Conclave

3 Revelations

AT A QUARTER to six, the Archbishop Emeritus of Kiev, Vadym Yatsenko, was pushed up the slope in a wheelchair. O’Malley made an exaggerated tick on his clipboard and declared that all 117 cardinals were now safely gathered in.

Relieved and moved, Lomeli bowed his head and closed his eyes. The seven officials of the Conclave immediately followed suit. ‘Heavenly Father,’ he said, ‘Maker of heaven and earth, You have chosen us to be Your people. Help us to give You glory in everything we do. Bless this Conclave and guide it in wisdom, bring us, Your servants, together, and help us to meet one another in love and joy. Father, we praise Your name now and forever. Amen.’

‘Amen.’

He turned towards the Casa Santa Marta. Now that all the shutters were locked, not a gleam of light escaped the upper floors. In the darkness it had become a bunker. Only the entrance was illuminated. Behind the thick bulletproof glass, priests and security men moved silently in the yellowish glow like creatures in an aquarium.

Lomeli was almost at the door when someone touched his arm. Zanetti said, ‘Eminence, remember Archbishop Woźniak is waiting to see you.’

‘Oh yes – Janusz; I’d forgotten him. He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he?’

‘He knows he has to be gone by six, Eminence.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I asked him to wait in one of the downstairs meeting rooms.’

Lomeli acknowledged the salute of the Swiss Guard and entered the warmth of the hostel. He followed Zanetti across the lobby, unbuttoning his coat as he walked. After the healthy cold of the piazza, it felt uncomfortably hot. Between the marble pillars, several small groups of cardinals stood talking. He smiled at them as he passed. Who were they? His memory was going. When he was a Papal Nuncio, he could remember the names of all his fellow diplomats, and of their wives and even their children. Now every conversation came freighted with the threat of embarrassment.

At the entrance to the meeting room, opposite the chapel, he gave his coat and scarf to Zanetti. ‘Would you mind taking these upstairs for me?’

‘Do you want me to sit in?’

‘No, I’ll deal with it.’ He put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Remind me, what time is vespers?’

‘Six thirty, Eminence.’

Lomeli opened the door. Archbishop Woźniak was standing with his back to him at the far end of the room. He appeared to be staring at the bare wall. There was a faint but unmistakable smell of alcohol. Once more Lomeli was obliged to suppress his irritation. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with!

‘Janusz?’ He advanced towards Woźniak, intending to embrace him, but to his alarm, the former Master of the Papal Household sank to his knees and made the sign of the cross.

‘Your Eminence, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was four weeks ago-’

Lomeli stretched out his hand. ‘Janusz, Janusz, forgive me, but I simply haven’t time to hear your confession. The doors will be closing in a few minutes and you’ll have to leave. Just sit down, please, and tell me quickly what is troubling you.’ He raised the archbishop to his feet, guided him to a chair and sat down next to him. He gave a smile of encouragement and patted the other man’s knee. ‘Go on.’

Woźniak’s pudgy face was damp with perspiration. Lomeli was close enough to see the smear of dust on his spectacles.

‘Your Eminence, I should have come to you before now. But I promised I wouldn’t say anything.’

‘I understand. Don’t worry.’ The man seemed to be sweating vodka. What was this myth that it was odourless? His hands shook. He reeked of it. ‘Now when you say you promised not to mention it – to whom did you make this promise?’

‘Cardinal Tremblay.’

‘I see.’ Lomeli drew back slightly. After a lifetime spent listening to secrets, he had developed an instinct for such matters. The vulgar always assumed it was best to try to know everything; in his experience it was often better to know as little as possible. ‘Before you go any further, Janusz, I want you to take a moment to ask God if it’s right for you to break your promise to Cardinal Tremblay.’

‘I have asked Him many times, Your Eminence, and that is why I’m here.’ Woźniak’s mouth trembled. ‘If it’s embarrassing for you, though. . .’

‘No, no, of course not. But please just give me the straight facts. We have little time.’

‘Very well.’ The Pole took a breath. ‘You remember that on the day the Holy Father died, the last person to have an official appointment with him, at four o’clock, was Cardinal Tremblay?’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, at that meeting, the Holy Father dismissed Cardinal Tremblay from all his offices in the Church.’

‘What?’

‘He sacked him.’

‘Why?’

‘For gross misconduct.’

Lomeli couldn’t speak at first. ‘Really, Archbishop, you could have picked a better time to come and tell me such a thing.’

Woźniak’s head drooped. ‘I know, Your Eminence, forgive me.’

‘In fact you could have come to see me at any time in the past three weeks!’

‘I don’t blame you for feeling angry, Eminence. But it wasn’t until the last day or two that I started hearing all these rumours about Cardinal Tremblay.’

‘What rumours?’

‘That he might be elected Pope.’

Lomeli paused just long enough to convey his displeasure at such frankness. ‘And you see it as your duty to prevent that?’

‘I no longer know what my duty is. I’ve prayed and prayed for guidance, and in the end it seems to me that you should have the facts, and then you can decide whether or not to tell the other cardinals.’

‘But what are the facts, Janusz? You’ve given me no facts. Were you present at this meeting between the two of them?’

‘No, Eminence. The Holy Father told me about it afterwards, when we had supper together.’

‘Did he tell you why he’d dismissed Cardinal Tremblay?’

‘No. He said the reasons would become clear soon enough. He was extremely agitated, though – very angry.’

Lomeli contemplated Woźniak. Might he be lying? No. He was a simple soul, plucked from a small town in Poland to be a chaplain and companion for John Paul II in his declining years. Lomeli was sure he was telling the truth. ‘Does anyone else know about this, apart from you and Cardinal Tremblay?’

‘Monsignor Morales – he was at the meeting between the Holy Father and Cardinal Tremblay.’

Lomeli knew Hector Morales, although not well. He had been one of the Pope’s private secretaries. A Uruguayan.

‘Listen, Janusz,’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely certain you’ve got this right? I can see how upset you are. But, for example, why hasn’t Monsignor Morales ever mentioned anything about it? He was there in the apartment with us on the night the Holy Father died. He could have brought it up then. Or he could have told one of the other secretaries.’

‘Eminence, you said you wanted the straight facts. These are the straight facts. I’ve been over them in my mind a thousand times. I found the Holy Father dead. I summoned the doctor. The doctor summoned Cardinal Tremblay. Those are the rules, as you know: “The first member of the Curia to be officially notified in the event of the Pope’s death is to be the Camerlengo.” Cardinal Tremblay arrived and took control of the situation. Naturally, I was hardly in a position to object, and besides, I was in a state of shock. But then, after about an hour, he drew me aside and asked me if the Holy Father had had anything particular on his mind when we had supper. That’s when I should have said something. But I was frightened, Your Eminence. I wasn’t supposed to know of these matters. So I just said that he seemed agitated, without going into any details. Afterwards, I saw the cardinal whispering in the corner with Monsignor Morales. My guess is that he was persuading him not to say anything about the meeting.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because later I did try to mention to the monsignor what the Pope had told me, and he was very firm about it. He said that there had been no dismissal, that the Holy Father had not been his normal self for several weeks, and that for the good of the Church I shouldn’t raise the subject again. So I haven’t. But it’s not right, Eminence. God tells me it’s not right.’

‘No,’ agreed Lomeli, ‘it’s not right.’ His mind was trying to work through the implications. It might easily all be nothing: Woźniak was overwrought. But then again, if they did elect Tremblay Pope, and some scandal was subsequently discovered, the consequences for the wider Church could be appalling.

There was a loud knock on the door. Lomeli called out, ‘Not now!’

The door was thrown open. O’Malley leaned into the room. All his considerable weight was balanced on his right foot, like an ice-skater; his left hand clung to the door frame. ‘Your Eminence, Archbishop, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but you are needed urgently.’

‘Dear God, what is it now?’

O’Malley glanced briefly at Woźniak. ‘I’m sorry, Eminence, I’d prefer not to say. If you could come at once, please?’

He stepped back and gestured in the direction of the lobby. Reluctantly Lomeli got to his feet. He spoke to Woźniak. ‘You’ll have to leave the matter with me. But you did the right thing.’

‘Thank you. I knew I could always come to you. Would you bless me, Eminence?’

Lomeli laid his hand on the archbishop’s head. ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’ At the door, he turned. ‘And perhaps you would be kind enough to remember me in your prayers tonight, Janusz? I fear I may have greater need of intercession than you.’

In the last few minutes, the lobby had grown more crowded. Cardinals had begun emerging from their rooms, preparing to go to Mass in the hostel’s chapel. Tedesco was holding forth to a group at the bottom of the staircase – Lomeli saw him out of the corner of his eye as he strode alongside O’Malley towards the reception desk. A member of the Swiss Guard, his helmet under his arm, was standing at the long polished wooden counter. With him were two security men and Archbishop Mandorff. There was something ominous about the way they were staring straight ahead, not speaking, and it occurred to Lomeli with absolute certainty that a cardinal must have died.

O’Malley said, ‘I’m sorry for the mystery, Your Eminence, but I didn’t think I could say anything in front of the Archbishop.’

‘I know exactly what this is about: you’re going to tell me we’ve lost a cardinal.’

‘On the contrary, Dean, we appear to have acquired one.’ The Irishman gave a nervous giggle.

‘Is that meant to be a joke?’

‘No, Eminence.’ O’Malley became sombre. ‘I mean it literally: another cardinal has just turned up.’

‘How is that possible? Did we leave someone off the list?’

‘No, his name was never on our list. He says he was created in pectore.’

Lomeli felt as if he had walked into an invisible wall. He came briefly to a halt in the middle of the lobby. ‘He has to be an impostor, surely?’

‘That was my reaction, Eminence. But Archbishop Mandorff has spoken to him. And he thinks not.’

Lomeli hurried over to Mandorff. ‘What’s this I’m hearing?’

Behind the reception desk, a couple of nuns busied themselves at their computers, pretending not to listen.

‘His name is Vincent Benítez, Eminence. He’s the Archbishop of Baghdad.’

‘Baghdad? I wasn’t aware we had an archbishop in such a place. Is he an Iraqi?’

‘Hardly! He’s a Filipino. The Holy Father appointed him last year.’

‘Yes, now I think I do remember.’ He had a vague memory of a photograph in a magazine. A Catholic prelate standing in the burnt-out skeleton of a church. Was he really now a cardinal?

Mandorff said, ‘You of all people must have been aware of his elevation?’

‘I am not. You look surprised.’

‘Well, I assumed if he’d been made a cardinal, the Holy Father would have notified the Dean of the College.’

‘Not necessarily. If you recall, he completely revised the canon law on in pectore appointments shortly before he died.’

Lomeli tried to sound unconcerned, although in truth he felt this latest slight even more acutely than the rest. In pectore (‘in the heart’) was the ancient provision under which a Pope could create a cardinal without revealing his name, even to his closest associates: apart from the beneficiary, God alone would know. In all his years in the Curia, Lomeli had only ever heard of one case of a cardinal created in pectore, whose name was never made public, even after the Pope’s death. That had been in 2003, under the papacy of John Paul II. To this day no one knew who the man was – the assumption had always been that he was Chinese, and that he had had to remain anonymous to avoid persecution. Presumably the same considerations of safety might well apply to the Church’s senior representative in Baghdad. Was that it?

He was aware of Mandorff still staring at him. The German was perspiring freely in the heat. The chandelier gleamed on his watery bald skull. Lomeli said, ‘But I’m sure the Holy Father wouldn’t have made such a sensitive decision without at least consulting the Secretary of State. Ray, would you be so kind as to find Cardinal Bellini, and ask him to join us?’ As O’Malley left, he turned back to Mandorff. ‘And you think he’s genuinely a cardinal?’

‘He has a letter of appointment from the late Pope addressed to the archdiocese of Baghdad, which they kept secret at the Holy Father’s request. He has a seal of office. Look for yourself.’ He showed the package of documents to Lomeli. ‘And he is an archbishop, fulfilling a mission in one of the most dangerous places in the world. I cannot think why he would forge his credentials, can you?’

‘I suppose not.’ The papers certainly looked authentic to Lomeli. He returned them. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I asked him to wait in the back office.’

Mandorff conducted Lomeli behind the reception desk. Through the glass wall he could see a slender figure sitting on an orange plastic chair in the corner, between a printing machine and boxes of copying paper. He was dressed in a plain black cassock. His head was bare, no skullcap. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his rosary in his hands, looking down and apparently praying. A lock of dark hair obscured his face.

Mandorff said quietly, as if they were observing a man asleep, ‘He arrived at the entrance just as it was closing. His name wasn’t on the list, of course, and he isn’t dressed as a cardinal, so the Swiss Guard called me. I told them to bring him inside while we had him checked. I behaved correctly, I hope?’

‘Of course.’

The Filipino was fingering his rosary, entirely absorbed. Lomeli felt intrusive merely watching. Yet he found it hard to look away. He envied him. It was a long time since he had been able to muster the powers of concentration necessary to shut oneself off from the world. His own head these days was always full of noise. First Tremblay, he thought, now this. He wondered what other shocks awaited him.

Mandorff said, ‘No doubt Cardinal Bellini will be able to clear matters up.’

Lomeli looked around to see Bellini approaching with O’Malley. The former Secretary of State wore an expression of uneasy bewilderment.

Lomeli said, ‘Aldo, were you aware of this?’

‘I wasn’t aware the Holy Father had actually gone ahead and done it, no.’ He stared wonderingly through the glass at Benítez as if gazing upon some mythical creature. ‘And yet there he is. . .’

‘So the Pope mentioned it was in his mind?’

‘Yes, he raised the possibility a couple of months ago. My advice was strongly against it. Christians have endured enough suffering in that part of the world without inflaming militant Islamic opinion even further. A cardinal in Iraq! The Americans would be appalled. How could we possibly ensure his safety?’

‘That is presumably why the Holy Father wanted it kept secret.’

‘But people were bound to find out! Everything leaks eventually, especially from this place – as he knew better than anyone.’

‘Well it certainly won’t remain a secret now, whatever happens.’ Beyond the glass the Filipino silently worked his rosary beads. ‘Given that you confirm it was the Pope’s intention to make him a cardinal, it’s logical to assume his credentials are genuine. Therefore I don’t think we have any choice except to admit him.’

He moved to open the door. To his astonishment, Bellini seized his arm. ‘Wait, Dean!’ he whispered. ‘Must we?’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘Are we sure the Holy Father was entirely competent to make this decision?’

‘Take great care, my friend. That sounds like heresy.’ Lomeli also spoke softly. He didn’t want the others to hear. ‘It’s not for us to decide whether the Holy Father was right or wrong. It’s our duty to see that his wishes are honoured.’

‘Papal infallibility covers doctrine. It does not extend to appointments.’

‘I am well aware of the limits of papal infallibility. But this is a matter of canon law. And on that I am as qualified to judge as you are. Paragraph thirty-nine of the Apostolic Constitution is quite specific: “Should any cardinal-electors arrive re integra, that is, before the new pastor of the Church has been elected, they shall be allowed to take part in the election at the stage which it has reached.” That man is legally a cardinal.’

He pulled his arm free and opened the door.

Benítez glanced up as he came in and rose slowly to his feet. He was a little below average height, with a fine, handsome face. It was hard to put an age to him. His skin was smooth, his cheekbones sharp, his body thin almost to the point of emaciation. He had a feathery handshake. He appeared utterly exhausted.

Lomeli said, ‘Welcome to the Vatican, Archbishop. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait in here, but we had to make some checks. I do hope you understand. I’m Cardinal Lomeli, Dean of the College.’

‘It is I who must apologise to you, Dean, for making such an unorthodox entrance.’ He spoke in a quiet, precise voice. ‘You are most kind to take me in at all.’

‘Never mind. I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. This is Cardinal Bellini, whom I think you may know.’

‘Cardinal Bellini? I’m afraid not.’

Benítez held out his hand, and for a moment Lomeli thought Bellini might refuse to take it. Eventually he shook it; then he said, ‘I’m sorry, Archbishop, but I have to say I think you’ve made a grave mistake in coming here.’

‘And why is that, Your Eminence?’

‘Because the position of Christians in the Middle East is perilous enough already, without the provocation of your being made a cardinal and showing yourself in Rome.’

‘Naturally I am aware of the risks. That is one of the reasons why I hesitated about coming. But I can assure you I prayed long and hard before undertaking the journey.’

‘Well, you’ve made your choice, and there’s an end of the matter. However, now that you’re here, I have to tell you I don’t see how you can possibly expect to go back to Baghdad.’

‘Of course I shall go back, and I shall face the consequences of my faith, like thousands of others.’

Bellini said coldly, ‘I doubt neither your courage nor your faith, Archbishop. But your return will have diplomatic repercussions and therefore it won’t necessarily be your decision.’

‘Nor will it necessarily be yours, Eminence. It will be a decision for the next Pope.’

He was tougher than he looked, thought Lomeli. For once Bellini seemed at a loss for a reply. Lomeli said, ‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, my brothers. The point is, you have come. Now, to be practical: we need to see if there’s a room available for you. Where’s your luggage?’

‘I have no luggage.’

‘What, none at all?’

‘I thought it best to go to the airport in Baghdad empty-handed, to disguise my intentions – I am followed by government people wherever I go. I slept overnight in the arrivals lounge in Beirut and landed in Rome two hours ago.’

‘Dear me. Let us see what we can do for you.’ Lomeli ushered him out of the office and towards the front of the reception desk. ‘Monsignor O’Malley is the Secretary of the College of Cardinals. He’ll try to get you everything you need. Ray,’ he said to O’Malley, ‘His Eminence will need toiletries, some clean clothes – and choir dress, of course.’

Benítez said, ‘Choir dress?’

‘When we go to the Sistine Chapel to vote, we are required to wear our full formal costume. I’m sure there must be a spare set somewhere in the Vatican.’

‘When we go to the Sistine Chapel to vote. . .’ repeated Benítez. Suddenly he looked stricken. ‘Forgive me, Dean, this is quite overwhelming for me. How can I cast my vote with the appropriate seriousness when I don’t even know any of the candidates? Cardinal Bellini is right. I should never have come.’

‘Nonsense!’ Lomeli gripped his arms. They were bone-thin, although yet again he sensed a certain inner wiry strength. ‘Listen to me, Your Eminence. You will join us all for dinner tonight. I shall introduce you, and you will talk over a meal to your brother cardinals – some of them at least will be known to you, if only by reputation. You will pray, just like the rest of us. In due course the Holy Spirit will guide us to a name. And it will be a marvellous spiritual experience for us all.’

Vespers had begun in the ground-floor chapel. The sound of plainsong drifted across the lobby. Lomeli felt suddenly very tired. He left O’Malley to look after Benítez and took the elevator up to his room. It was infernally hot up here too. The air-conditioning controls didn’t seem to work. For a moment he forgot about the welded shutters and tried to open the window. Defeated, he looked around his cell. The lights were very bright. The whitewashed walls and the polished floor seemed to magnify the glare. He could sense the beginnings of a headache. He turned off the lamps in the bedroom, groped his way to the bathroom and found the cord to turn on the neon strip above the mirror. He half closed the door. Then he lay down on his bed in the bluish gloom, intending to pray. Within a minute he was asleep.

At one point he dreamed he was in the Sistine Chapel and that the Holy Father was praying at the altar, but that every time he tried to approach him, the old man moved away, until finally he walked to the door of the sacristy. He turned and smiled at Lomeli, opened the door to the Room of Tears and plunged from view.

Lomeli woke with a cry, which he stifled quickly by biting on his knuckle. For a few wide-eyed seconds he had no idea where he was. All the familiar objects of his life had vanished. He lay waiting for his heartbeat to steady. After a while he tried to remember what else had been in his dream. There were many, many images, he was sure. He could sense them. But the moment he tried to fix them into thoughts, they shimmered and vanished like burst bubbles. Only the terrible vision of the Holy Father plummeting remained imprinted on his mind.

He heard a pair of male voices talking in English in the corridor. They seemed to be African. There was much fiddling with a key. A door opened and closed. One of the cardinals shuffled off down the passage while the other switched on the light in the next room. The wall was so thin it might have been made of cardboard. Lomeli could hear him moving around, talking to himself – he thought it might be Adeyemi – and then the sound of coughing and hawking, followed by the lavatory flushing.

He looked at his watch. It was almost eight. He had been asleep for over an hour. And yet he felt utterly unrefreshed, as if his time unconscious had been more stressful than his time awake. He thought of all the tasks that lay ahead. Give me strength, O Lord, to face this trial. He turned over carefully, sat up, placed his feet on the floor and rocked himself forward several times, building the momentum to stand. This was old age: all these movements one had once taken for granted – the simple act of rising from a bed, for example – that now required a precise sequence of planned manoeuvres. At the third attempt he gained his feet and walked stiffly the short distance to the desk.

He sat down, switched on the reading lamp, and angled it over his brown leather folder. He slid out twelve sheets of A5: thickly woven, cream-coloured, hand-made, watermarked paper that was considered to be of a quality appropriate to the historic occasion. The typeface was large, clear, double-spaced. After he had finished with it, the document would be lodged for all eternity in the Vatican archive.

The sermon was headed Pro eligendo Romano pontifice – ‘For the election of a Roman pontiff’ – and its purpose, in accordance with tradition, was to set out the qualities that would be required of the new Pope. Within living memory, such homilies had swung papal elections. In 1958, Cardinal Antonio Bacci had delivered a liberal’s description of the perfect pontiff (May the new Vicar of Christ form a bridge between all levels of society, between all nations. . .) that was virtually a word-portrait of Cardinal Roncalli of Venice, who duly became Pope John XXIII. Five years later, the conservatives tried the same tactic in a homily by Monsignor Amleto Tondini (Doubt should be cast on the enthusiastic applause received by the ‘Pope of peace’), but it only succeeded in provoking such a backlash among the moderates, who thought it in poor taste, that it had helped secure the victory of Cardinal Montini.

Lomeli’s address, in contrast, had been carefully constructed to ensure it was neutral to the point of blandness: Our recent Popes have all been tireless promoters of peace and co-operation at the international level. Let us pray that the future Pope will continue this ceaseless work of charity and love. . . Nobody could object to that, not even Tedesco, who could sniff out relativism as fast as a trained dog could find a truffle. It was the prospect of the Mass itself that troubled him: his own spiritual capacity. He would be under such scrutiny. The television cameras would be tight on his face.

He put away his speech and went over to the prie-dieu. It was made of simple plain wood, exactly the same as the one the Holy Father had had in his room. He lowered himself to his knees, grasped either side of it, and bowed his head, and in that position he remained for nearly half an hour, until it was time to go down to dinner.