“Of course, Father Agular.”

The Jesuit contemplated the television. “Who do you think it will be?”

“They say it’s Navarro.”

“It’s time for a Spanish-speaking pope, don’t you think?”

“If only he were a Jesuit.”

Laughing, Father Agular withdrew.

Donati pulled out a chair between Gabriel and Raphael and sat down. He scarcely acknowledged Veronica’s presence. Beneath his breath he asked, “How is she doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I have to say, she looks wonderful.”

“You should have seen her after Metzler killed Father Graf.”

“He covered it up quite well. Even Alessandro Ricci is in the dark.”

“How did you manage to convince him not to publish his story about the plot against the conclave?”

“By promising to give him everything he needs to write a blockbuster sequel to The Order.”

“Tell him to keep my name out of it.”

“You deserve a little credit. After all, you saved the Catholic Church.”

“Not yet,” said Gabriel.

Donati looked up at the television. “We’ll know by tomorrow night. Monday at the latest.”

“Why not tonight?”

“This afternoon’s vote is largely symbolic. Most of the cardinals will cast ballots for friends or benefactors. If we have a new pope tonight, it means that something extraordinary has taken place inside the Sistine Chapel.” Donati looked at Raphael. “It’s uncanny. If he had gray temples …”

“I know, I know.”

“Can he paint?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“And Irene?”

“A writer, I’m afraid.”

Donati looked at Veronica, who was sharing a private joke with Chiara. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

“You, I imagine.”

Donati frowned. “You haven’t been meddling in my personal life, have you?”

“A little.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “She has something she wants to discuss with you.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“She’d like to ask you a question before it’s too late.”

“It already is too late. Rome has spoken, my friend. The case is closed.” Donati drank from Gabriel’s wineglass and made a face. “Is there anything worse than room-temperature Frascati?”

SHORTLY AFTER THREE O’CLOCK, THE cardinal-electors processed into the Sistine Chapel. With the cameras watching, each placed a hand on the Gospel of Matthew and pledged, among other things, that he would not take part in any attempt by outside forces to intervene in the election of the Roman pontiff. Domenico Albanese repeated the oath with exaggerated solemnity, a sainted expression on his face. The television commentators praised his performance during the period of the interregnum. One went so far as to suggest he stood an outside chance of emerging from the conclave as the next pope.

“Heaven help us,” murmured Donati.

It was nearly five o’clock when the last cardinal had sworn his oath. A moment later the Master of Pontifical Liturgical Ceremonies, a thin bespectacled Italian named Monsignor Guido Montini, stood before the microphone and declared softly, “Extra omnes.” Fifty priests, prelates, and Vatican-connected laity filed out of the chapel, including Alois Metzler, who was wearing his Renaissance-era dress uniform and white-plumed helmet.

“Good thing he wasn’t dressed like that last night,” remarked Gabriel.

Donati smiled as Monsignor Montini closed the Sistine Chapel’s double doors.

“What now?”

“We find a bottle of chilled wine,” said Donati. “And we wait.”

58

SISTINE CHAPEL

THE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS was the distribution of the ballots. Atop each were the words ELIGO IN SUMMUM PONTIFICEM: I elect as supreme pontiff. Next came a drawing to select the Scrutineers, the three cardinals who would tabulate the vote count. Three Revisers, who would scrutinize the work of the Scrutineers, were chosen next, followed by three infirmarii, who would collect the ballot of any cardinal too ill to leave his bed at the Casa Santa Marta. Cardinal Angelo Francona was relieved that none of the forty-two cardinals implicated by Luigi Donati were chosen for any of the nine positions. Though he was not a mathematician, he knew the odds of such an outcome were astronomical. Surely, he reasoned, the Holy Spirit had intervened to safeguard what little remained of the conclave’s integrity.

The preliminaries complete, Francona approached the microphone and eyed the 115 men arrayed before him. “I know it’s been a long day, but I suggest we vote.”

If there was to be a breakdown, it would happen now. A single objection would require the conclave to adjourn for the night and the cardinals to return to the Casa Santa Marta. It would be interpreted by the rest of the world as a sign of intense rancor and division within the Church. In short, it would be a disaster.

Francona held his breath.

There was silence in the room.

“Very well. Please write the name of your chosen candidate on your ballot. And remember, if a vote cannot be deciphered, it cannot be counted.”

Francona sat down in his assigned seat. The card lay before him, a pencil beside it. He had intended to follow conclave tradition and cast a complimentary vote on the first ballot. But that was no longer possible. Not after last night’s fireworks in the Casa Santa Marta. Now was not the time to flatter an old friend or patron. The future of the Roman Catholic Church was hanging in the balance.

I elect as supreme pontiff …

Francona raised his eyes and contemplated the men seated around him. Who could it be? Is it you, Navarro? Or you, Brady? No, he thought suddenly. Francona believed with all his heart that there was only one man who could save the Church from itself.

He took up his pencil and placed the tip to the card. It was customary for cardinal-electors to disguise their handwriting, and thus their vote. Francona, however, wrote the name swiftly and with his easily identifiable flourishes. Then he folded the ballot in half, twice, and returned to the microphone.

“Does anyone require additional time? All right, then. Let us begin the balloting.”

The procedure, like nearly everything else about a papal conclave, was designed to reduce the possibility of foul play. Voting was conducted in order of precedence. As dean of the Sacred College, Francona went first.

The Scrutineers were gathered on the altar, upon which stood an oversize gold chalice covered by a silver paten. Francona held up his ballot and recited aloud yet another oath.

“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 laid the ballot on the paten and, grasping the plate with both hands, tilted it a few degrees to the left. The ballot entered the chalice cleanly. It was another sign, thought Francona, that the Holy Spirit was indeed present.

He replaced the paten and returned to his seat.

THE PROCESS WAS DELIBERATELY CUMBERSOME and slow, especially when performed by largely sedentary men in their sixties and seventies, a few of whom walked with the aid of a cane. Even Kevin Brady, the energetic Angeleno, required thirty seconds to swear his oath and maneuver his ballot safely into the chalice. Emmerich took his sweet time about it, as did Majewski of Kraków. The swiftest was Albanese, who dumped his ballot into the chalice as though clearing bones from his dinner plate.