Conclave

by Robert Harris

  Lomeli said in a low voice, ‘Did I do the right thing, Vincent? What is your opinion?’

  ‘No one who follows their conscience ever does wrong, Your Eminence. The consequences may not turn out as we intend; it may prove in time that we made a mistake. But that is not the same as being wrong. The only guide to a person’s actions can ever be their conscience, for it is in our conscience that we most clearly hear the voice of God.’

  It wasn’t until just after 9 a.m. that Tremblay himself appeared, stepping out of the elevator nearest the dining hall. Someone must have taken him a copy of the report. He was holding it rolled up in his hand. He appeared quite composed as he walked between the tables towards Lomeli. Most of the cardinals stopped talking and ceased eating. Tremblay’s grey hair was coiffed; his chin jutted. If it hadn’t been for his scarlet choir dress, he might have been a sheriff on his way to a showdown in a Western.

  ‘A word with you, Dean, if I may?’

  Lomeli put down his napkin and stood. ‘Of course, Your Eminence. Would you like to talk somewhere private?’

  ‘No, I would prefer to speak in public, if you don’t mind. I want our brothers to hear what I have to say. You are responsible for this, I believe?’ He waved the report in Lomeli’s face.

  ‘No, Your Eminence, you are responsible for it – because of your actions.’

  ‘The report is entirely mendacious!’ Tremblay turned to address the room. ‘It should never have seen the light of day – and it wouldn’t if Cardinal Lomeli hadn’t broken into the Holy Father’s apartment to remove it in order to manipulate the outcome of this Conclave!’

  One of the cardinals – Lomeli could not see who it was – shouted out, ‘Shame!’

  Tremblay went on, ‘In these circumstances, I believe he should step down from his office as dean, since nobody can any longer have confidence in his impartiality.’

  Lomeli said, ‘If the report is, as you say, mendacious, perhaps you could explain why the Holy Father, in his last official act as Pope, asked you to resign?’

  A stir of astonishment went through the room.

  ‘He did no such thing – as the only witness to the meeting, his private secretary Monsignor Morales, will confirm.’

  ‘And yet Archbishop Woźniak insists that the Holy Father told him personally of the conversation, and that he was so agitated over dinner when he was recalling it that his distress may have contributed to his death.’

  Tremblay’s outrage was magnificent. ‘The Holy Father – may his name be numbered among the high priests – was a sick man towards the end of his life, and easily confused, as those of us who saw him regularly will confirm: was it not so, Cardinal Bellini?’

  Bellini frowned at his plate. ‘I have nothing to say on the matter.’

  In the far corner of the dining room, Tedesco held up his hand. ‘May someone else be allowed to join in this dialogue?’ He rose heavily to his feet. ‘I deplore all this gossip about private conversations. The issue is the accuracy or otherwise of the report. The names of eight cardinals have been blacked out. I assume the dean can tell us who they are. Let him give us the names, and let these brothers confirm, here and now, whether or not they received these payments, and if they did, whether Cardinal Tremblay requested their votes in return.’

  He sat down again. Lomeli was aware of all eyes upon him. He said quietly, ‘No, I will not do that.’ There were protests. He held up his hand. ‘Let each man examine his conscience, as I have had to do. I omitted those names precisely because I have no desire to create bitterness in this Conclave, which will only make it harder for us to listen to God and perform our sacred duty. I have done what I thought was necessary – many of you will say I have done too much: I understand that. In the circumstances, I would be happy to stand down as dean, and I would propose that Cardinal Bellini, as the next most senior member of the College, should preside over the remainder of the Conclave.’

  Immediately voices started shouting out all over the dining room, some in favour, some against. Bellini shook his head vigorously. ‘Absolutely not!’

  In the cacophony it was hard at first to hear the words, perhaps because they were spoken by a woman. ‘Your Eminences, may I be allowed to speak?’ She had to repeat them more firmly, and this time they cut through the din. ‘Your Eminences, may I speak, if you please?’

  A woman’s voice! It was scarcely credible! The cardinals turned in shock to stare at the tiny, resolute figure of Sister Agnes advancing between the tables. The silence that fell was probably as much appalled at her presumption as curious at what she might say.

  ‘Eminences,’ she began, ‘although we Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul are supposed to be invisible, God has nonetheless given us eyes and ears, and I am responsible for the welfare of my sisters. I wish to say that I know what prompted the Dean of the College to enter the Holy Father’s rooms last night, because he spoke to me beforehand. He was concerned that the sister from my order who made that regrettable scene yesterday – for which I apologise – might have been brought to Rome with the deliberate intention of embarrassing a member of this Conclave. His suspicions were correct. I was able to tell him that she was indeed here at the specific request of one of your number: Cardinal Tremblay. I believe it was that discovery, rather than any malicious intent, that guided his actions. Thank you.’

  She genuflected to the cardinals, then turned, and with her head held very erect, walked out of the dining room and across the lobby. Tremblay gaped after her in horror. He held out his hands in an appeal for understanding. ‘My brothers, it is true I made the request, but only because the Holy Father asked me to. I had no knowledge of who she was, I swear to you!’

  For several seconds no one spoke. Then Adeyemi rose. Slowly he brought up his arm to point at Tremblay. In his deep, well-modulated voice, which sounded to his listeners, that morning more than ever, like the wrath of God made manifest, he intoned the single word, ‘Judas!’

  15

  The Sixth Ballot

  THE CONCLAVE WAS unstoppable. Like some sacred machine, it ground on into its third day, regardless of all profane distractions. At 9.30 a.m., in accordance with the Apostolic Constitution, the cardinals once again began filing out to the minibuses. They knew the routine by now. As quickly as old age and infirmity permitted, they took their seats. Soon the buses were pulling away, one every couple of minutes, heading west across the Piazza Santa Marta towards the Sistine Chapel.

  Lomeli stood outside the hotel, biretta in hand, bare-headed beneath the grey sky. The cardinals’ mood was subdued – stunned, even – and he half expected Tremblay to plead ill-health and withdraw from the election altogether, but no: he emerged from the lobby on the arm of Archbishop Fitzgerald and climbed up on to his bus, outwardly quite calm, although his face, which he turned to the window as they pulled away, was a dead white mask of misery.

  Bellini, who was standing beside Lomeli, said drily, ‘We seem to be running out of favourites.’

  ‘Indeed. One wonders who will be next.’

  Bellini glanced at him. ‘I should have thought that was obvious: you.’

  Lomeli put his hand to his forehead. Beneath his fingertips he could feel a vein throbbing. ‘I meant what I said just now in the dining room: I believe it would be best for us all if I stepped aside as dean, and you took over the supervision of the election.’

  ‘No, thank you, Dean. Besides, you must have noticed that the mood of the meeting was with you by the end. You are steering this Conclave – exactly where I do not know, but you are certainly steering it, and that firm hand of yours will have its admirers.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Last night I warned you that exposing Tremblay would backfire on whoever did it, but it turns out I was wrong – again! Now I predict it will become a contest between you and Tedesco.’

  ‘Then let us hope you’re wrong – again.’

  Bellini gave one of his chillier smiles. ‘After forty years, we may have an
Italian Pope at last. That will please our compatriots.’ He gripped Lomeli’s arm. ‘Seriously, my friend, I shall pray for you.’

  ‘Please do. Just as long as you don’t vote for me.’

  ‘Oh, I shall do that as well.’

  O’Malley put away his clipboard. ‘We’re ready to leave, Your Eminences.’

  Bellini went first. Lomeli put on his biretta and adjusted it, took one last look at the sky, then climbed up on to the bus behind the billowing red skirts of the Patriarch of Alexandria. He settled himself into one of the pair of vacant seats just behind the driver. O’Malley joined him. The doors closed, the bus vibrated over the cobbles.

  As they passed between St Peter’s Basilica and the Palace of Justice, O’Malley leaned in and said very quietly, so that no one could overhear him, ‘I assume, Your Eminence, given the latest developments, the Conclave is extremely unlikely to reach a decision today?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I was in the lobby throughout.’

  Lomeli grunted to himself. If O’Malley knew, then sooner or later everyone would. He said, ‘Well, naturally, given the arithmetic, you’ll appreciate that deadlock is almost inevitable. We shall have to devote tomorrow to meditation and resume voting on . . .’ He paused. Shuttling back and forth between the Casa Santa Marta and the Sistine, rarely seeing daylight, he was losing track of time.

  ‘Friday, Your Eminence.’

  ‘Friday, thank you. Four ballots on Friday, another four on Saturday, and then a further meditation on Sunday, assuming we’re no further forward. We’ll need to make arrangements for laundry, fresh clothes and so forth.’

  ‘That is all in hand.’

  They halted to allow the buses ahead of them to offload their passengers. Lomeli stared at the blank wall of the Apostolic Palace, then turned to O’Malley and whispered, ‘Tell me, what are they saying in the media?’

  ‘They are predicting a decision either this morning or this afternoon, with Cardinal Adeyemi still considered the favourite.’ O’Malley brought his lips even closer to Lomeli’s ear. ‘Between us, Your Eminence, if there isn’t white smoke today, I fear we may start to lose control of things.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘In the sense that we are not sure what the press office can say to the media to stop them speculating that the Church is in crisis. How else will they fill the airtime? And there are security issues as well. There are said to be four million pilgrims in Rome awaiting the new Pope.’

  Lomeli glanced up at the driver’s mirror. A pair of dark eyes were watching him. Perhaps the fellow could lip-read? Anything was possible. He took off his biretta and used it to shield his mouth as he turned to whisper to O’Malley. ‘We have sworn an oath of secrecy, Ray, so I rely on your discretion, but I think you should let the press office know, very subtly, that the Conclave is likely to be longer than any in recent history. Instruct them to prepare the media accordingly.’

  ‘And what reasons shall I give them?’

  ‘Not the real ones, that’s for sure! Tell them that we have an abundance of strong candidates and that choosing between them is proving difficult. Say that we are deliberately taking our time, and praying hard to divine God’s will, and that it may take us some days yet to settle on our new shepherd. You might also point out that God is not to be rushed simply to suit the convenience of CNN.’

  He smoothed down his hair and replaced his biretta. O’Malley was writing in his notebook. When he had finished, he whispered, ‘One other thing, Your Eminence. It’s very trivial. I needn’t bother you with it, if you’d prefer not to know.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I did a little more research into Cardinal Benítez. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I see.’ Lomeli closed his eyes as if he was hearing confession. ‘You’d better tell me.’

  ‘Well, you remember I informed you that he had a private meeting with the Holy Father in January this year, following his request to resign as archbishop on health grounds? His resignation letter is in his file at the Congregation for Bishops, along with a note from the Holy Father’s private office to say that his request to retire was withdrawn. There is nothing else. However, when I entered Cardinal Benítez’s name into our data search engine, I discovered that shortly afterwards, he was issued with a return airline ticket to Geneva, paid for by the Pope’s own account. This is in a separate registry.’

  ‘Is it of any significance?’

  ‘Well, as a Philippine national, he was required to submit a visa application. The purpose of travel was given as “medical treatment”, and when I looked up his address in Switzerland for the duration of his stay, I discovered it was a private hospital.’

  Lomeli opened his eyes at that. ‘Why not one of the Vatican’s medical facilities? What was he being treated for?’

  ‘I don’t know, Your Eminence – presumably it was in connection with the injuries he sustained in the bombing in Baghdad. Anyway, whatever it was, it can’t have been serious. The tickets were cancelled. He never went.’

  *

  For the next half-hour, Lomeli gave no further thought to the Archbishop of Baghdad. When he disembarked from the bus, he made a point of letting O’Malley and the others go on ahead, and then walked alone up the long staircase and across the Sala Regia towards the Sistine Chapel. He needed an interval of solitude to clear that space in his mind that was the necessary precondition to the admittance of God. The scandals and stresses of the past forty-eight hours, his awareness of the watching millions beyond the walls who were impatient for their decision – all these he tried to banish by reciting in his head the prayer of St Ambrose:

  Gracious God of majesty and awe,

  I seek Your protection,

  I look for Your healing.

  Poor troubled sinner that I am,

  I appeal to You, the fountain of all mercy.

  I cannot bear Your judgement

  But I trust in Your salvation . . .

  He greeted Archbishop Mandorff and his assistants in the vestibule, where they were waiting for him beside the stoves, then walked with them into the Sistine. Inside the chapel, not a word was being spoken. The only sounds, magnified by the vast echo, were the occasional cough and the shifting of the cardinals in their seats. It sounded like an art gallery, or a museum. Most were praying.

  Lomeli whispered to Mandorff, ‘Thank you. I expect we shall see you again at lunchtime.’ After the doors had been locked, he sat in his place with his head bowed and let the silence go on. He sensed a collective desire for meditation to restore a mood of the sacred. But he could not rid himself of the thought of all those pilgrims, and the commentators babbling their inanities into the cameras. After five minutes, he rose and walked up to the microphone.

  ‘My most holy brothers, I will now take the roll call in alphabetical order. Please answer “Present” when I read out your name. Cardinal Adeyemi?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Cardinal Alatas?’

  ‘Present.’

  Alatas, an Indonesian, was sitting halfway down the aisle, on the right-hand side. He was one of those who had taken money from Tremblay. Lomeli wondered who he would cast his vote for now.

  ‘Cardinal Baptiste?’ He was two places further along from Alatas. Another of Tremblay’s beneficiaries, from St Lucia, in the Caribbean. They were so poor, those missions. His voice was thick, as if he had been weeping.

  ‘Present.’

  On Lomeli went. Bellini . . . Benítez . . . Brandão D’Cruz . . . Brotzkus . . . Cárdenas . . . Contreras . . . Courtemarche . . . He knew them all so much better now, their foibles and their weaknesses. A line of Kant’s came into his mind: Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made . . . The Church was built of crooked timber – how could it not be? But by the grace of God it fitted together. It had endured two thousand years; if necessary it would last another two weeks without a Pope. He felt suffused by a deep and mysterious love for his colleagues and t
heir frailties.

  ‘Cardinal Yatsenko?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Cardinal Zucula?’

  ‘Present, Dean.’

  ‘Thank you, my brothers. We are all assembled. Let us pray.’

  For the sixth time, the Conclave stood.

  ‘O Father, so that we may guide and watch over Your Church, give to us, Your servants, the blessings of intelligence, truth and peace, so that we may strive to know Your will, and serve You with total dedication. For Christ our Lord . . .’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Scrutineers, will you take your places, please?’

  He looked at his watch. It was three minutes to ten.

  *

  While Archbishop Lukša of Vilnius, Archbishop Newby of Westminster, and the Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, Cardinal Mercurio, took their places at the altar, Lomeli studied his ballot paper. In the upper half were printed the words Eligo in Summum Pontificem – ‘I elect as Supreme Pontiff’; in the lower half, nothing. He tapped his pen against it. Now that the moment had arrived, he was not sure what name to write. His confidence in Bellini had been shaken badly, but when he came to consider the other possibilities, none of them seemed much better. He looked up and down the Sistine Chapel and begged God to give him a sign. He closed his eyes and prayed, but nothing happened. Conscious that the others were waiting for him to begin the balloting, he shielded his paper and wrote, reluctantly, BELLINI.

  He folded the ballot in half, stood, held it aloft, stepped on to the carpeted aisle and approached the altar. He spoke in a firm voice.

  ‘I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.’

  He placed the paper on the chalice and tipped it into the urn. He heard it strike the silver base. As he returned to his seat, he felt an acute sense of disappointment. For the sixth time God had asked him the same question, and for the sixth time he felt he had returned the same wrong answer.

  *