‘So what does that have to do with the agenda?’ Felici grumbled.
‘Two of the agenda items directly affect our ability to recruit new priests,’ Sabatani continued, unruffled. ‘And the issue of contraception is impacting on our congregations. Some time ago, the Holy Father asked me to prepare some discussion papers, and the purpose of this meeting is to give you prior warning. The papers in front of you will be circulated more widely over the coming months, and you will be given the opportunity to comment. All I ask is that you keep an open mind,’ Sabatani concluded, looking directly at Felici.
‘And in what direction do these papers point?’ Felici persisted, his anger rising.
‘They all refer to sensitive issues, Salvatore, and I would anticipate that, ultimately, the Holy Father will want a debate at a formal consistory. I won’t go into detail, but the paper on celibacy examines whether or not allowing priests the option of marriage might address the problems of recruitment.’
‘That’s outrageous,’ Felici shot back. ‘Revoking our vows of celibacy would be nothing less than a fundamental betrayal of Christ!’
‘I think we should look at it,’ Cardinal Schäfer opined.
Felici glared at the prefect for the congregation of Catholic education. Felici had already allocated three stars out of a potential five to the young German cardinal and marked him on his list of contenders: Too young to be papabile – just turned fifty-four. Dangerous liberal views. Watch carefully.
‘Particularly since celibacy wasn’t even introduced until the Middle Ages. If priests are permitted to marry, that may have some very positive effects,’ Schäfer concluded, avoiding a direct reference to the sexual scandals enveloping the Church.
Sabatani nodded in agreement. ‘The other two issues are no less sensitive,’ he warned. ‘Some cardinals’ statements on contraception – alleging that condoms provide no protection against AIDS, for example – have been less than helpful,’ he emphasised. Some years earlier Cardinal Alfonso Trujillo, the president of the Vatican’s Pontifical Council for the Family, had infuriated scientists and the World Health Organization when he claimed the HIV virus would easily pass through a condom. Labelling condoms immoral, Trujillo proposed they should be branded as dangerous, along the same lines as smoking.
‘The AIDS pandemic has already killed more than twenty million people,’ Sabatani warned, ‘and it affects more than forty million worldwide. If we want to avoid ridicule, we should at least acknowledge the scientific evidence that proves condoms reduce the risk of STDs by more than 90 per cent.’ Cardinal Sabatani paused to allow his fellow cardinals to challenge him, but he was greeted with silence.
‘The paper on contraception will also examine the plight of the desperately poor, who struggle to afford large families,’ he said. ‘As to the sexual abuse of children by some in the clergy, I think we need look no further than the cover-up in Ireland to realise how badly we’ve handled this. As of last week, the Irish government is now formally distancing itself from the Church, and there is no shortage of public support for the move. The paper on child abuse will advocate zero tolerance and excommunication for any priest guilty of sexual misdemeanours, no matter how minor. There will be a line in the sand.’
‘Meet Father Darragh McLoughlin,’ O’Connor said, coming out of the bedroom at the hotel in a full-length black cassock with a black sash and thirty-three buttons, symbolising the age of Christ at his death. O’Connor had assumed the same identity he’d successfully used in Iran, with an ecclesiastical twist. ‘How do I look?’
‘Frighteningly realistic,’ Aleta said, muting the television.
The Via dei Cestari and the nearby laneways were to religious shoppers in Rome as Fifth Avenue was to regular shoppers in New York. High-end boutiques like De Ritis, Barbiconi and the most famous tailor to the papal household of all, Gammarelli in Via di Santa Chiara, all provided a wide range of priestly garments.
‘Does this mean you’re celibate now?’ Aleta asked with a wicked smile.
‘I’m not planning to be that realistic … but as long as it gets me past the Swiss Guards and into the secret archives, this get-up will have served its purpose.’
The Swiss Guard on St Anne’s Gate snapped to attention as Felici’s black Mercedes, bearing the distinctive registration SCV 2, exited the Vatican. The traffic was heavy and a cacophony of scooter horns pierced the night as the Piaggios and Vespas weaved in and out, oblivious to the larger vehicles. Felici’s driver took the tunnel under the Tiber and moved on to the Lungotevere Tor di Nona on the east bank, before finally turning into Via dei Banchi Nuovi, where Felici’s apartment was. The location suited the cardinal admirably. Originally the Via dei Banchi Nuovi had been part of the papal road leading from the Vatican to the Lateran, and its elegance was only enhanced by the many palazzi owned by the powerful curial cardinals. Felici’s apartment was one of the Eternal City’s more luxurious, with priceless works of art hung in hallways, and reception rooms dominated by glittering crystal chandeliers. The Vatican museums contained many more works of art than there was space to display, and Felici’s apartment had become a private annex. The aura of power was only emphasised by a plethora of equally priceless sculptures and ancient pottery.
Felici found Sister Bridget waiting for him at the door.
‘You look tired, Eminence,’ she said, taking his cape. ‘Would you care for a champagne before dinner?’
‘An excellent idea,’ Felici said, the trace of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
‘Jacquesson, 1988,’ Bridget declared, handing the cardinal a crystal flute. The House of Jacquesson had been in existence since 1798 and had provided champagne for Napoleon’s wedding. ‘You not only look tired, Eminence, you look worried,’ the sister observed perceptively as the chef announced a Breton terrine of lobster with a spicy tomato sauce. The pair moved into the smaller of the apartment’s two dining rooms, where a silver service for two had been laid out on an immaculate white-linen tablecloth.
Felici didn’t answer immediately. He held his delicate crystal flute up to the soft light of the dining room chandelier, appreciating the fine and persistent mousse of the Jacquesson.
‘The cancer has returned,’ he said finally.
‘Oh no.’ Sister Bridget put her hand to her mouth. ‘Dare I ask for the prognosis, Eminence?’
‘Very poor. Dr Rossi didn’t put it in as many words, but reading between the lines, I think the pontiff’s riddled with it,’ Felici said bluntly. ‘We shall know a little more in a few days after the biopsy reports, but I suspect that the time has come to consider his successor.’
‘I know it’s too early to be talking about a conclave, Eminence, but do you think they will elect an Italian this time around?’
‘We have to be practical about these things, and I’ve already given it some thought,’ Felici said, reflecting on the files he kept on his possible challengers. ‘This time, only 121 cardinals will be eligible to vote.’
There were 203 cardinal bishops, priests and deacons in the College of Cardinals, but in 1971, Pope Paul VI had issued an apostolic letter, Ingravescentem Aetetem, declaring that once a cardinal turned eighty he was ineligible to vote, which ruled out eighty-two very disgruntled octogenarians.
‘And at the outset, it’s possible to eliminate some, no matter how they might perceive their own standing,’ Felici opined. ‘Given the problems the Americans have experienced with sexual abuse, it’s very unlikely that a conclave would entertain a cardinal from the US.’
‘And that would make it difficult for the Irish too?’
Felici waited until the terrine of lobster was served. ‘They don’t have a candidate under eighty, and in any case, the Murphy and Cloyne reports will ensure that an Irishman is out of the question for many years to come.’ The investigations into sexual abuse of children by Catholic priests in Ireland went back decades, and the judicial inquiries had castigated the Irish bishops and priests for lying to authorities over allegatio
ns of sexual relations with children.
‘Are there any favoured candidates, Eminence?’ Bridget asked coyly.
‘Popes are said to be chosen by the Holy Spirit,’ Felici replied, a wry smile on his face, ‘but in reality, there will be the usual voting blocs jockeying for position, especially when the real state of the Pope’s health becomes public knowledge. Some are arguing that it is time we selected a Pope from one of the third-world countries. Their turn will come, but not yet.’
‘Arinze is one of those?’ Bridget had maintained her own black book, watching both her own interests and those of her cardinal, and she rated the Nigerian cardinal highly.
‘Yes. He’s charming, witty … He’s probably the leading African contender, but he’s not getting any younger.’ Felici was rarely able to relax, but he was alone with Bridget, and this was one such evening. The sister had chosen a Château Mouton Rothschild to follow the champagne, and Felici savoured the luscious black currant and truffle flavours.
‘There are others, of course: Ouellet from Canada, Llovera from Spain, Schönborn from Austria, Bergoglio from Argentina, Hummes from Brazil …’ Felici reeled off a dozen names that he’d marked with either four or five stars. ‘But we need to protect the traditions and the reputation of the Church.’
‘I have a confession to make, Eminence,’ said Bridget demurely. ‘There is an online betting site …’
‘Ah, yes. Paddy Power. It’s good to see we’re up there with the horses and the golfers.’
‘They have odds of seven to four for an Italian as the next pope.’ Bridget’s smile was full of warmth. ‘Africa is at fifteen to eight, and the Americas are at nine to four. But the rest are out in double figures.’
‘We shall see,’ said Felici. ‘Two hundred and seventeen of the 265 popes have been Italian, and although we only have twenty-five Italian cardinals, that’s a powerful voting bloc.’
‘You can bring the others with you?’
‘I think so,’ Felici replied, confirming that he had every intention of being the Italian bloc’s candidate. ‘Although now that we’re back to the two-thirds majority, the bar is fairly high.’ In 1996, John Paul II had issued Universi Dominici Gregis, which allowed a pope to be elected with just over half the votes if a conclave was still deadlocked after thirty rounds of balloting. But in 2007, the decision had been reversed. ‘One third plus one can block any candidate. It’s a much more demanding standard than a normal political election.’
‘Will there be any opportunity to …’
‘To influence?’ Felici smiled. If he were a politician, Bridget would be his first choice for campaign manager.
‘There are a number of foreign cardinals visiting Rome in the next few days,’ the sister said.
Felici nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. The Africans have twelve votes, and the Asian bloc has ten, so they will be important, as will Brazil and Mexico, with nine votes between them. Any meetings will have to be held discreetly. Campaigning for a conclave would be poor form.’
‘Perhaps I could organise an informal function for you here, Eminence? That shouldn’t raise too much interest, and you could take some soundings on where they stand?’
‘That would be a nice touch,’ Felici said. ‘For the good of the Holy Church, it will be important to elect a conservative. A progressive candidate would be a disaster.’
‘And the prophecy, Eminence?’ Bridget’s smile faded as she reflected on St Malachy’s ancient prediction. In 1140 AD, while Bishop Malachy was visiting Rome, he’d fallen into a deep sleep on the Janiculum Hill above the old city and started to talk in Latin. His scribes had recorded his statements and when he woke, Malachy confirmed that God had revealed to him the identity of every Pope until the end of time. The list had proven to be extraordinarily accurate, and Felici shivered involuntarily as he recalled the prediction for the second last Pope before the end of time. This pope was referred to as De Gloria Olivae, and Felici knew well that ‘from the glory of the olive’ was a reference to the olive branch being a symbol of the order of St Benedict. Benedict XVI was the name Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger had chosen when elected.
‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of old Malachy,’ said Felici, sounding more reassuring than he felt. ‘The Holy Church has lasted for 2000 years, and by the grace of God, she will endure and prosper until the end of time.’
Felici poured the remainder of the Mouton and, glass in hand, led the way upstairs to his spacious bedroom where Bridget closed the heavy velvet curtains, switched off the lights, and moved towards her cardinal, slowly helping him to disrobe.
Chapter 35
Felici’s private secretary knocked quietly and opened the doors to the cardinal’s office.
‘Dr Rossi wants to see you in the papal apartments, Eminence. It’s urgent.’ Father Cordona looked grave. The papal physician, as a matter of protocol, would never summon the Vatican’s most senior cardinal unless … Both men knew the summons could only mean one thing.
‘Tell him I’m on my way.’
‘Certamente, Eminence.’
Cardinal Felici didn’t hurry across the cobblestones of the Piazza San Pietro. The Pope’s health was already the subject of intense speculation and Felici had no intention of fuelling any further intrigue in the Vatican’s corridors of power. He curtly acknowledged the salutes of the Swiss Guards, both armed with a halberd, a twin-bladed axe on a long pike. Dressed in their distinctive red, blue and yellow striped uniform, they were stationed outside the massive bronze doors that led to the Apostolic Palace and the papal apartments. Felici took the lift and strode down the corridor leading to the Pope’s private bedroom, where he was met by Dr Rossi.
‘Thank you for coming, Eminence. His Holiness’s condition has deteriorated rapidly overnight.’
‘You were right to call me. May I see him?’
‘Yes, but I warn you, he’s very weak and slipping in and out of consciousness.’
Felici stepped into the bedroom and moved closer to the bed, in which a pale old man lay with his eyes closed. ‘Holiness, we are all praying for your recovery,’ the cardinal said, his voice muted.
The Pope opened his eyes briefly and seemed to have trouble focusing. ‘Make sure the Church is left in good hands,’ he whispered, his voice rasping and feeble. His eyes closed again and his head lolled to one side of his pillow. From the opposite side of the bed, Dr Rossi reached for the Pope’s hand, his fingers wrapping around the wrist. Minutes passed, the two men standing in silence over the prone form. And then Dr Rossi looked up.
‘He’s gone,’ he said.
Two of the Pope’s household sisters started to weep and Felici motioned to Monsignor Abati, the Pope’s private secretary, for them to be removed.
‘Summon the papal master of ceremonies and the prelates of the Apostolic Camera to the library,’ Felici ordered briskly as soon as Monsignor Abati returned. ‘We’ll need to verify His Holiness’s death in their presence and these apartments will then be sealed.’
‘Certamente, Eminence.’
Felici turned to the Prefect of the Papal Household, Bishop Michalski, who had just arrived, looking shocked and pale.
‘Inform the dean of the College of Cardinals of His Holiness’s passing. He will need to inform the rest of the college and the heads of nations, although the media will undoubtedly beat him to it. And tell the director of the press office to report to me immediately.’ As camerlengo, Felici was now the acting head of state. He had long prepared for just this moment. He wasn’t responsible for governing the wider Church at a time of sede vacante, a vacant seat – that would be left to the cardinals – but as the one responsible for funeral arrangements and the conclave, Felici fully intended to maximise his position of power.
A short while later, in the presence of three other cardinals, Felici ceremonially cut the Fisherman’s Ring of the deceased Pope with a pair of shears, ensuring that it could not be used to sign any documents. He sealed the papal apartments and ret
urned to his own office to run the interregnum from across the Piazza San Pietro.
O’Connor glanced at the television and reached for the remote. The broadcast was in Italian, but neither O’Connor nor Aleta had any trouble with the translation as the footage of the newsreader covering the breaking news switched to the Holy See’s Press Office Director, Monsignor Giovanni Mancini.
‘The Holy Father died this afternoon at 2.37 p.m., local time, in his private apartment, after a short illness. The Camerlengo and the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal Felici, and the Papal Physician, Dr Rossi, were at the pontiff’s side. Dr Rossi noted that the Holy Father passed away peacefully.’ The vision cut to the Piazza San Pietro, and a close-up of a group of nuns weeping on the steps of the basilica, and then back to the network anchor.
‘Messages of condolence are pouring into Vatican City from around the world, and crowds have gathered in St Peter’s Square. We cross now to the renowned Vatican watcher, Father Dennis O’Flaherty, for an analysis of the pontiff’s legacy, and what this means for the future of the Catholic Church.’
‘I need to move,’ O’Connor said, grabbing his soft leather briefcase and checking he had the security pass marked Access Authority – Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanum. Shaked’s boys in Lima had turned out to be just as good at forging documents as those in the back rooms of Langley.
‘It will be chaos over there,’ responded Aleta. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off waiting a while?’
O’Connor shook his head. ‘Precisely why I should go now. When they get on top of things, they may close the secret archives until after the election of a new pope, and that might be enough time for Wiley to work out where we are. And don’t worry if I don’t get back tonight … I may be gone for quite a while.’
The Inca Prophecy Page 20
