*
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 . . .’
‘Break it, Eminence,’ urged O’Malley. ‘The Church would understand.’
‘But then we would be in danger of electing a Pope without proper legitimacy, which would be a disaster. If there was the slightest doubt about the legality of the process, his edicts would be challenged from the first day of his pontificate.’
‘There is another problem to consider, Your Eminence,’ Mandorff said. ‘The Conclave is supposed to be sequestered, and to have no knowledge of events in the outside world. The cardinal-electors really should not know the details of any of this in case it interferes with their decision.’
O’Malley burst out, ‘Well surely to God, Archbishop, they must have heard what happened!’
‘Yes, Monsignor,’ replied Mandorff stiffly, ‘but they are not aware of the specific nature of the attack on the Church. One could argue that these outrages actually were intended to communicate a message directly to the Conclave. If that is the case, the cardinal-electors must be shielded from news of what has happened in case it influences their judgement.’ His pale eyes blinked at Lomeli through his spectacles. ‘What are your instructions, Your Eminence?’
The security men had finished sweeping a path through the shattered windows and were now using shovels to transfer the fragments to wheelbarrows. The Sistine echoed like a war zone to the sound of glass on stone – an infernal sacrilegious racket to hear in such a place! Through the screen Lomeli could see the red-robed cardinals rising from their desks and beginning to file towards the vestibule.
‘Tell them nothing for now,’ he said. ‘If anyone presses you, say that you are obeying my instructions, but not a word about what has happened. Is that understood?’
Both men nodded.
‘And what about the Conclave, Eminence?’ O’Malley said. ‘Does it simply continue as before?’
Lomeli did not know what to reply.
*
He hurried out of the Sistine Chapel, past the phalanx of guards who thronged the Sala Regia, and into the Pauline Chapel. The gloomy cavernous room was deserted. He closed the door behind him. This was the place where O’Malley and Mandorff and the masters of ceremonies waited while the Conclave was in session. The chairs by the entrance had been rearranged to form a circle. He wondered how they passed the time during the long hours of voting. Did they speculate about what was happening? Did they read? It almost looked as if they had been playing cards – but that was absurd; of course they hadn’t. Beside one of the chairs was a bottle of water. It made him realise how thirsty he was. He took a long drink, then walked down the aisle towards the altar, trying to order his thoughts.
As ever, the reproachful eyes of St Peter, about to be crucified upside down, stared out at him from Michelangelo’s fresco. He pressed on up to the altar, genuflected, then on impulse turned, and walked back halfway down the aisle to contemplate the painting. There were perhaps fifty figures depicted, most of them staring at the well-muscled, near-naked saint on the cross, which was in the process of being hauled upright. Only St Peter himself gazed out of the frame and into the living world, and not quite directly at the observer, either – that was the genius of it – but out of the corner of his eye, as if he had just spotted you passing and was daring you to walk on by. Never had Lomeli felt such an overwhelming connection with a work of art. He took off his biretta and knelt before it.
O blessed St Peter, head and ch
ief of the Apostles, you are the guardian of the keys of the heavenly kingdom, and against you the powers of hell do not prevail. You are the rock of the Church and the shepherd of Christ’s flock. Lift me from the ocean of my sins and free me from the hand of all my adversaries. Help me, O good shepherd, show me what I should do . . .
He must have spent at least ten minutes praying to St Peter, sunk so deep in thought that he never heard the cardinals being ushered across the Sala Regia and down the staircase to the minibuses. Nor did he hear the door open and O’Malley come up behind him. A wonderful feeling of peace and certainty had stolen upon him. He knew what he should do.
May I serve Jesus Christ and you, and with your help, after the close of a good life, may I deserve to attain the reward of eternal happiness in heaven where you are forever the guardian of the gates and the shepherd of the flock. Amen.
Only when O’Malley said politely, and with a hint of concern, ‘Eminence?’ did Lomeli surface from his reverie.
He said, without looking round, ‘Are the ballots burning?’
‘Yes, Dean. Black smoke, yet again.’
He returned to his meditation. Half a minute passed. O’Malley said, ‘How are you feeling, Eminence?’
Reluctantly Lomeli dragged his eyes away from the painting and glanced up at the Irishman. Now he detected something different in his attitude as well – uncertainty, anxiousness, timidity. That would be because O’Malley had seen the results of the seventh ballot and realised the danger the dean was in. Lomeli held up his hand and O’Malley helped him to his feet. He straightened his cassock and rochet.
‘Fortify yourself, Ray. Look at this extraordinary work, as I have been doing, and consider how prophetic it is. Do you see, at the top of the painting, the shrouds of darkness? I used to think they were merely clouds, but now I’m sure it is smoke. There is a fire somewhere, beyond our field of vision, that Michelangelo chooses not to show us – a symbol of violence, of battle, strife. And do you see the way Peter is straining to keep his head upright and level, even as he is being hauled up feet-first? Why is he doing that? Surely because he is determined not to surrender to the violence being done to him. He is using his last reserves of strength to demonstrate his faith and his humanity. He wishes to maintain his equilibrium in defiance of a world that, for him, is literally turning upside down.
‘Isn’t this a sign for us today, from the founder of the Church? Evil is seeking to turn the world on its head, but even as we suffer, the Blessed Apostle Peter instructs us to maintain our reason and our belief in Christ the Risen Saviour. We shall complete the work that God expects of us, Ray. The Conclave will go on.’
17
Universi Dominici Gregis
LOMELI WAS RETURNED at speed to the Casa Santa Marta in the back of a police car, accompanied by two security men. One sat next to the driver, the other in the passenger seat beside him. The car accelerated out of the Cortile del Maresciallo and took the corner sharply. Its tyres shrieked against the cobbles and then the vehicle shot forward again through the next three courtyards. The light on its roof flashed lightning against the shadowed walls of the Apostolic Palace. Lomeli glimpsed the startled blue-lit faces of the Swiss Guard turned to stare at him. He clutched his pectoral cross and ran his thumb along the sharp edges. He was remembering the words of an American cardinal, the late Francis George: I expect to die in my bed, my successor will die in prison, and his successor will die a martyr in the public square. He had always considered them hysterical. Now, as they pulled into the square in front of the Casa Santa Marta, where he counted another six police cars with their lights flashing, he felt they had the ring of prophecy.
A Swiss Guard stepped forward to open the car door. Fresh air fanned his face. Hauling himself out, he glanced up at the sky. Grey massy clouds; a couple of helicopters buzzing in the distance with missiles protruding from their underbellies, like angry black insects ready to sting; sirens, of course; and then the massive imperturbable dome of St Peter’s. The familiar sight of the cupola strengthened his resolve. He swept past the crowd of policemen and Swiss Guards without acknowledging their salutes and bows, and marched straight into the lobby of the hostel.
It was as it had been on the night the Holy Father died – the same atmosphere of bewilderment and suppressed alarm, small groups of cardinals standing around talking quietly, heads turning as he entered. Mandorff, O’Malley, Zanetti and the masters of ceremonies were in a huddle by the front desk. In the dining room some of the cardinals had taken their seats. The nuns stood around the walls, apparently unsure whether or not to begin serving lunch. All this Lomeli took in at a glance. He crooked his finger to summon Zanetti. ‘I asked for the latest information.’
‘Yes, Your Eminence.’
He had demanded the plain facts, nothing more. The priest handed over a single sheet of paper. Lomeli glanced at it briefly. His fingers clenched involuntarily, crumpling it slightly. What a horror! ‘Gentlemen,’ he said calmly to the officials, ‘will you be good enough to ask the sisters to withdraw into the kitchen, and please make sure no one else comes into either the lobby or the dining area? I would like complete privacy.’
As he walked towards the dining room, he saw Bellini standing alone. He took him by the arm and whispered, ‘I have decided to announce what has happened. Am I doing the right thing?’
‘I don’t know. You must judge. But I’ll support you whatever happens.’
Lomeli squeezed his elbow and turned to address the room. ‘My brothers,’ he said loudly, ‘will you please be seated? I wish to say a few words.’
He waited until the last of them had come in from the lobby and found their places. At recent meals, as they had got to know one another better, there had been some intermingling of the various linguistic groups. Now, in the hour of crisis, he noticed how they had unconsciously reverted to their seating on the first night – the Italians towards the kitchens, the Spanish-speakers in the centre, the Anglophones closest to reception . . .
‘Brothers, before I say anything of what has occurred, I would like to have the authority of the Conclave to do so. Under paragraphs five and six of the Apostolic Constitution, it is permitted for certain matters or problems to be discussed in special circumstances, provided that a majority of those cardinals assembled agree.’
‘May I say something, Dean?’ The man with his hand raised was Krasinski, Archbishop Emeritus of Chicago.
‘Of course, Your Eminence.’
‘Like you, I am a veteran of three Conclaves, and I recall that in paragraph four of the constitution, it also states that nothing can be done by the College of Cardinals that “in any way affects the procedures governing the election of the Supreme Pontiff” – I believe those are the exact words. I submit that the very fact of trying to hold this meeting outside the Sistine Chapel is an interference with procedure.’
‘I am not proposing any change to the election itself, which I believe must continue this afternoon as laid down in the rules. What I do wish to ask is whether the Conclave desires to know what has happened this morning beyond the walls of the Holy See.’
‘But such knowledge is an interference!’
Bellini stood. ‘It is quite plain from the dean’s manner that something serious has occurred, and I for one would like to know what it is.’
Lomeli gave him a grateful look. Bellini sat to a muted chorus of ‘Hear, hear’ and ‘I agree’.
Tedesco rose and at once the dining room went quiet. He rested his hands above the swell of his stomach – Lomeli thought he looked as if he were leaning on a wall – and took a moment before he spoke. ‘Surely if the matter is as serious as all that, it is bound to increase pressure on the Conclave to come to a rapid decision? Such pressure is of course an interference, however subtle. We are here to listen to God, Your Eminences, not to news bulletins.’
‘No doubt the Patriarch of Venice believes we shouldn’t listen to explosions, either, but we all heard one!’
There w
as laughter. Tedesco’s face flushed and he looked around to see who had spoken. It was Cardinal Sá, the Archbishop of São Salvador de Bahia – a liberation theologian, no friend of Tedesco or his faction.
Lomeli had chaired enough meetings in the Vatican to know when the time had come to strike. ‘May I make a suggestion?’ He glanced at Tedesco and waited. Reluctantly, the Patriarch of Venice sat down. ‘The fairest course is obviously to put the question to a vote, and so with Your Eminences’ permission, that is what I shall now do.’
‘Wait a moment—’
Tedesco made an attempt to interject, but Lomeli spoke over him. ‘Will all those who wish the Conclave to receive this information, please raise their hands?’ At once, scores of scarlet-sleeved arms went up. ‘And those against?’ Tedesco, Krasinski, Tutino and perhaps a dozen others reluctantly raised their hands. ‘That is carried. Naturally, anyone who doesn’t wish to hear what I have to say is free to leave.’ He waited. Nobody moved. ‘Very well.’
He smoothed out the sheet of paper. ‘Just before I left the Sistine, I asked for a summary of the latest information to be prepared by the press office in conjunction with the security service of the Holy See. The bare facts are these. At eleven twenty this morning, a car bomb exploded in the Piazza del Risorgimento. Shortly afterwards, just as people were fleeing the scene, an individual with explosives strapped to his body detonated himself. Multiple credible eyewitness reports state that he cried, “Allahu Akbar.”’