Conclave

12 The Fifth Ballot

IN MODERN TIMES, they usually had a Pope by the fifth ballot. The late Holy Father, for example, had got it on the fifth, and Lomeli could picture him now, resolutely refusing to sit on the papal throne but insisting on standing up to embrace the cardinals as they queued to congratulate him. Ratzinger had won it one ballot earlier, when they voted for the fourth time; Lomeli remembered him, too – his shy smile as his tally reached two-thirds and the Conclave burst into applause. John Paul I had also been a fourth-ballot victor. In fact, apart from Wojtyła, the fifth-ballot rule held true at least as far back as 1963, when Montini had defeated Lercaro and had famously remarked to his more charismatic rival, ‘That’s how life is, Your Eminence – you should be sitting here.’

An election completed in five ballots was what Lomeli had secretly prayed for – a nice, easy, conventional number, suggestive of an election that had been neither schism nor coronation but a meditative process of discerning God’s will. It would not be so this year. He did not like the feel of it.

Studying for his doctorate in canon law at the Pontifical Lateran University, he had read Canetti’s Crowds and Power. From it he had learnt to separate the various categories of crowd – the panicking crowd, the stagnant crowd, the crowd in revolt, and so forth. It was a useful skill for a cleric. Applying this secular analysis, a papal Conclave could be seen as the most sophisticated crowd on earth, moved this way or that by the collective impulse of the Holy Spirit. Some Conclaves were timid and disinclined to change, such as that which elected Ratzinger; others were bold, like the one that eventually chose Wojtyła. What worried Lomeli about this particular Conclave was that it was beginning to show signs of becoming what Canetti might call a disintegrating crowd. It was troubled, unstable, fragile – capable of suddenly heading off in any direction.

That growing sense of purpose and excitement with which they had ended the morning session had evaporated. Now, as the cardinals filed up to vote, and the small area of sky visible through the high windows darkened, the silence in the Sistine became bleak and tomblike. The tolling of the bell of St Peter’s for five o’clock might have been the death knell at a funeral. We are lost sheep, Lomeli thought, and a great storm is approaching. But who will be our shepherd? He still thought the best choice was Bellini, and voted for him yet again, but without any expectation that he could win. His tallies in the four ballots so far had been eighteen, nineteen, ten and eighteen respectively: clearly something was preventing him breaking out beyond his core group of supporters. Perhaps it was because he had been Secretary of State, and was too closely associated with the late Holy Father, whose policies had both antagonised the traditionalists and disappointed the liberals.

He found his gaze returning repeatedly to Tremblay. The Canadian, who was nervously fingering his pectoral cross as the voting proceeded, managed somehow to combine a bland personality with passionate ambition – a paradox that was not uncommon in Lomeli’s experience. But maybe blandness was what was needed to maintain the unity of the Church. And was ambition necessarily such a sin? Wojtyła had been ambitious. My God, how confident he had been, right from the start! On the night of his election, when he had stepped on to the balcony to address the tens of thousands in St Peter’s Square, he had practically shouldered the Master of Papal Liturgical Celebrations out of the way in his eagerness to speak to the world. If it comes to a choice between Tremblay and Tedesco, Lomeli thought, I shall have to vote for Tremblay – secret report or no. He could only pray it would not happen.

The sky was entirely black by the time the last ballot was cast and the scrutineers began to count the votes. The result was another shock:

Tremblay 40

Tedesco 38

Bellini 15

Lomeli 12

Adeyemi 9

Benítez 4

As his colleagues turned to look at him, Tremblay bowed his head and placed his hands together in prayer. For once this ostentatious show of piety did not irritate Lomeli. Instead, he briefly closed his eyes and gave thanks. Thank you, O Lord, for this indication of Your will, and if Cardinal Tremblay is to be our choice, I pray that You may grant him the wisdom and strength to fulfil his mission. Amen.

It was with some relief that he stood and faced the Conclave. ‘My brothers, that concludes the fifth ballot. No candidate having achieved the necessary majority, we shall resume voting tomorrow morning. The masters of ceremonies will collect your papers. Please do not take any written notes out of the Sistine, and be careful not to discuss our deliberations until you are back inside the Casa Santa Marta. Would the Junior Cardinal-Deacon please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’

At 6.22 p.m., black smoke once again began to pour from the Sistine chimney, picked out by the searchlight mounted on the side of St Peter’s Basilica. The pundits hired by the television channels professed themselves surprised by the Conclave’s failure to agree. Most had predicted that the new Pope would have been elected by now, and the US networks were on standby to interrupt their lunchtime schedules to show the scenes in St Peter’s Square as the victor appeared on the balcony. For the first time the experts started to express doubts about the strength of Bellini’s support. If he was going to win, he ought to have done so by now. A new collective wisdom began to rise out of the debris of the old: that the Conclave was on the verge of making history. In the United Kingdom – that godless isle of apostasy, where the whole affair was being treated as a horse race – the Ladbrokes betting agency made Cardinal Adeyemi the new favourite. Tomorrow, it was commonly said, might at last see the election of the first black Pope.

As usual, Lomeli was the last cardinal to leave the chapel. He stayed behind to watch Monsignor O’Malley burn the ballots, and then together they made their way across the Sala Regia. A security man trailed them down the staircase towards the courtyard. Lomeli assumed that O’Malley, as the Secretary of the College, must know the results of the afternoon ballots, if only because it was his task to collect the cardinals’ notes in order to destroy them – and O’Malley was not the kind of man to avert his eyes from a secret. He must be aware therefore of the collapse of Adeyemi’s candidacy and of the unexpected ascendancy of Tremblay’s. But he was too discreet to raise the subject directly. Instead he said quietly, ‘Is there anything you would like me to do before tomorrow morning, Your Eminence?’

‘Such as?’

‘I was wondering if perhaps you wanted me to go back to Monsignor Morales and see if I could discover any more about this withdrawn report into Cardinal Tremblay.’

Lomeli glanced over his shoulder at the security man. ‘I don’t know what would be the point of it, Ray. If he wouldn’t say anything before the Conclave started, he’s hardly likely to do so now, particularly if he suspects Cardinal Tremblay might be about to be elected Pope. And that, of course, is exactly what he would suspect if you raised the matter for a second time.’

They emerged into the evening. The last of the minibuses had gone. Somewhere nearby a helicopter was hovering again. Lomeli beckoned at the security guard and gestured to the deserted courtyard. ‘I seem to have been left behind. Would you mind?’

‘Of course, Your Eminence.’ The man whispered into his sleeve.

Lomeli turned back to O’Malley. He felt weary and alone and was seized by an unaccustomed desire to unburden himself. ‘Sometimes one can know too much, my dear Monsignor O’Malley. I mean, who among us doesn’t have some secret of which he is ashamed? This ghastly business of shutting our eyes to sexual abuse, for example – I was in the foreign service, so was spared direct involvement myself, thank God, but I doubt I would have acted any more firmly. How many of our colleagues failed to take the complaints of the victims seriously, but simply moved the priests responsible to a different parish? It wasn’t that those who turned a blind eye were evil; it was simply that they didn’t understand the scale of the wickedness they were dealing with, and preferred a quiet life. Now we know differently.’

He was silent for a moment, thinking of Sister Shanumi and her worn little photograph of her child. ‘Or how many have had friendships that became too intimate, and led on to sin and heartbreak? Or poor silly Tutino and his wretched apartment – without a family, one can so easily become obsessed with matters of status and protocol to give one a sense of fulfilment. So tell me: am I supposed to go around like some witchfinder general, searching for my colleagues’ lapses of more than thirty years ago?’

O’Malley said, ‘I agree, Your Eminence. “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” However, I thought in the case of Cardinal Tremblay you were worried about something more recent – a meeting between the Holy Father and the cardinal that took place last month?’

‘I was. But I’m beginning to discover that the Holy Father – may he be joined for evermore to the Fellowship of Holy Pontiffs. . .’

‘Amen,’ said O’Malley, and the two prelates crossed themselves.

‘I am beginning to discover,’ continued Lomeli in a quieter voice, ‘that the Holy Father may not have been entirely himself in the last few weeks of his life. Indeed, from what Cardinal Bellini has said to me, I gather he had almost become – I speak to you in absolute confidence – slightly paranoid, or at any rate very secretive.’

‘As witnessed by his decision to create a cardinal in pectore?’

‘Indeed. Why in heaven’s name did he do that? Let me say at once that I hold Cardinal Benítez in high esteem, as clearly do several of our brothers – he is a true man of God – but was it really necessary for him to be elevated in secret, and in such haste?’

‘Especially as he had only just tried to resign as archbishop on the grounds of poor health.’

‘And yet he seems perfectly fit in mind and body to me, and last night when I asked after his health, he seemed surprised by the question.’ Lomeli realised he was whispering. He laughed. ‘Listen to me – I sound like a typical old maid of the Curia, gossiping in darkened corners about appointments!’

A minibus drove into the courtyard and pulled up opposite Lomeli. The driver opened the doors. There were no other passengers inside. A blast of hot air-conditioned air fanned their faces.

Lomeli turned to O’Malley. ‘Do you want a lift to the Casa Santa Marta?’

‘No, thank you, Your Eminence. I need to go back to the Sistine and put out fresh ballot papers, and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.’

‘Well then, goodnight, Ray.’

‘Goodnight, Your Eminence.’ O’Malley offered his hand to help Lomeli up on to the coach, and for once Lomeli felt so tired he took it. The Irishman added, ‘Of course, I could undertake a little further investigation, if you would like me to.’

Lomeli paused on the top step. ‘Into what?’

‘Cardinal Benítez.’

Lomeli thought it over. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t think so. I’ve heard enough secrets for one day. Let God’s will be done – and preferably quickly.’

When he reached the Casa Santa Marta, Lomeli went straight to the elevator. It was just before seven o’clock. He held the door open long enough to allow the archbishops of Stuttgart and Prague, Löwenstein and Jandaček, to join him. The Czech was leaning on his stick, grey-faced with fatigue. As the door closed and the car began to rise, Löwenstein said, ‘Well, Dean, do you think we will finish this by tomorrow night?’

‘Perhaps, Your Eminence. It’s not in my hands.’

Löwenstein raised his eyebrows and glanced briefly at Jandaček. ‘If it drags on much longer, I wonder what the actuarial odds are that one of us will die before we find a new Pope.’

‘You might mention that to a few of our colleagues.’ Lomeli smiled and gave him a slight bow. ‘It may concentrate minds. Excuse me – this is my floor.’

He stepped out of the elevator, passed the votive candles outside the Holy Father’s apartment and walked along the dimly lit corridor. From behind several of the closed doors he could hear showers running. When he reached his room, he hesitated, then went on a few paces and stood outside Adeyemi’s. Not a sound came from within. The contrast between this deep silence and the laughter and excitement of the previous evening was awful to him. He felt appalled by the brutal necessity of his own actions. He tapped lightly. ‘Joshua? It’s Lomeli. Are you all right?’ There was no reply.

His own room had again been tidied by the nuns. He took off his mozzetta and rochet, then sat on the edge of his bed and loosened his shoelaces. His back ached. His eyes were swimming with tiredness. Yet he knew that if he lay down, he would fall asleep. He went to his prie-dieu, knelt, and opened his breviary to the readings for the day. His eye fell immediately upon Psalm 46:

Come, behold the works of the Lord;

see what desolations He has brought on the earth.

He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;

He breaks the bow, and shatters the spear;

He burns the shields with fire.

As he meditated, he began to experience the same premonition of violent chaos that had almost overcome him during the morning session in the Sistine Chapel. He saw for the first time how God willed destruction: that it was inherent in His Creation from the beginning and that they could not escape it – that He would come among them in wrath. See what desolations He has brought on the earth. . . ! He gripped the sides of the prie-dieu so hard that a few minutes later, when someone rapped loudly on the door behind him, his entire body seemed to jolt, as if he had been given an electric shock.

‘Wait!’

He hauled himself back up on to his feet and briefly put his hand on his heart. It kicked against his fingers like a trapped animal. Was this how it had felt for the Holy Father just before he died? Sudden palpitations that turned into an iron band of pain? He took a few more moments to gather his composure before he opened the door.

Standing in the corridor were Bellini and Sabbadin.

Bellini stared at him with concern. ‘Forgive us, Jacopo, are we disturbing your prayers?’

‘It’s of no consequence. I’m sure God will excuse us.’

‘Are you unwell?’

‘Not at all. Come in.’

He stood aside to let them enter. As usual, the Archbishop of Milan looked as professionally mournful as an undertaker, although he brightened when he saw the size of Lomeli’s room. ‘Dear me, this is tiny. We both have suites.’

‘It’s not so much the lack of space as the lack of light and air that I find oppressive. It’s giving me nightmares. But let us pray it won’t be for too much longer.’

‘Amen!’

Bellini said, ‘That is what we’ve come about.’

‘Please.’ Lomeli removed his discarded mozzetta and rochet from the bed and draped them over the prie-dieu to allow his visitors to sit down. He pulled out the chair from the desk and turned it round so that he was seated facing them. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but foolishly, unlike Guttuso, I’ve failed to bring in my own supplies.’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Bellini. ‘I simply wanted to let you know I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have sufficient support among our colleagues to be elected Pope.’

Lomeli was taken aback by his directness. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Aldo. It isn’t over yet.’

‘You are kind, but I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, it is. I’ve had a very loyal cohort of supporters – among whom I’ve been touched to number you, Jacopo, despite the fact that I replaced you as Secretary of State, for which you would have had every right to harbour a grudge.’

‘I have never wavered in my belief that you are the best man for the job.’

Sabbadin said, ‘Hear, hear.’

Bellini held up his hand. ‘Please, dear friends, don’t make this any harder for me than it is. The question now arises: given that I can’t win, whom should I advise my supporters to vote for? In the first ballot I voted for Vandroogenbroek – the greatest theologian of the age, in my opinion – even though of course he never stood a chance. In the last four ballots, Jacopo, I have voted for you.’

Lomeli blinked at him in surprise. ‘My dear Aldo, I don’t know what to say. . .’

‘And I should be happy to go on voting for you, and to tell my colleagues to do the same. But. . .’ He shrugged.

‘But you can’t win either,’ said Sabbadin with brutal finality. He opened his tiny black notebook. ‘Aldo got fifteen votes in the last ballot; you got twelve. So even if we delivered you all of our fifteen in a block – which frankly we can’t – you’d still only be in third place, behind Tremblay and Tedesco. The Italians are divided – as usual! – and since we three agree that the Patriarch of Venice would be a disaster, the logic of the situation is clear. The only viable option is Tremblay. Our combined total of twenty-seven, plus his forty, takes him to sixty-seven. That means he only needs another twelve to win a two-thirds majority. If he doesn’t get them on the next ballot, my feeling is he’ll probably get them on the one after that. Do you agree, Lomeli?’

‘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 wall: 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.’

Lomeli followed him into the room. It was small – identical to his own – and dotted with a dozen flickering candles: on the nightstand, on the desk, beside the prie-dieu, even in the darkened bathroom.

‘In Africa I got used to not always having electricity,’ explained Benítez. ‘Now I find that candles have become essential for me when I pray alone. The sisters kindly found me a few. There is something about the quality of the light.’

‘Interesting – I must see if it helps me.’

‘You have difficulty praying?’

Lomeli was surprised by the bluntness of the question. ‘Sometimes. Especially lately.’ His hand motioned a vague circle in the air. ‘I have too much on my mind.’

‘Perhaps I could be of assistance?’

For a brief instant Lomeli was affronted – was he, a former Secretary of State and Dean of the College of Cardinals, to be given lessons in how to pray? – but the offer was clearly sincere, so that he found himself saying, ‘Yes, I would like that, thank you.’

‘Sit, please.’ Benítez pulled out the chair from the desk. ‘Will it disturb you if I finish getting ready while we talk?’

‘No, go ahead.’

Lomeli watched the Filipino as he sat on the bed and pulled on his socks. He was struck afresh by how young and trim he looked for a man of sixty-seven – boyish almost, with his lock of jet-black hair spilling like ink across his face as he bent forward. For Lomeli these days, putting on a pair of socks could take ten minutes. Yet the Filipino’s limbs and fingers seemed as lithe and nimble as a twenty-year-old’s. Perhaps he practised yoga by candlelight, as well as praying.

He remembered why he had come. ‘The other night you were kind enough to say that you had voted for me.’

‘I did.’

‘I don’t know whether you’ve continued to do so – I’m not asking you to tell me – but if you have, I want to repeat my plea to you to stop, only this time I make the plea with even greater urgency.’

‘Why?’

‘First, because I lack the necessary spiritual depth to be Pope. Secondly, because I can’t possibly win. You must understand, Your Eminence, this Conclave is poised on a knife edge. If we don’t reach a decision tomorrow, the rules are very clear. Voting will have to be suspended for a day so that we can reflect on the impasse. Then we shall try again for two days. Then we stop for another day. And so on, and so on, until twelve days have passed and a total of thirty ballots have been held. Only after that can the new Pope be elected by a simple majority.’

‘So? What is the problem?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious: the damage such a long-drawn-out process will do to the Church.’

‘Damage? I don’t understand.’

Was he naïve, Lomeli wondered, or disingenuous? He said patiently, ‘Well, twelve successive days of balloting and discussion, all of it in secret, with half the world’s media camped in Rome, would be seen as proof that the Church is in crisis – that it can’t agree on a leader to guide it through these difficult times. It would also, frankly, strengthen that faction of our colleagues who want to take the Church back to an earlier era. In my worst nightmares, to speak absolutely freely, I wonder if a prolonged Conclave could herald the start of the great schism that has been threatening us for nearly sixty years.’

‘So I take it you have come to ask me to vote for Cardinal Tremblay?’

He was sharper than he seemed, thought Lomeli.

‘That would be my advice. And if you know the identities of the cardinals who have voted for you, I would also ask you to consider advising them to do the same. Do you know who they are, as a matter of interest?’

‘I suspect two of them are my fellow countrymen Cardinal Mendoza and Cardinal Ramos – even though, like you, I have begged everyone not to support me. Cardinal Tremblay has spoken to me about this, in fact.’

Lomeli laughed. ‘I’m sure he has!’ He regretted his sarcasm at once.

‘You want me to vote for a man you regard as ambitious?’ Benítez looked at Lomeli – a long, hard, appraising look that made him feel quite uncomfortable – and then, without speaking further, began putting on his shoes.

Lomeli shifted in his seat. He didn’t care for this lengthening silence. Eventually he said, ‘I am assuming, of course, because of your obviously close relationship with the Holy Father, that you don’t want to see Cardinal Tedesco as Pope. But perhaps I’m wrong – perhaps you believe in the same things he does?’

Benítez finished tying his shoelaces and placed his feet on the floor. He looked up again.

‘I believe in God, Your Eminence. And in God alone. Which is why I don’t share your alarm at the idea of a long Conclave – or even a schism, come to that. Who knows? Perhaps that is what God wants. It would explain why our Conclave is proving to be such a conundrum that even you can’t solve it.’

‘A schism would go against everything I have believed in and worked for throughout my entire life.’

‘Which is what?’

‘The divine gift of the single Universal Church.’

‘And this unity of an institution is worth preserving even at the price of breaking one’s sacred oath?’

‘That is an extraordinary allegation. The Church is not merely an institution, as you call it, but the living embodiment of the Holy Spirit.’

‘Ah, well here we differ. I feel I am more likely to encounter the embodiment of the Holy Spirit elsewhere – for example in those two million women who have been raped as an act of military policy in the civil wars of central Africa.’

Lomeli was so taken aback it was a moment before he could reply. He said stiffly, ‘I can assure you I would never for a moment countenance breaking my oath to God – whatever the consequences for the Church.’

The evening bell rang – a long, jangling note like a fire alarm – to signal that dinner was being served.

Benítez stood and extended his hand. ‘I meant no offence, Dean, and I am sorry if I have given it. But I cannot vote for a man unless he is the one I deem most worthy to be Pope. And for me, that man is not Cardinal Tremblay: it is you.’

‘How many more times, Your Eminence?’ Lomeli struck the side of his chair in his frustration. ‘I do not want your vote!’

‘Nevertheless, you will have it.’ Benítez stretched out his hand further. ‘Come. Let us be friends. Shall we go down to dinner together?’

Lomeli sulked for a few more seconds, then sighed and allowed himself to be helped up from his chair. He watched as Benítez went round the room blowing out the candles. The extinguished wicks spurted thin black tendrils of pungent smoke, and the smell of the burnt wax carried Lomeli in an instant back to his days in the seminary, when he would read by candlelight in the dormitory after lights-out and pretend to be asleep when the priest came by to check. He went into the bathroom, licked his thumb and forefinger, and snuffed out the candle beside the washbasin. As he did so, he noticed the little kit of toiletries that O’Malley had provided for Benítez on the night of his arrival – a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a bottle of deodorant, and a plastic disposable razor, still in its cellophane wrapper.