Papal Decree
Page 1
The Papal Decree
Luis Miguel Rocha was born in Oporto, Portugal, and worked for many years in London as a television writer and producer. He now lives in Portugal, where he continues to write for television and film. His previous books, The Last Pope and The Holy Assassin, are also published by Penguin.
The Papal Decree
LUIS MIGUEL ROCHA
Translation by Robin McAllister
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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First published as The Pope’s Assassin in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons 2011
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 2011
Copyright © Luis M. Rocha, 2010
Translation from the Portuguese © Robin McAllister, 2011
The moral right of the author and translator has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-141-96991-6
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
IOANNES PP. XXIII
ANGELO GIUSEPPE RONCALLI
November 25, 1881–June 3, 1963
And to Ben Isaac as well
Table of Contents
Part One: Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Two: Perinde Ac Cadaver
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
PART ONE
Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam
An agreement was possible.
– John XXIII, November 20, 1960
1
Instruct those you trust to reveal the secret on the first night of each election. The reading of it must be the first official act of every heir of Peter. It is vitally important that they acknowledge the secret. Let them guard it in a hidden place and permit no one else to read it. Any violation of this ritual could signify the end of our beloved and esteemed Church.
– CLEMENT VII, June 17, 1530, Vatican
April 19, 2005
The canonical election of Cardinal Joseph Alois Ratzinger would be remembered, for as long as memory exists, on this day of April, ending the papal vacancy since the fifth of that same month.
As soon as Sodano, the vice deacon of the College of Cardinals, asked him to accept the position that God had selected, at the end of the fourth ballot, he did not hesitate to say ‘I accept.’ The five seconds he took to reply ‘Pope Benedict’ to the question ‘What name do you wish to be called?’ also indicated forethought. Don’t forget that Ratzinger was the deacon of the college – that is, had he not been the chosen one, he would have asked the same questions to the elected candidate. It’s a curious fact that 90 percent of his predecessors preferred a name different from the one their mothers gave them.
The faithful congregated in Saint Peter’s Square, hoping that the smoke would be white, not the dark, ashen color it was. Few of those present remembered the first and second conclaves of 1978, in which the same problem arose. Nine million euros to organize a conclave, and they always forgot to clean the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. So, after ten minutes of waiting, with many leaving the square, the bells of the basilica roared with frenzied alarm, spreading smiles instead of fear, through the whole plaza and surroundings.
We have a pope.
Inside the holy chapel the Gamarelli brothers fitted the papal vestments to the body of the new pontiff. There was no surprise this time. The expected candidate had won. It was always easier when the previous pope had expressed his will. John XXIII did so when on his deathbed he named Cardinal Giovanni Montini as his successor. In the case of the Polish Wojtyla, the decision had been made earlier. One should never disobey the last wishes of a dying man, especially someone so close to the Creator. Leaving the decision in the hands of the Holy Spirit subjected the church to surprises like those of Pope Luciani and of Wojtyla himself.
Sodano could not have been happier. His beloved church would remain secure. Ratzinger was a known man in a known place. No one would do a better job.
The Chilean Jorge Medina Estévez was the first to appear at the balcony before the jubilant crowd. A new savior was about to be announced to the city and a world enraptured with the news: the name, the man.
The sixteenth
pope with the name Benedict was introduced to history. No one would ever be able to erase him from its pages, even if he reigned only one day.
Ratzinger gave himself totally to this new persona he had created and fulfilled the role with distinction. He was no longer the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, no longer a cardinal, but an institution with its own coat of arms and personal security. He made a short speech, composed that afternoon, in which he sensitively recalled the Polish pope, who had been so well loved. He blessed the city and the world – Catholic, naturally – and retired to take possession of all his properties.
From that hour he was responsible for an immeasurable, valuable empire. It would take months to learn of all its possessions, at least those they revealed to him. Of the rest … not even the Supreme Pontiff himself could know everything he owned, nor would that be advisable.
When night fell and the world rejoiced at the image of Benedict on the Maderno balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica greeting the crowd, a large committee led by the Shepherd of Shepherds himself began another, more private ritual. The chamberlain Somalo broke the seals on the papal apartments in the apostolic apartments and opened the two massive doors before stepping back reverently to let the chosen of God enter. The chosen one had to enter his future living quarters before anyone else, taking possession of what was his. As soon as Ratzinger stepped inside what would be his final residence, he was followed by a crowd of assistants, religious and lay, who were privileged to serve the new owner.
After such a tiring day, it was late for dining. He answered some phone messages of congratulation from the more important chiefs of state, as diplomacy required, the ones that merited a personal thank-you. For the rest, a written message to the dignitaries of the embassies was enough. No one wanted to forget to congratulate the new pope, but, if by chance someone did, there would be a price to pay. Humility and turning the other cheek were left to the religious orders who practiced such benevolence, or to Christ. In politics there is no room for mercy.
He entered his office after a light supper. Grilled meat with green beans, shredded carrots, and a drizzle of Riserva d’Oro olive oil over everything. The last time he’d been there, he had been a mere cardinal, rather more like a prince, but now he was an emperor. Now he felt completely different. He passed his hand over the portentous desk. There he would sign the future decrees of his church. He wanted her to be magnificent, matching the vestments he wore, set on steady pillars, shielded in his strong, knowing hands. The reins were his.
He sat down and savored the moment. He remembered Wojtyla and the decades in which he had observed him sitting down heavily in the same chair and deciding the destiny of the church. Sitting there, it was impossible to forget that he was chosen for the office for life. Sodano and Somalo were watching him. A new pope was taking possession of the church.
At that moment another person, wearing a black cassock, entered and knelt with difficulty to greet Benedict with a kiss on the hand that still wore no ring. Many had already kissed his hand that day, but none so earnestly. The priest was old and breathed heavily
‘I don’t remember seeing you before,’ Ratzinger said, smiling. Nothing upset him today.
‘Pardon my interruption, Holy Father. My name is Ambrosiano. I was the confessor of our beloved Pope John Paul after the death of Father Michalski,’ he explained, panting. ‘The canon law requires that Your Holiness confess tonight to begin your pontificate free of sin.’ He apologized, ‘Not that you have any, Holiness, please don’t misunderstand me. Later you can choose your own confessor.’
‘The Society of Jesus has rigid rules. Didn’t Cardinal Dezza also confess Pope Wojtyla?’ Ratzinger asked.
‘Only in the first few years, Holy Father. But Dezza confessed Pope Montini through his entire pontificate and Pope Luciani. Afterward, Pope Wojtyla named Dezza as superior general of the society until the new election, if you recall.’
‘Of course, of course. A great servant of the church,’ he said, remembering the past. ‘And now Father Ambrosiano wants to confess me.’
‘It’s the canon law, Holy Father,’ the priest repeated.
‘And we must always respect the canons. I shall make sure of that,’ Ratzinger affirmed, brandishing his finger, as if about to deliver a speech.
The priest pulled out a chain he wore around his neck with a key he used to open one of the drawers of the desk. A leather folder with a lock and an envelope with the pontifical coat of arms of his predecessor were inside. He took everything out of the drawer and set it on the desk in front of Benedict.
‘Pope John Paul specifically instructed me to have Your Holiness carefully read the contents of this folder today. He left all the information specifically for you in this envelope,’ Ambrosiano explained, handing over the sealed envelope. ‘No one else may read it.’
Benedict looked at the priest, the cardinals, and the envelope. ‘I shall respect his will,’ he said at last.
The two cardinals heard this as a request to retire, and complied without delay. The wish of a pope was an order.
‘Read it at your leisure, Holy Father,’ the Jesuit priest said, going out. ‘When you’re ready, just call.’
Benedict closed his eyes and leaned back. Thousands of thoughts flooded his mind. He was going to read a secret shared only among popes. What an extraordinary way to begin his reign. Moments later he broke the seal on the envelope the Pole had left. The paper smelled musty.
Dear Chosen One,
I congratulate you on your election. History continues its glorious path after two thousand years. You have just accepted the most demanding duty on the planet. Prepare yourself. It will be a hard, ungrateful road, and the worst is that that begins right now.
Inside this folder you will find information read by few others. Crucial information about our church. You must not … you cannot refuse to read it and you must instruct your secretaries to present it to your successor on the night of the next election.
The ritual began with Clement VII and developed further with Pius IX and John XXIII. It has always been complied with, AND ALWAYS MUST BE. Unfortunately, you’ll soon understand why.
I leave you in the good graces of God. May He illuminate you and give you strength to carry out the enormous duty you will find in the final pages. On your strength the future of our church will depend.
John Paul II P.P.
October 29, 1978
Benedict was filled with curiosity after reading the letter Lolek had written almost twenty-seven years ago. What could be inside this folder?
The envelope held a small gilt key that opened the folder. He took out almost one hundred pages and started reading. Soon he realized by the sting of his tired eyes that he was not prepared. He read some passages again to make sure he had read them correctly, others he raced through as quickly as possible, as if to escape something distressing or inconvenient.
He finished reading after midnight. Exhausted, he locked up the folder and shut it in the desk drawer. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. His hands trembled. He laid his head on the desk until he regained some control over his nerves. Finally he calmed down. When he pushed himself up, he felt older, exhausted.
‘God have mercy upon us,’ he said, making the sign of the cross.
At this moment Father Ambrosiano returned to the papal office. Ratzinger looked different. Sorrow was wasting his soul. Silence was punishing him. The Jesuit knew why. This time he didn’t kneel to kiss the pope’s hand. Ratzinger approached him humbly and fell at his feet. He sobbed with tears that fell in torrents.
‘Forgive me, Father. I have sinned,’ the pope implored, closing his eyes.
Ambrosiano caressed the pope’s head with a comforting hand. ‘I know, my son. I know.’
2
Father Ernesto Aragones knew that his hour would come. It was a question of minutes. Sooner or later he would end up finding him inside. The light given off by the candle flame gave the place a murky
yellow look. Shadows swarmed over the walls and the floor like drunken phantoms from other times. But the father was not there to let himself be frightened or enchanted by the spells of the place.
The watchman could not be found anywhere. He was his last hope. Otherwise he wouldn’t find anyone to help him. Natural for that hour of the night. The tourists had left long ago to find other attractions, more of the body than of the soul. Sweat spread over his face. He was very nervous, but the moment demanded lucidity. He felt like a crusader in the land of infidels who had to perform one last act of heroism.
Aragones made him out in the apse, next to the stairs that led to the Chapel of Adam, leaning against Golgotha, and escaped as quickly as he could. His eighty years didn’t allow him much speed or flexibility. He took off his shoes to silence his steps. He set his shoes very straight on top of the stone of Unction, where supposedly the body of Christ was prepared for burial: not on this one, which dated from 1810, but in this place, at least according to legend. He forced himself to walk under the rotunda and enter the tomb. There was no holier place for Christians, though it was totally unknown to the masses. For Ernesto it was a great privilege, despite his fear. To give himself to God in the place where the body of Jesus Christ had been laid before His resurrection on the third day. How ironic. Ernesto felt fear as he knew he would. Few could go through this moment safely and without fear.