“It’s your Church, too.”

“Not anymore,” she said.

“When was your last confession?”

“Before you were born.”

“Then perhaps you should tell me your sins.”

“Why?”

“So I can grant you absolution before I kill you.”

“I have a better idea, Father Graf.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell me yours.”

54

CASA SANTA MARTA

PIETRO LUCCHESI ONCE GAVE DONATI a valuable piece of advice about public speaking. When in doubt, he said, begin with a quote from Jesus. The passage Donati chose to recite was from the nineteenth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of the needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God. The words were barely out of his mouth when Domenico Albanese once again objected.

“We are all familiar with the Gospels, Excellency. Perhaps you can come to the point.”

“I’m wondering what Jesus would be thinking if he were here among us tonight.”

“He is among us!” It was Tardini of Palermo, seventy-nine years old, a traditionalist relic who had been given his red hat by Wojtyla. He had accepted a million euros from the Order of St. Helena in exchange for his vote at the conclave. The money was in his account at the Vatican Bank. “But tell us, Excellency. What is Jesus thinking?”

“I believe Jesus does not recognize this Church. I believe he is appalled by the opulence of our palaces and the priceless art that hangs upon their walls. I believe he’s tempted to turn over a table or two.”

“Until recently, you yourself lived in a palace. So did your master.”

“We did so because tradition demanded it. But we also lived quite simply.” Donati looked at Cardinal Navarro. “Wouldn’t you agree, Eminence?”

“I would, Excellency.”

“And what about you, Cardinal Gaubert?”

Ever the diplomat, the former secretary of state nodded once but said nothing.

“And you?” Donati asked of Albanese. “How would you characterize the Holy Father’s living arrangements in the Apostolic Palace?”

“Modest. Humble, even.”

“And you should know. After all, you were the last visitor to the papal apartments the night my master died.”

“I was,” replied Albanese with appropriate solemnity.

“You were there twice that evening, were you not?”

“Only once, Excellency.”

“Are you sure, Albanese?”

A murmur rose and then quickly died.

“It is not something I will ever forget,” Albanese replied evenly.

“Because you were the one who found the body.” Donati paused. “In the papal study.”

“In the chapel.”

“Yes, of course. It must have slipped my mind.”

“That’s understandable, Excellency. You weren’t there that night. You were having dinner with an old friend. A woman, if I’m not mistaken. I omitted that from the bollettino so as not to embarrass you. Perhaps that was a mistake.”

Duarte of Manila was suddenly on his feet, his face stricken. So was Lopes of Rio de Janeiro. Both were simultaneously appealing to Francona in their native languages to put an end to the bloodletting. Francona appeared paralyzed by indecision.

Donati raised his voice to be heard. “Since Cardinal Albanese has mentioned my whereabouts on the night of my master’s death, I feel obliged to address the matter. Yes, I was having dinner with a friend. Her name is Veronica Marchese. I met her while I was struggling with my faith and preparing to leave the priesthood. I gave her up when I met Pietro Lucchesi and returned to the Church. We are good friends. Nothing more.”

“She is the widow of Carlo Marchese,” said Albanese. “And you, Excellency, are a Roman Catholic priest.”

“My conscience is clear, Albanese. Is yours?”

Albanese appealed to Francona. “Do you hear the way he speaks to me?”

Francona looked at Donati. “Please continue, Excellency. Your time is running short.”

“Thanks be to God,” groaned Tardini.

Donati pondered his wristwatch. It was a gift from Veronica, the only object of value he owned. “It has come to my attention,” he said after a moment, “that several of you are secret members of the Order of St. Helena.” He looked at Cardinal Esteban Velázquez of Buenos Aires and in fluent Spanish asked, “Isn’t that correct, Eminence?”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Velázquez in the same language.

Donati turned to the archbishop of Mexico City. “What do you think, Montoya? How many secret members of the Order are with us tonight? Is it ten? A dozen?” Donati paused. “Or is it eighteen?”

“All of us, I’d say.” It was Albanese again. “With the exception of Cardinal Brady, of course.” He basked in a ripple of nervous laughter. “Belonging to the Order of St. Helena is not a sin, Excellency.”

“But it would be a sin to accept money in exchange for, say, a vote at a conclave.”

“A grievous sin,” agreed Albanese. “Therefore, one should be extremely cautious before leveling such a charge. One should also bear in mind that proving such a case would be almost impossible.”

“Not when the offense is blatant. As for caution, I don’t have time for it. And so in my last remaining moments, I would like to tell you what I’ve learned, and what I intend to do if my demands are not met.”

“Demands?” Tardini was incredulous. “Who are you to make demands? Your master is dead. You are a nothing man.”

“I am the man,” said Donati, “who holds your future in the palm of his hand. I know how much you received, when you received it, and where it is.”

Tardini lumbered to his feet, his face the color of his biretta. “I won’t stand for this!”

“Then please sit before you injure yourself. And hear the rest of what I have to say.”

Tardini remained standing for a moment before lowering himself unsteadily into his chair with the help of Archbishop Colombo of Naples.

“For centuries,” said Donati, “this Church of ours has seen enemies and threats everywhere it looked. Science, secularism, humanism, pluralism, relativism, socialism, Americanism.” Donati paused, then added quietly, “The Jews. But the enemy, gentlemen, is much closer at hand. He is in this very room tonight. And he will be in the Sistina tomorrow afternoon when you cast your first ballot. Forty-two of you succumbed to temptation and accepted money from him in exchange for your vote. Twelve of you were so thoroughly corrupt, so brazen, you deposited that money in your accounts at the Vatican Bank.” Donati smiled at Tardini. “Isn’t that correct, Eminence?”

It was Colombo who blundered to Tardini’s defense. “I demand that you withdraw your slanderous accusation at once!”

“I’d watch my step if I were you, Colombo. You accepted money, too, although your payment was considerably less than the one wily old Tardini received.”

Albanese was now walking up the center aisle. “And what about you, Archbishop Donati? How much did you receive?”