Pearse didn’t need to answer.
“I’ve got some friends,” Mendravic continued. “We’ll stay with them for a day or so until the boys with the boots move on.”
Pearse nodded.
“Just like old times,” said Mendravic, his attempt to lighten the mood ringing hollow.
Pearse looked back through the glass. Ivo was once again asleep in Petra’s lap. Her eyes were shut, as well.
Just like old times. It was a nostalgia he could have done without.
five
“… during or after the election of the new Pontiff, unless explicit authorization is granted by the same Pontiff; and never to lend support or favor to any interference, opposition, or any other form of intervention, whereby secular authorities of whatever order and degree or any group of people or individuals might wish to intervene in the election of the Roman Pontiff.”
The cardinal dean finished reading and began to make his way around the Sistine Chapel. One by one, the cardinal electors rose to acknowledge the oath.
Von Neurath sat with his hands comfortably in his lap. The hard back of the bench seemed to suit his posture, less so the velvet cushion underneath. On his right sat an Englishman; on the other, a South American. Neither had said a word in the last twenty minutes, better that way, since von Neurath couldn’t remember if his Spanish colleague was Brazilian or Argentinian, Escobar de something, if memory served. Cardinal Daly, however, was another matter entirely, well known among the conclave as a papabile-a “good prospect”-according to the scuttlebutt that had been circulating over the last few days. Strange that they’d placed two of the prime candidates so close to each other. Or maybe it was simply geography, the Italians on one side of the chapel, the rest of the Catholic world on the other.
Usually brightened by the afternoon sun, the chapel lay under a glow of standing lamps, the gated windows above the Perugino frescoes draped behind thick cloth, a nod to both the solemnity and the secrecy of the conclave. Even in the half-light, the chapel lost none of its grandeur, the plaintive stares from above deepened by the shadows, thick, muscular tones-the pigment having been restored-once again fresh and alive.
Von Neurath stared at one or two of the faces above. He’d never been all that taken with the paintings, far too ornate for his tastes. He much preferred the line of a van Eyck, or a Breu the Elder, or a Lochner, or even a Fra Angelico, if pressed to name an Italian. Now there was the precision of faith. With Michelangelo, everything of value seemed to get lost-hulking, self-indulgent bodies twisting this way and that, no direction, no meaning. Perfect for the Italians, he thought, each of whom continued to gaze up, with self-satisfied grins, as if somehow they were reading a private message, the figures meant for them alone. Von Neurath brought his arms to his chest and waited.
Movement by the altar caught his eye. The Cardinal Camerlengo-his old friend Fabrizzi-began to set the chalice and paten in place, cue for the initiation of the first ballot. Von Neurath looked down at the paper in his hand, the printed Latin a simple reminder of what had brought them all together.
“Eligo in summum pontificem …”
“I elect as supreme Pontiff …”
And next to it, in his own hand, the words “Erich Cardinal von Neurath.”
It was an odd sensation to see the name in front of him. The Italians might have their art, but he would have their throne. Looking up, he had to suppress a smile.
The dean approached him. Von Neurath stood.
“And I, Erich Cardinal von Neurath, do so promise, pledge, and swear.” He placed his hand on the Gospels held out in front of him. “So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand.”
Twenty minutes later, each of the 109 had sworn their troth. The voting began.
As the first of the cardinals moved toward the altar-always one by one-von Neurath scanned the faces across from him. How many of them were thinking of grandnieces and grandnephews? he wondered. Kleist had made over sixty tapes. He’d sent out fewer than twenty of them, but it was more than enough to encourage the crucial swing votes necessary to take him past the two-thirds majority for election.
The procession continued, at last his own turn. With a deep breath, he folded the paper in his hand, stood, and slowly walked toward the altar. Reaching the table, he turned back to the conclave, raised his ballot high for all to see, then placed it on the paten. He watched as the Cardinal Camerlengo lifted the gold plate and slid the ballot into the chalice. As simple as that.
Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings-God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.
Von Neurath thought of the “Hodoporia.” He’d heard nothing from Kleist in over five days, the last message from Athos, confirmation that the priest had yet to get hold of the actual parchment. Some sort of book. One more step removed. Assurances that everything was close at hand.
Without the “Hodoporia,” though, von Neurath knew the papacy would mean nothing, infallibility or not. Two hundred and fifty million Catholics at his disposal, and no way to convince them to follow a new path. No way to justify the shifts to come with a divine authority.
He had no choice but to trust Kleist, trust that he would deliver what he had promised.
“Peretti.”
The sound of a voice brought his focus back to the altar. One of Fabrizzi’s three assistants-the scrutineers-was reading out the first ballot. He then passed it to the next cardinal, who likewise read it aloud. So, too, the third, who then ran a needle and thread through the paper.
“Daly.”
Von Neurath exchanged a moment’s smile with the Englishman as his name was echoed twice more. No need to worry. Two votes. One hundred and seven to go.
Eighteen minutes later, von Neurath sat stunned. By his own count, he had fallen six short of the majority, Peretti having taken forty of the remaining forty-two.
Evidently, several of the swing votes had decided not to swing.
The cardinals sat silently as one of Fabrizzi’s assistants gathered the twined ballots and notes and retreated to the small stove whose chimney had become so famous over time.
Black smoke.
Two more votes tomorrow morning, one tomorrow afternoon, if need be. For as long as it took.
The cardinals rose. Filing out, von Neurath noticed that Peretti was staring at him. The hint of a smile. He did his best to return it.
Kleist would have to make certain he wasn’t put in so embarrassing a position again.
Pearse had slept on and off for over twelve hours, his body finally giving out after more than a week of neglect. They had arrived in the village sometime after two, twenty miles west of Novi-Pazar, less than an hour from the Kosovar border, somewhere up in the hills. That they’d crossed back into Yugoslavia hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen the signs for Belgrade. No border post, no guards. Evidently, when he wanted to, Mendravic could avoid such inconveniences.
Pulling up along one more dirt road-a smattering of houses spread out along the surrounding hills-they’d stopped at the only hovel still showing some signs of life. Ivo had been quickly carted away to a bed while Mendravic had made the introductions.
Much as Pearse had expected, the men and women of the KLA proved to be none-too-distant cousins of the Irish Provisionals, less concerned with practical objectives than with the grand design. He’d talked with them for over an hour, stories of recent escapades, all dismissed with a fanatic’s rationale. As it turned out, these were a new breed of KLA, taking their fight “beyond the borders,” as they had explained. The rest of Serbia/Yugoslavia would learn to leave Kosovo alone.