‘And yet Archbishop Woźniak insists that the Holy Father told him personally of the conversation, and that he was so agitated over dinner when he was recalling it that his distress may have contributed to his death.’
Tremblay’s outrage was magnificent. ‘The Holy Father – may his name be numbered among the high priests – was a sick man towards the end of his life, and easily confused, as those of us who saw him regularly will confirm: was it not so, Cardinal Bellini?’
Bellini frowned at his plate. ‘I have nothing to say on the matter.’
In the far corner of the dining room, Tedesco held up his hand. ‘May someone else be allowed to join in this dialogue?’ He rose heavily to his feet. ‘I deplore all this gossip about private conversations. The issue is the accuracy or otherwise of the report. The names of eight cardinals have been blacked out. I assume the dean can tell us who they are. Let him give us the names, and let these brothers confirm, here and now, whether or not they received these payments, and if they did, whether Cardinal Tremblay requested their votes in return.’
He sat down again. Lomeli was aware of all eyes upon him. He said quietly, ‘No, I will not do that.’ There were protests. He held up his hand. ‘Let each man examine his conscience, as I have had to do. I omitted those names precisely because I have no desire to create bitterness in this Conclave, which will only make it harder for us to listen to God and perform our sacred duty. I have done what I thought was necessary – many of you will say I have done too much: I understand that. In the circumstances, I would be happy to stand down as dean, and I would propose that Cardinal Bellini, as the next most senior member of the College, should preside over the remainder of the Conclave.’
Immediately voices started shouting out all over the dining room, some in favour, some against. Bellini shook his head vigorously. ‘Absolutely not!’
In the cacophony it was hard at first to hear the words, perhaps because they were spoken by a woman. ‘Your Eminences, may I be allowed to speak?’ She had to repeat them more firmly, and this time they cut through the din. ‘Your Eminences, may I speak, if you please?’
A woman’s voice! It was scarcely credible! The cardinals turned in shock to stare at the tiny, resolute figure of Sister Agnes advancing between the tables. The silence that fell was probably as much appalled at her presumption as curious at what she might say.
‘Eminences,’ she began, ‘although we Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul are supposed to be invisible, God has nonetheless given us eyes and ears, and I am responsible for the welfare of my sisters. I wish to say that I know what prompted the Dean of the College to enter the Holy Father’s rooms last night, because he spoke to me beforehand. He was concerned that the sister from my order who made that regrettable scene yesterday – for which I apologise – might have been brought to Rome with the deliberate intention of embarrassing a member of this Conclave. His suspicions were correct. I was able to tell him that she was indeed here at the specific request of one of your number: Cardinal Tremblay. I believe it was that discovery, rather than any malicious intent, that guided his actions. Thank you.’
She genuflected to the cardinals, then turned, and with her head held very erect, walked out of the dining room and across the lobby. Tremblay gaped after her in horror. He held out his hands in an appeal for understanding. ‘My brothers, it is true I made the request, but only because the Holy Father asked me to. I had no knowledge of who she was, I swear to you!’
For several seconds no one spoke. Then Adeyemi rose. Slowly he brought up his arm to point at Tremblay. In his deep, well-modulated voice, which sounded to his listeners, that morning more than ever, like the wrath of God made manifest, he intoned the single word, ‘Judas!’
15 The Sixth Ballot
THE CONCLAVE WAS unstoppable. Like some sacred machine, it ground on into its third day, regardless of all profane distractions. At 9.30 a.m., in accordance with the Apostolic Constitution, the cardinals once again began filing out to the minibuses. They knew the routine by now. As quickly as old age and infirmity permitted, they took their seats. Soon the buses were pulling away, one every couple of minutes, heading west across the Piazza Santa Marta towards the Sistine Chapel.
Lomeli stood outside the hotel, biretta in hand, bare-headed beneath the grey sky. The cardinals’ mood was subdued – stunned, even – and he half expected Tremblay to plead ill-health and withdraw from the election altogether, but no: he emerged from the lobby on the arm of Archbishop Fitzgerald and climbed up on to his bus, outwardly quite calm, although his face, which he turned to the window as they pulled away, was a dead white mask of misery.
Bellini, who was standing beside Lomeli, said drily, ‘We seem to be running out of favourites.’
‘Indeed. One wonders who will be next.’
Bellini glanced at him. ‘I should have thought that was obvious: you.’
Lomeli put his hand to his forehead. Beneath his fingertips he could feel a vein throbbing. ‘I meant what I said just now in the dining room: I believe it would be best for us all if I stepped aside as dean, and you took over the supervision of the election.’
‘No, thank you, Dean. Besides, you must have noticed that the mood of the meeting was with you by the end. You are steering this Conclave – exactly where I do not know, but you are certainly steering it, and that firm hand of yours will have its admirers.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Last night I warned you that exposing Tremblay would backfire on whoever did it, but it turns out I was wrong – again! Now I predict it will become a contest between you and Tedesco.’
‘Then let us hope you’re wrong – again.’
Bellini gave one of his chillier smiles. ‘After forty years, we may have an Italian Pope at last. That will please our compatriots.’ He gripped Lomeli’s arm. ‘Seriously, my friend, I shall pray for you.’
‘Please do. Just as long as you don’t vote for me.’
‘Oh, I shall do that as well.’
O’Malley put away his clipboard. ‘We’re ready to leave, Your Eminences.’
Bellini went first. Lomeli put on his biretta and adjusted it, took one last look at the sky, then climbed up on to the bus behind the billowing red skirts of the Patriarch of Alexandria. He settled himself into one of the pair of vacant seats just behind the driver. O’Malley joined him. The doors closed, the bus vibrated over the cobbles.
As they passed between St Peter’s Basilica and the Palace of Justice, O’Malley leaned in and said very quietly, so that no one could overhear him, ‘I assume, Your Eminence, given the latest developments, the Conclave is extremely unlikely to reach a decision today?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I was in the lobby throughout.’
Lomeli grunted to himself. If O’Malley knew, then sooner or later everyone would. He said, ‘Well, naturally, given the arithmetic, you’ll appreciate that deadlock is almost inevitable. We shall have to devote tomorrow to meditation and resume voting on…’ He paused. Shuttling back and forth between the Casa Santa Marta and the Sistine, rarely seeing daylight, he was losing track of time.
‘Friday, Your Eminence.’
‘Friday, thank you. Four ballots on Friday, another four on Saturday, and then a further meditation on Sunday, assuming we’re no further forward. We’ll need to make arrangements for laundry, fresh clothes and so forth.’
‘That is all in hand.’
They halted to allow the buses ahead of them to offload their passengers. Lomeli stared at the blank wall of the Apostolic Palace, then turned to O’Malley and whispered, ‘Tell me, what are they saying in the media?’
‘They are predicting a decision either this morning or this afternoon, with Cardinal Adeyemi still considered the favourite.’ O’Malley brought his lips even closer to Lomeli’s ear. ‘Between us, Your Eminence, if there isn’t white smoke today, I fear we may start to lose control of things.’