‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense that we are not sure what the press office can say to the media to stop them speculating that the Church is in crisis. How else will they fill the airtime? And there are security issues as well. There are said to be four million pilgrims in Rome awaiting the new Pope.’
Lomeli glanced up at the driver’s mirror. A pair of dark eyes were watching him. Perhaps the fellow could lip-read? Anything was possible. He took off his biretta and used it to shield his mouth as he turned to whisper to O’Malley. ‘We have sworn an oath of secrecy, Ray, so I rely on your discretion, but I think you should let the press office know, very subtly, that the Conclave is likely to be longer than any in recent history. Instruct them to prepare the media accordingly.’
‘And what reasons shall I give them?’
‘Not the real ones, that’s for sure! Tell them that we have an abundance of strong candidates and that choosing between them is proving difficult. Say that we are deliberately taking our time, and praying hard to divine God’s will, and that it may take us some days yet to settle on our new shepherd. You might also point out that God is not to be rushed simply to suit the convenience of CNN.’
He smoothed down his hair and replaced his biretta. O’Malley was writing in his notebook. When he had finished, he whispered, ‘One other thing, Your Eminence. It’s very trivial. I needn’t bother you with it, if you’d prefer not to know.’
‘Go on.’
‘I did a little more research into Cardinal Benítez. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I see.’ Lomeli closed his eyes as if he was hearing confession. ‘You’d better tell me.’
‘Well, you remember I informed you that he had a private meeting with the Holy Father in January this year, following his request to resign as archbishop on health grounds? His resignation letter is in his file at the Congregation for Bishops, along with a note from the Holy Father’s private office to say that his request to retire was withdrawn. There is nothing else. However, when I entered Cardinal Benítez’s name into our data search engine, I discovered that shortly afterwards, he was issued with a return airline ticket to Geneva, paid for by the Pope’s own account. This is in a separate registry.’
‘Is it of any significance?’
‘Well, as a Philippine national, he was required to submit a visa application. The purpose of travel was given as “medical treatment”, and when I looked up his address in Switzerland for the duration of his stay, I discovered it was a private hospital.’
Lomeli opened his eyes at that. ‘Why not one of the Vatican’s medical facilities? What was he being treated for?’
‘I don’t know, Your Eminence – presumably it was in connection with the injuries he sustained in the bombing in Baghdad. Anyway, whatever it was, it can’t have been serious. The tickets were cancelled. He never went.’
For the next half-hour, Lomeli gave no further thought to the Archbishop of Baghdad. When he disembarked from the bus, he made a point of letting O’Malley and the others go on ahead, and then walked alone up the long staircase and across the Sala Regia towards the Sistine Chapel. He needed an interval of solitude to clear that space in his mind that was the necessary precondition to the admittance of God. The scandals and stresses of the past forty-eight hours, his awareness of the watching millions beyond the walls who were impatient for their decision – all these he tried to banish by reciting in his head the prayer of St Ambrose:
Gracious God of majesty and awe,
I seek Your protection,
I look for Your healing.
Poor troubled sinner that I am,
I appeal to You, the fountain of all mercy.
I cannot bear Your judgement
But I trust in Your salvation…
He greeted Archbishop Mandorff and his assistants in the vestibule, where they were waiting for him beside the stoves, then walked with them into the Sistine. Inside the chapel, not a word was being spoken. The only sounds, magnified by the vast echo, were the occasional cough and the shifting of the cardinals in their seats. It sounded like an art gallery, or a museum. Most were praying.
Lomeli whispered to Mandorff, ‘Thank you. I expect we shall see you again at lunchtime.’ After the doors had been locked, he sat in his place with his head bowed and let the silence go on. He sensed a collective desire for meditation to restore a mood of the sacred. But he could not rid himself of the thought of all those pilgrims, and the commentators babbling their inanities into the cameras. After five minutes, he rose and walked up to the microphone.
‘My most holy brothers, I will now take the roll call in alphabetical order. Please answer “Present” when I read out your name. Cardinal Adeyemi?’
‘Present.’
‘Cardinal Alatas?’
‘Present.’
Alatas, an Indonesian, was sitting halfway down the aisle, on the right-hand side. He was one of those who had taken money from Tremblay. Lomeli wondered who he would cast his vote for now.
‘Cardinal Baptiste?’ He was two places further along from Alatas. Another of Tremblay’s beneficiaries, from St Lucia, in the Caribbean. They were so poor, those missions. His voice was thick, as if he had been weeping.
‘Present.’
On Lomeli went. Bellini… Benítez… Brandão D’Cruz… Brotzkus… Cárdenas… Contreras… Courtemarche… He knew them all so much better now, their foibles and their weaknesses. A line of Kant’s came into his mind: Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made… The Church was built of crooked timber – how could it not be? But by the grace of God it fitted together. It had endured two thousand years; if necessary it would last another two weeks without a Pope. He felt suffused by a deep and mysterious love for his colleagues and their frailties.
‘Cardinal Yatsenko?’
‘Present.’
‘Cardinal Zucula?’
‘Present, Dean.’
‘Thank you, my brothers. We are all assembled. Let us pray.’
For the sixth time, the Conclave stood.
‘O Father, so that we may guide and watch over Your Church, give to us, Your servants, the blessings of intelligence, truth and peace, so that we may strive to know Your will, and serve You with total dedication. For Christ our Lord…’
‘Amen.’
‘Scrutineers, will you take your places, please?’
He looked at his watch. It was three minutes to ten.
While Archbishop Lukša of Vilnius, Archbishop Newby of Westminster, and the Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, Cardinal Mercurio, took their places at the altar, Lomeli studied his ballot paper. In the upper half were printed the words Eligo in Summum Pontificem – ‘I elect as Supreme Pontiff’; in the lower half, nothing. He tapped his pen against it. Now that the moment had arrived, he was not sure what name to write. His confidence in Bellini had been shaken badly, but when he came to consider the other possibilities, none of them seemed much better. He looked up and down the Sistine Chapel and begged God to give him a sign. He closed his eyes and prayed, but nothing happened. Conscious that the others were waiting for him to begin the balloting, he shielded his paper and wrote, reluctantly, BELLINI.
He folded the ballot in half, stood, held it aloft, stepped on to the carpeted aisle and approached the altar. He spoke in a firm voice.
‘I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.’
He placed the paper on the chalice and tipped it into the urn. He heard it strike the silver base. As he returned to his seat, he felt an acute sense of disappointment. For the sixth time God had asked him the same question, and for the sixth time he felt he had returned the same wrong answer.