Conclave (28 page)

Newby said into the microphone, ‘My brothers, we shall now proceed to count the sixth ballot.’

The familiar laborious routine resumed. Lukša extracted a ballot paper from the urn, opened it and wrote down the name. Mercurio checked it, and then he too wrote it down. Finally, Newby pierced it with the scarlet thread and then announced the vote.

‘Cardinal Tedesco.’

Lomeli placed a tick against Tedesco’s name and waited for the next ballot to be counted.

‘Cardinal Tedesco.’

And then again, fifteen seconds later: ‘Cardinal Tedesco.’

When Tedesco’s name was read out for the fifth time in a row, Lomeli had a dreadful intuition – that the effect of all his efforts had been to convince the Conclave that it needed strong leadership, and that the Patriarch of Venice was about to be elected outright. The wait for the sixth vote to be announced, which was prolonged by a whispered consultation between Lukša and Mercurio, was torture. And then it came.

‘Cardinal Lomeli.’

The next three votes were all for Lomeli, and then came two for Benítez, followed by one for Bellini and another two for Tedesco.
Lomeli’s hand moved up and down the list of cardinals, and he did not know which alarmed him most: the line of marks accumulating beside Tedesco’s name, or the threatening number that had started to cluster next to his own. Tremblay – amazingly – took a couple of votes towards the end, as did Adeyemi, and then it was over and the scrutineers began checking their tallies. Lomeli’s hand was shaking as he tried to add up Tedesco’s vote, which was all that mattered. Would the Patriarch of Venice reach the forty he needed to deadlock the Conclave? He had to count them twice before he arrived at the result:

From the other side of the Sistine Chapel came an unmistakable murmur of triumph, and Lomeli looked over just in time to catch Tedesco quickly putting his hand to his mouth to conceal his smile. His supporters leaned down and across the double row of desks to touch him on the back and whisper their congratulations. Tedesco ignored them as if they were so many flies. Instead he glanced across the aisle at Lomeli and raised his bushy eyebrows in amused complicity. It was between the two of them now.

THE HISS OF
a hundred cardinals conferring sotto voce with their neighbours, amplified by the echo from the frescoed walls of the Sistine, evoked in Lomeli a memory that at first he could not place but then realised was of the sea at Genoa – to be exact, of a long withdrawing tide over shingle on a beach he used to swim off as a child with his mother. It persisted for several minutes until at last, after conferring with the three cardinal-revisers, Newby stood to read the official result. At that point the electoral college briefly fell quiet. But the Archbishop of Westminster only confirmed what they already knew, and after he had finished, while the scrutineers’ table and chairs were being cleared away and the counted ballots placed in the sacristy, the calculating hiss resumed.

Throughout all this, Lomeli sat, outwardly impassive. He spoke to no one, although both Bellini and the Patriarch of Alexandria tried to catch his eye. When the urn and chalice had been replaced on the altar and the scrutineers were in position, he walked to the microphone.

‘My brothers, no candidate having achieved the necessary
two-thirds majority, we shall now proceed immediately to a seventh ballot.’

Beneath the flat surface of his manner, his mind was looping endlessly around and around the same circuit.
Who? Who?
In barely a minute he would have to cast his ballot –
but who?
Even as he returned to his seat, he was still trying to decide what he should do.

He did not wish to be Pope – of that much he was certain. He prayed with all his heart to be spared that Calvary.
My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.
And should his prayer go unheeded and the cup be offered? In that event he was resolved to refuse it, just as poor Luciani had tried to do at the end of the first Conclave of ’78. Refusal to take one’s place upon the cross was regarded as a grievous sin of selfishness and cowardice, which was why Luciani had yielded in the end to the pleading of his colleagues. But Lomeli was determined to stand firm. If God had granted one the gift of self-knowledge, then surely one had an obligation to use it? The loneliness, the isolation, the agony of the papacy he was willing to endure. What was unconscionable was to have a Pope who was insufficiently holy.
That
would be the sin.

Equally, though, he had to accept responsibility for the fact that Tedesco had taken command of the Conclave. It was he, as dean, who had connived in the destruction of one front-runner and brought about the ruin of the other. He had removed the impediments to the Patriarch of Venice’s advance, even though he was unwavering in his belief that Tedesco had to be stopped. Clearly Bellini couldn’t do it: to continue voting for him would be an act of pure self-indulgence.

He sat at his desk, opened his folder and took out his ballot paper.

Benítez, then? The man undoubtedly possessed some quality of spirituality and empathy that marked him out from the rest of the
College. His election would have a galvanising effect on the Church’s ministry in Asia, and probably in Africa, too. The media would adore him. His appearance on the balcony overlooking St Peter’s Square would be a sensation. But who was he? What were his doctrinal beliefs? He looked so slight. Did he even have the physical stamina to be Pope?

Lomeli’s bureaucratic mind was nothing if not logical. Once one eliminated Bellini and Benítez as contenders, only one candidate was left who could prevent what otherwise might become a stampede towards Tedesco – and that candidate was himself. He needed to hang on to his forty votes and prolong the Conclave until such time as the Holy Spirit guided them to a worthy heir to the Throne of St Peter. No one else could do it.

It was inescapable.

He took up his pen. Briefly he closed his eyes. And then on his ballot paper he wrote: LOMELI.

Very slowly he got to his feet. He folded the ballot paper and raised it for all to see.

‘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.’

The full extent of his perjury did not strike him until he stood before the altar to place his ballot paper on the chalice. At that instant he found himself eye to eye with Michelangelo’s depiction of the damned being turfed out of their barque and dragged down to hell.
Dear Lord, forgive my sin.
But he could not stop now.

As he tipped his vote into the urn, there was a terrific bang, the floor quivered, and from behind him came the sound of panes of glass shattering and crashing on to stone. For a long moment Lomeli was sure he must be dead, and in those few seconds, when time seemed
suspended, he discovered that thought is not always sequential – that ideas and impressions can arrive piled on top of one another, like photographic transparencies. Thus he was at once terrified that he had brought God’s judgement down upon his own head and yet simultaneously elated to be given proof of His existence. His life had not been lived in vain! In his fear and joy he imagined that he must have passed on to another plane of existence. But when he looked at his hands, they still seemed solid enough, and suddenly time snapped back to its normal speed, as if a hypnotist had clicked his fingers. Lomeli registered the shocked expressions of the scrutineers, who were staring past him. Turning, he saw that the Sistine Chapel was still intact. Some of the cardinals were rising to find out what had happened.

He stepped down from the altar and strode along the beige carpet towards the back of the chapel. He gestured to the cardinals on either side of him, waving them back into their seats. ‘Be calm, my brothers. Let us be calm. Remain where you are.’ No one seemed to be hurt. He saw Benítez just in front of him and called out, ‘What was it, do you think? A missile?’

‘I would say a car bomb, Your Eminence.’

From far in the distance came the sound of a second explosion, fainter than the first. Several cardinals gasped.

‘Brothers, please stay where you are.’

He went through the screen into the vestibule. The marble floor was covered in broken glass. He descended the wooden ramp, hoisted the skirts of his cassock and moved forward carefully. Looking up, he saw that on the side where the flue from the stoves protruded into the sky, the two windows had both been blown in. They had been big – three or four metres high, made up of hundreds of panes – and their debris was like a drift of crystallised snow. From
beyond the door he heard male voices – panicking, arguing – and then the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door was flung open to reveal two black-suited security men with their guns drawn, O’Malley and Mandorff behind them, protesting.

Appalled, Lomeli stepped over the shattered glass with his arms wide to block their entry.

‘No! Out!’ He shooed them away with his hands as if they were crows. ‘Go away! This is a sacrilege. Nobody is injured.’

One of them said, ‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, we need to move everyone to a safe location.’

‘We are as safe in the Sistine Chapel, under the protection of God, as anywhere on earth. Now I must insist you leave at once.’ The men hesitated. Lomeli raised his voice. ‘This is a sacred Conclave, my children – you are imperilling your immortal souls!’

The security men looked at one another, then reluctantly stepped back over the threshold.

‘Lock us in, Monsignor O’Malley. We shall summon you when we are ready.’

O’Malley’s normally ruddy complexion was a blotchy grey. He bowed his head. His voice was shaky. ‘Yes, Your Eminence.’

He pulled the door shut. The key turned.

As Lomeli returned to the main body of the chapel, the centuries-old glass crunched and snapped beneath his feet. He gave thanks to God: it was a miracle that none of the windows closer to the altar had imploded above their heads. If they had, those beneath could have been sliced to pieces. As it was, several of them were looking up uneasily. Lomeli went directly to the microphone. Tedesco, he noticed, seemed entirely unconcerned.

‘My brothers, obviously something serious has happened – the Archbishop of Baghdad suspects a car bomb, and he has had experience
of this evil. Personally, I believe we ought to put our faith in God, who has thus far spared us, and continue with the ballot, but others may think differently. I am your servant. What is the will of the Conclave?’

Tedesco stood at once. ‘We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, Your Eminence. It may not actually be a bomb. It may just be a gas main, or some such thing. We’d look absurd if we fled because of an accident! Or perhaps it
is
terrorism – very well then: we shall best show the world the unshakeable strength of our faith if we refuse to be intimidated and continue with our holy task.’

Lomeli thought it well said. Even so, he could not suppress the unworthy suspicion that Tedesco had only spoken at all in order to remind the Conclave of his authority as front-runner. He said, ‘Does anyone else wish to say anything?’ Several cardinals were still looking up uneasily at the rows of windows fifteen metres above their heads. None indicated a desire to speak. ‘No? Very well. However, before we continue, I suggest we take a moment to pray.’ The Conclave stood. Lomeli bowed his head. ‘Dear Lord, we offer up our prayers for those who may have suffered, or may be suffering at this moment, as a result of the violent detonation we have just heard. For the conversion of sinners, for the forgiveness of sins, in reparation of sins, and for the salvation of souls . . .’

‘Amen.’

He allowed another half-minute for reflection before announcing, ‘The voting will now resume.’

Very faintly through the broken windows came the sound of sirens, and then a helicopter.

The voting carried on from where it had been interrupted. First the patriarchs of Lebanon, of Antioch and of Alexandria, then Bellini,
followed by the cardinal-priests. It was noticeable how much more quickly they strode up to the altar this time. Some appeared so anxious to get the ballot over with and return to the sealed warmth of the Casa Santa Marta, they almost gabbled their way through their sacred oaths.

Lomeli had placed his hands palm-down on the desk to stop them shaking. When he had been dealing with the security men, he had felt completely calm, but the moment he resumed his seat, the shock had hit him. He was not so solipsistic as to believe that a bomb had gone off merely because he had written his own name on a piece of paper. But he was not so prosaic that he did not believe in the interconnectedness of things. How else to interpret the timing of the blast, which had struck with the precision of a thunderbolt, except as a sign that God was displeased with these machinations?

You set me a task and I have failed You.

The wailing of the sirens was rising to a crescendo like a chorus of the damned: some ululated, some whooped, some emitted a single scream. To the drone of the first helicopter had been added the noise of a second. It made a mockery of the Conclave’s supposed seclusion. They might as well have been meeting in the middle of the Piazza Navona.

Still, if one could not find the peace to meditate, one could at least beseech God for help – here the sirens only served to help focus one’s mind – and as each of the cardinals passed him, Lomeli prayed for his soul. He prayed for Bellini, who reluctantly had been prepared to accept the chalice, only to have it dashed from his lips so humiliatingly. He prayed for Adeyemi in all his ponderous dignity, who had possessed the capacity to become one of the great figures of history but had been ruined by a squalid impulse of more than thirty years before. He prayed for Tremblay, who slunk past him with a furtive sidelong
glance and whose wretchedness would be on Lomeli’s conscience for the rest of his life. He prayed for Tedesco, who trudged implacably up to the altar, his stout frame swaying above his short legs, like a battered old tugboat breasting a heavy sea. He prayed for Benítez, whose expression was more serious and purposeful than he had seen it up till now, as if the explosion had reminded him of sights he would prefer to forget. And lastly he prayed for himself, that he might be forgiven for breaking his oath, and that in his hopelessness he might yet be sent a sign telling him what he should do to save the Conclave.