never concealed his ambition to be Secretary of State. But in the end all he said was, ‘That was very well put.’
Bellini said, ‘So we are agreed, Jacopo? I shall talk to my supporters and you will talk to yours and we’ll both urge them to support Tremblay?’
‘I suppose so. Not that I actually know who my supporters are, I might add, apart from you and Benítez.’
‘Benítez,’ said Sabbadin thoughtfully. ‘Ah, now there’s an interesting fellow. I can’t make him out at all.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘And yet he got four votes on the last ballot. Where on earth are they coming from? You might have a word with him, Dean, and see if you can persuade him to our point of view. Those four votes might make all the difference.’
Lomeli agreed that he would try to see Benítez before dinner. He would go to his room. It was not the sort of conversation he wished to be seen having in front of the other cardinals.
Half an hour later, Lomeli took the elevator to the sixth floor of Block B. He recalled Benítez telling him that his room was at the top of the hotel, in the wing facing the city, but now that he was here, he realised he did not know the number. He wandered the corridor, examining the dozen identical closed doors, until he heard voices behind him and turned to see two cardinals emerging. One was Gambino, the Archbishop of Perugia, who was acting as one of Tedesco’s unofficial campaign managers. The other was Adeyemi. They were in the middle of a conversation: ‘I am sure he can be persuaded,’ Gambino was saying. But the moment they saw Lomeli, they stopped talking.
Gambino said, ‘Are you lost, Dean?’
‘I am, as a matter of fact. I was looking for Cardinal Benítez.’
‘Ah, the new boy! Are you plotting, Your Eminence?’
‘No – or at least no more than anyone else.’
‘Then you are plotting.’ The archbishop pointed along the corridor, greatly amused. ‘I think you’ll find he’s in the end room, on the left.’
As Gambino turned away and pressed the button for the elevator, Adeyemi lingered for a fraction longer, staring at Lomeli. You think I am finished, his face seemed to say, but you can spare me your pity, for I am not without some power, even yet. Then he joined Gambino in the elevator. The doors closed and Lomeli was left staring at the empty space. Adeyemi’s influence had been entirely overlooked in their calculations, he realised. The Nigerian had still received nine votes in the last ballot, even though by then his candidacy was plainly doomed. If he could deliver even half of those diehards to Tedesco, then the Patriarch of Venice would be assured of his blocking third.
The thought energised him. He strode along the corridor and knocked firmly on the end door. After a few moments he heard Benítez call out, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Lomeli.’
The lock slid back and the door half opened. ‘Your Eminence?’ Benítez was clutching his unbuttoned cassock together at his throat. His thin brown feet were bare. The room behind him was in darkness.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re dressing. May I have a word?’
‘Of course. One moment.’ Benítez disappeared back into his room. His wariness struck Lomeli as odd, but then he thought that if he had lived in some of the places this man had, doubtless he too would have got into the habit of not opening his door without first checking who was there.
Along the corridor, two other cardinals had appeared and were preparing to go down to dinner. They glanced in his direction. He raised his hand. They waved back.
Benítez opened the door wide. He had finished dressing. ‘Come in, Dean.’ He switched on the light. ‘Excuse me. At this time of day, I always try to meditate for an hour.’