It was 12.42, according to Lomeli’s watch, when the final ballot was cast and the scrutineers began counting the votes. By then the sirens had become less frequent, and for a few minutes there was a lull. A strained and self-conscious silence settled over the chapel. This time Lomeli left his list of cardinals untouched in its folder. He could not bear again to experience the long-drawn-out torture of following the results one by one. If he hadn’t thought it would render him ridiculous, he would have put his fingers in his ears.
O Lord, let this cup pass from me!
Lukša pulled the first vote from the urn and gave it to Mercurio, who gave it to Newby, who stitched it on to his thread. They too seemed to be fumbling in their haste to complete their task. For the seventh time, the Archbishop of Westminster began his recital.
‘Cardinal Lomeli…’
Lomeli shut his eyes. The seventh ballot ought to be propitious. In the Holy Scriptures, seven was the number of fulfilment and achievement: the day on which God rested after the creation of the world. Did not the seven Churches of Asia represent the completeness of the body of Christ?
‘Cardinal Lomeli…’
‘Cardinal Tedesco…’
Seven stars in Christ’s right hand, seven seals of God’s judgement, seven angels with seven trumpets, seven spirits before God’s throne…
‘Cardinal Lomeli…’
‘Cardinal Benítez…’
… seven circuits of the city of Jericho, seven immersions in the River Jordan…
He went on for as long as he could, but he was unable to shut out Newby’s fruity voice entirely. Eventually he surrendered and listened to it. But by then it was impossible for him to gauge who might be ahead.
‘And that completes the voting in the seventh ballot.’
He opened his eyes. The three cardinal-revisers were rising in their places and walking to the altar to check the tallies. He looked across the aisle at Tedesco, who was tapping his list with his pen as he counted his votes. ‘Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…’ His lips were moving but his expression was impossible to read. This time there was no general murmur of conversation. Lomeli folded his arms and focused on his desk as he waited for Newby to announce his fate.
‘My brothers, the result of the seventh ballot is as follows…’
Lomeli hesitated, then picked up his pen.
Lomeli 52
Tedesco 42
Benítez 24
He was in front. He could not have been more dumbfounded if the numbers had been written in fire. But there they were, inescapably: they would not change no matter how long he stared at them. The laws of psephology, if not of God, were propelling him remorselessly towards the edge of the precipice.
He was aware of every face being turned towards him. He had to grip the sides of his chair to summon the necessary effort to launch himself to his feet. He didn’t bother this time walking to the microphone. ‘My brothers,’ he said, raising his voice to address the cardinals from where he stood, ‘yet again no candidate has achieved the necessary majority. Therefore we shall proceed to an eighth ballot this afternoon. Will you be so good as to remain in your places until the masters of ceremonies have collected your notes. We shall leave as quickly as possible. Cardinal Rudgard, would you please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’
He remained standing while the Junior Cardinal-Deacon performed his duty. Each step of the American’s cautious progress across the glass-strewn marble floor of the vestibule was clearly audible. When he hammered on the door and cried, ‘Aprite le porte! Aprite le porte!’ he sounded almost desperate. As soon as he came back into the body of the chapel, Lomeli left his place and made his own way down the aisle. He passed Rudgard, who was on his way back to his seat, and tried to give him an encouraging smile, but the American looked away. Nor did any of the seated cardinals meet his eye. At first he thought it was hostility, then he realised it was the first manifestation of a new and terrifying deference: they were beginning to think he might be Pope.
He passed through the screen just as Mandorff and O’Malley were coming into the chapel, followed by the two priests and two friars who served as their assistants. Behind them, loitering in the Sala Regia, Lomeli could see a line of security men and two officers of the Swiss Guard.
Mandorff picked his way gingerly through the glass towards him, his hands outstretched. ‘Your Eminence, are you all right?’
‘Nobody’s hurt, Willi, thank God, but we should clear up this glass before the cardinals come out, in case someone cuts his feet.’
‘With your permission, Eminence?’
Mandorff beckoned to the men beyond the door. Four entered, carrying brooms, bowed to Lomeli and immediately started clearing a path, working fast, heedless of the noise they made. At the same time, the masters of ceremonies hurried up the ramp and into the chapel to begin collecting the cardinals’ notes. From their haste it was clear that a decision had been taken to evacuate the Conclave as quickly as possible. Lomeli put his arms around the shoulders of Mandorff and O’Malley and drew them in close. He was glad of the physical contact. They did not yet know of the vote; they did not flinch or try to keep a respectful distance.
‘How serious is it?’
O’Malley said, ‘It is grave, Your Eminence.’
‘Do we know yet what happened?’
‘It appears to have been a suicide bomber and also a car bomb. In the Piazza del Risorgimento. They seem to have chosen a place packed with pilgrims.’
Lomeli released the two prelates and stood silent for a few seconds, absorbing this horror. The Piazza del Risorgimento was about four hundred metres away, just outside the walls of the Vatican City. It was the closest public place to the Sistine Chapel. ‘How many killed?’
‘At least thirty. There was also a shooting at the church of San Marco Evangelista during a Mass.’
‘Dear God!’
Mandorff said, ‘And a gun attack in Munich, Eminence, at the Frauenkirche, as well as an explosion at the university in Louvain.’
O’Malley said, ‘We are under attack all across Europe.’
Lomeli remembered his meeting with the Minister of Security. The young man had spoken of ‘multiple co-ordinated target opportunities’. So this must be what he meant. To a layman, the euphemisms of terror were as universal and baffling as the Tridentine Mass. He made the sign of the cross. ‘May God have mercy on their souls. Has anyone claimed responsibility?’
Mandorff said, ‘Not yet.’
‘But it will be Islamists, presumably?’
‘I’m afraid that several eyewitnesses in the Piazza del Risorgimento report that the suicide bomber shouted “Allahu Akbar”, so there cannot be much doubt.’
‘“God is great”. ’ O’Malley shook his head in disgust. ‘How these people slander the Almighty!’
‘No emotion, Ray,’ warned Lomeli. ‘We need to think very clearly. An armed attack in Rome is appalling in itself. But a deliberate attack on the Universal Church in three different countries at the very moment when we are choosing a new Pope? If we are not careful, the world will see it as the start of a religious war.’
‘It is the start of a religious war, Eminence.’
Mandorff said, ‘And they have struck us deliberately when we have no commander-in-chief.’
Lomeli wiped his hand across his face. Although he had prepared for most contingencies, this was one he had never envisaged. ‘Dear God,’ he muttered, ‘what a picture of impotence we must be showing to the world! Black smoke rising from the Roman piazza where the bombs exploded, and black smoke issuing from the Sistine chimney, beside a pair of shattered windows! Yet what are we supposed to do? To suspend the Conclave would certainly show our respect for the victims, but it would hardly solve the leadership vacuum – in fact it would prolong it. And yet to accelerate the voting process would break the Apostolic Constitution…’