Apocalypsis 1.12 Conclave

by Giordano, Mario

  EPISODE 12

  CONCLAVE

  Lübbe Webnovel is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG

  Copyright © 2011 by Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne, Germany

  Written by Mario Giordano, Cologne

  Translated by Diana Beate Hellmann, Los Angeles

  English version edited by Charlotte Ryland, London

  Editors: Friederike Achilles/Jan F. Wielpütz

  Artwork: © Dino Franke, Hajo Müller

  E-Book-Production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde

  ISBN 978-3-8387-1472-1

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole, or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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  LXXXIV

  May 18, 2011, Vatican City

  The conclave began with a solar eclipse. On the morning of May 18, as the 118 Cardinal electors were walking into St. Peter’s Basilica to celebrate the votive mass Pro eligendo papa together with Church dignitaries, diplomats, and high-ranking representatives from politics and culture, the moon shifted in front of the sun. The light evaporated from the Eternal City and left nothing behind but leaden twilight. The Roman traffic came to a complete standstill. Through a black protective film, Romans, tourists and pilgrims stared in silence at the skies; the cats from the Piazza Argentina holed up in the ruins of the sunken garden, and the birds in the parks fell silent. While a boys’ choir opened the mass with a Gregorian chant, oppressive silence settled over the town outside. For a long and dark moment, the world stopped turning. The thousands of journalists from all over the world forgot about the papal election and directed their cameras at the heavens above, as if this soulless astronomical event were a sign of divine intervention. As if God Himself wanted to make it very clear what He thought about this papal election.

  But the natural spectacle did not last long. After nineteen minutes, it ended with mechanical precision. The light returned to Rome and with it the unwavering confidence of the Romans that their city would be eternal. The journalists lowered their cameras again as if they were disappointed that God had not sent a media-friendly flood, and the people who crowded St. Peter’s Square hoped for a new pope who would lead the Church into the 21st century and into a better world. And many a person in the crowd might even have hoped that Saint Malachy’s Prophecy would not come to pass, so that this conclave would not turn into the beginning of the end of the Catholic Church.

  In 1274, Pope Gregory X had regulated that the College of Cardinals had to seclude themselves con claudere until a new pope was elected. In order to be eligible to participate in the papal election, a cardinal had to be under the age of eighty. Technically, according to Canon Law, any male Catholic could be elected pope, but this was just a theoretical possibility, as the election was limited to the sequestered cardinals.

  In today’s world, the sequestering required enormous safety and security measures. There was not only the danger of a terror attack. It was also crucial to prevent any information about the papal election from leaking to the public. Under the command of Colonel Bühler, wiretapping specialists from the Italian Police had searched the Sistine Chapel and the guesthouse Domus Sanctae Marthae for electronic bugs and highly sensitive microphones, under carpets, in the upholstery of chairs, in water pipes and light bulbs. The entire surrounding area was checked for laser microphones that could detect sound vibrations on windows and other smooth surfaces in objects as far away as 1,200 feet. During the conclave, there was a total ban on cell phone and computer use. So-called simony, the acceptance of bribes, and election campaigning were also prohibited. In the guesthouse as well as in the Sistine Chapel, Bühler had arranged for the installation of jammers, which made cell phone communication impossible. The greatest danger, however, and Bühler was aware of this,came from spies within the Vatican. Despite the fact that anyone spreading information about the procedures of the conclave to the public was threatened with excommunication, Bühler knew as well as any other Vatican insider that there were always security leaks.

  Besides, after last night’s failed operation they were on the highest alert. Specialist forces from various international secret-service agencies were searching the Sistine Chapel and the surrounding buildings for mini-bombs. But neither the dogs nor the state-of-the-art explosives detectors made a sound. The American military had provided them with a novel device that used neutrons to detect even the smallest amounts of explosives in floors and walls, and then analyzed the results with gamma rays. But even after calibrating the devices for mercury, no alarms went off on any of the detectors.

  »Camera three, focus on Cardinal Kotoński in the second row. What’s wrong with him?«

  »Looks as if he has fallen asleep, Colonel Commandant, Sir.«

  »Can you see whether he is breathing?«

  »One moment please… affirmative, Colonel. The Cardinal is breathing.«

  Urs Bühler was following the mass from the sala operativa of the Swiss Guard. From his chair in front of the wall of monitors, he had a clear view of the interior of the Basilica, St. Peter’s Square, the Sistine Chapel and the guesthouse. Leonie’s liberation had turned him into a new man: energetic, motivated, determined and fearless. Despite the lack of sleep during the last few nights, despite Rahel Zeevi’s death. Lieutenant Colonel Steiner noticed that Bühler now constantly wore his service weapon.

  At 10:05 am, after the cardinals had approached the altar above the tomb of St. Peter in pairs, and then taken their seats in a half circle around the altar, Cardinal Menendez began the mass. Menendez looked exhausted and pale and he was forced to interrupt his sermon several times to clear his throat. Yet he delivered the greatest speech of his life.

  »The mercy of Christ is not a cheap grace. One cannot get it on sale or through the continuous trivialization of evil in the media. Christ carries in his body and in his soul all the weight of evil, and all its destructive force. He burns evil for us through his suffering, in the fire of his suffering love.

  »Satan is ever-present; he is real. Every day new sects are created, deceiving us with trickery and trying to draw us into error and away from the love of Christ. And having a clear faith is often labeled today as fundamentalism. Everything is relative and therefore fulfills Satan’s plan: the dictatorship of relativism which does not recognize anything for certain and which has as its highest goal one’s own ego and one’s own desires. However, the love of Christ is not a consumer item and it outshines all fashions, trends, and ›isms.‹ It is only the love of Christ that opens us up to all that is good and gives us the capacity to judge true from false, and deceit from truth. And it is this faith, this firm and unwavering faith, which creates unity and takes form in love.

  »Everybody wants to leave an enduring mark in this world. But what remains? Money does not. Buildings do not, nor books. The only thing that remains forever is the human soul, God’s gift to man. The fruit which remains grows from the seed that we have sowed in human souls – love. The Word of God that opens the soul. Let us then pray to the Lord that he may help us, for only love will change the earth from a valley of tears into a true garden of God.

  »But at this time, above all, we pray with insistence to the Lord, so that he may again give us a pastor according to his own heart, a pope who guides us to knowledge in Christ, to his love and to true joy. Amen.«

  The television cameras panned over the faces of the cardinals of Europe, Africa, Asia, America and Australia, showing them one by one, but they did not linger on any
face longer than another. The cardinals Menendez, Alberti and Schiekel had long been the favorites. In the meantime, even Warsaw’s Cardinal Kotoński, the man was already 79 years old, had woken up again and was staring upwards at the alabaster dove above the Cathedra Petri and beyond at the words inscribed in the apse, which read in both Latin and Greek: »You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church!«

  While Bühler was following the events from the sala operativa, Don Luigi and Franz Laurenz were watching the images on a computer screen in the gardener’s house. Don Luigi compared the names of all 118 cardinals with the camera images. None of the men in scarlet fitted the description that Peter Adam had given of Seth.

  »Of course not,« Laurenz shouted. »Because it is complete nonsense. I have known these cardinals for many years! I personally appointed some of them. None of them is Seth!«

  »What if Seth does not plan on becoming pope himself? What if he is using one of the cardinals as a dummy?«

  Franz Laurenz looked at the Padre. »And who would come to your mind?«

  Don Luigi hesitated. But after a while he tapped on the screen image that showed the altar. Laurenz exhaled audibly.

  »I don’t believe that. Menendez is craving for power, and he is vain and ruthless. But he would never make a pact with Satan.«

  »How can you be so sure about that, Your Excellency? Menendez is the favorite in this election and he has waged an aggressive campaign during the last few weeks. If Seth really does use a dummy, Menendez would be his best choice.«

  »But if Menendez can already count on being elected, why would he sell himself to Seth?«

  »Perhaps he is being blackmailed.«

  Laurenz moaned. Despite the fact that Menendez had always been his sharpest critic and that he had used Opus Dei support to spin massive intrigues against him in his role as Pope, he continued to value him as a man of the Church and as a good Christian. Definitely a hardliner, but not a traitor to the Church. Nonetheless, the suspicion that the Jesuit priest had raised could not be flatly dismissed. Not in the current situation.

  »I need to talk to Menendez,« Laurenz said.

  »That is impossible. The cardinals are fully sequestered and during the conclave move exclusively between the Sistine Chapel and Casa Santa Martha.«

  »Bühler will get me in.«

  »This is utter madness,« Don Luigi blustered. »Everybody knows you! You cannot go in there! You are the abdicated Pope! If my suspicion is correct, your life will be in danger there!«

  Laurenz looked at Don Luigi and placed his hand on his shoulder. »How long have we known each other, Don Luigi?«

  »Over twenty years, Your Excellency.«

  »Then you should know me better. I must talk to Cardinal Menendez. Find a way to smuggle me into the Casa Santa Martha. Today.«

  After the mass, the Cardinals walked over to the Casa Santa Martha for lunch. The modern guesthouse consisted of 105 suites and 26 single rooms. The level of comfort was modest, but compared to previous conclaves and the makeshift wooden sheds in the Raphael Rooms it was almost luxurious. Equally simple but good was chef Puglisi’s food. He served Italian comfort food, lots of vegetables, and occasionally a gelato for dessert. During the conclave, only a very select group of people had access to the guesthouse. The Swiss Guards monitored them regularly, not just the cardinals; they also checked the chef’s assistants, the cleaning staff and the caretakers for banned cell phones or recording devices. But despite all these security measures, the trade in insider information was already flourishing. For instance, information about the exact proportion of votes was worth 5,000 euros. Access to the individual rooms of the cardinals to discreetly leave a personal message or an offer was valued at 20,000 euros and the price went up every day.

  While the reception clerk was assigning the cardinals to their rooms, Menendez made a last phone call.

  »My compliments for your sermon,« said the voice on the other end of the line. »Perhaps a little too trivial and beneath you but by the look of it, you seem to have hit a nerve.«

  »Do you expect me to thank you for this compliment?« Menendez replied stiffly.

  »No. Not at all. Do you have the master key, Cardinal?«

  »Yes,« Menendez rasped, noticing once again the bad taste in his mouth that had been bothering him for days and would not go away. A feeling had taken possession of the Spaniard that he had never known before, a feeling that was permeating him like rot permeating an old piece of wood. That morning in the bathroom, when Cardinal Menendez had looked in the mirror, he had understood for the first time what it meant not to be able to look oneself in the eye. It was against his nature and against his upbringing, but all of a sudden he felt perverted, worthless and small. Garbage at God’s feet. Unworthy of his office. A traitor to his ancestors and his social class. A loser. A nothing.

  »Good,« said the voice. »Which room number?«

  »Thirty-two.«

  »I will pay you a visit tonight and I will bring the money.«

  »That’s simony,« Menendez groaned into the phone. »I will not do that.«

  »You will continue to do exactly what I am ordering you to do, Cardinal. I did understand the little hint in your sermon but please, you cannot be that naïve, Cardinal. Or can you?«

  »I can win the election without it,« Menendez whispered huskily into the phone. »No money! Please! That could backfire.«

  For a while, there was silence on the other end of the line. Menendez could only hear the man breathing. Then he spoke again.

  »All right then. Nevertheless, stay at the ready. Your campaign ends when you are wearing the white cassock, not a second sooner. And just in case… should you lose the election deliberately or due to a personal lack of persuasive power, you will no longer need a cassock, Cardinal. If you fail, you will not leave the Sistine Chapel alive.«

  LXXXV

  May 18, 2011, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome

  Breathe. Find. Live.

  »Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, whom you, Blessed Virgin, conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit.«

  Away from the curious looks of other worshipers, Maria kneeled in the side chapel of the pilgrim church where Peter had saved her life and, once again, she let the beads of the amulet slide through her fingers, one by one, as she prayed. She did not see any other way to find Peter. And she had to find him; that much was clear. Since Peter had disappeared without trace in the middle of the night, she had not slept a wink. The destroyed temple and Suite 306 were out of the question. In the meantime they were under 24/7 surveillance. As she had no idea where Peter might be meeting his twin brother, Maria fell back on an idea that at first seemed presumptuous and foolish: with the help of the amulet, she had decided to ask the Blessed Virgin for help. If She had appeared to her once, why not twice?

  In the half-dark of the chapel, she prayed for the life of the man she loved. The 54 beads of the amulet dripped through her fingers like the blood of Christ, whom she asked fervently for forgiveness and salvation. By now, the amulet had become a familiar companion to her, a tangible source of hope and faith. But also a source of pain and despair because she feared the images in her visions. She feared the voice of the Blessed Virgin, whom she had betrayed, and she feared death. And yet she had no other choice. Breathe. Find. Live. Pray. Hope. Believe. Beg. All the way to the Salve Regina. All the way to the vision, which began again with gruesome apocalyptic images of death and destruction.

  Maria saw the Seven Bowls of Wrath and they were empty. Poured out onto a world in flames, a world doomed to perish. She saw a man in an apartment in New York City who was desperately trying to become a better person. She saw how he was murdered by Nikolas. She followed Nikolas out of the apartment and walked with him through the urban canyons of Manhattan and beyond, to Santiago di Compostela, where he subjected a cardinal to the most brutal torture. Maria wanted to close her eyes to this g
hastly sight, but a voice called out to her: »Look closely, Maria! Follow death!«

  She pulled herself together and continued to mumble her prayers when a vast bush land suddenly opened up before her eyes. She saw a hyena, all alone, dancing around the dead body of an African shaman woman but not mauling her. Maama Empisi. Something seemed to startle the hyena because suddenly the animal looked up, straight into Maria’s face.

  »Have no fear!« said the hyena in the voice of the Blessed Virgin. »For you are not alone.«

  Maria was horrified by the blasphemy of this image that showed the Mother of God as a hyena, but she continued to pray, unwaveringly.

  »Blessed Virgin, I am begging you,« she whispered. »I know I have betrayed you and I have betrayed my faith. But I am begging you. Forgive me. Help me to find the man I love. Even if it means my death.«

  Without saying another word, the hyena turned away and trotted back into the bush. The image disappeared and suddenly she saw Nikolas again, this time rushing through the streets of Rome in darkness. Maria followed him to a building that seemed strangely familiar to her. She wanted to go after Nikolas but something inside her held her back. So she just stood there, in the middle of the street, waiting. She waited until finally she realized that she had found Peter.

  Pale and exhausted as if she had just fought an inhumane struggle, Maria left the church and took a cab.

  »To the Cimitero del Verano! Quickly! As fast as you can!«

  The driver was not surprised that the young nun wanted to get to Rome’s main cemetery. Yet he had to stop himself from asking why she was in such a hurry to get there at her young age. He ranted and raved as he steered his cab through the Roman traffic, and in between he talked at length about the election chances of the individual cardinals.

  »What do you think of Cardinal Alberti? The Turinese. The Juve-Fan. Do you think he can beat the Spaniard? Or this German guy. Schiekel. Is that how you pronounce it? Well, he’s not my cup of tea. Too much zack-zack, fast-fast. Although, I liked the old one, you know, the one who resigned. He was good. But now the world needs another Italian pope. What do you think? I hope Alberti wins. Anyone but the Spaniard. I put a hundred bucks on Cardinal Alberti.« He laughed and began to bellow a new version of Juventus Turin’s battle chant. »Juve, Juve! Alberti, Alberti!«