It was nearly half past six by the time the counting began. With the paten in place, the first Scrutineer shook the chalice in order to mix the ballots. The third Scrutineer then counted the unread ballots to ensure there was one for each of the 116 electors. Much to Francona’s relief, the numbers matched. If they hadn’t, he would have been required to burn the ballots without tabulating them.

The ballots were now contained in a second, slightly smaller chalice. The Scrutineers placed it on a table before the altar and sat down. The arcane ritual that followed was nearly as old as the Church itself. The first Scrutineer drew a ballot and, after a moment’s hesitation, made a small but significant amendment to the last page of the preprinted list of names before him. He then handed the ballot to the second Scrutineer, who did the same. The third Scrutineer could not hide his surprise when silently reading the name. A moment later, after piercing the ballot with a needle and red thread through the word Eligo, he read the name aloud into the microphone.

A low murmur moved through the conclave. The name surprised no one more than Angelo Francona, for it was the one he had written on his ballot. His candidate was unorthodox, to say the least. Surely it was his ballot that had been drawn first. He added the name to his own list and placed a check mark next to it.

The first Scrutineer drew another ballot. Startled, he shot an anxious glance toward Francona before handing it to the second Scrutineer. He placed a checkmark on his list of names and then handed the ballot to the third Scrutineer, who impaled it with his needle and thread. The name he read aloud into the microphone was the same name as the first ballot.

“Dear God,” whispered Angelo Francona. Another murmur swept through the conclave, like the rumble of a passing aircraft. Someone else must have had the same idea.

THE SCRUTINEERS QUICKENED THEIR PACE, ten ballots in a span of just four minutes by Francona’s watch. Three went for Navarro, one for Tardini, one for Gaubert, and five for Francona’s dark-horse candidate. He had received seven out of the first twelve votes counted, an astonishing pace. It couldn’t continue, thought Francona.

But it did. Indeed, Francona’s dark horse received six of the next ten votes counted, and a shocking seven of the ten that followed. Francona marked each on his list. His candidate had received twenty of the first thirty-two votes counted, just shy of a two-thirds majority.

Eighty-four ballots remained uncounted. When Francona’s candidate received half of the next twenty votes tabulated, Cardinal Tardini demanded that the first ballot be nullified.

“On what possible grounds, Eminence?” Francona was certain there were none. He looked at the three Scrutineers. “Draw the next ballot, please.”

It went for Francona’s candidate, as did fifteen of the next twenty. At which point the conclave erupted.

“Keep your voices down, brothers!” Francona’s tone was scolding, a headmaster reproaching a roomful of unruly pupils. He glanced at the Scrutineers. “Next ballot.”

It went for Albanese, of all people. Doubtless he had voted for himself. It was no matter; Francona’s candidate captured seventeen of the next twenty ballots. He had received sixty-three of the ninety-four votes tabulated. Twenty-two ballots had yet to be counted. If the name of Francona’s candidate appeared on fifteen of them, he would carry the conclave.

Four consecutive ballots went in his favor, along with six of the next ten, bringing his tally to seventy-three, five short of the seventy-eight required to be elected. The next ballot went for Navarro. After that, it was never in doubt. As the last votes were counted, there was pandemonium. This time Angelo Francona made no attempt to restore decorum, for he was gazing upward toward Michelangelo’s depiction of the moment of creation.

“What have we done?” he whispered. “What in God’s name have we done?”

THE SCRUTINEERS AND REVISERS COUNTED the ballots a second time and double-checked their tabulation. There was no mistake. The unthinkable had just happened. It was time to tell the rest of the world, not to mention the man who had just been chosen to be the spiritual leader of more than a billion Roman Catholics.

Francona loaded the ballots and the tabulation sheets into the older of the Sistine Chapel’s two stoves and set them alight. Then he flipped a switch on the second stove, igniting five tissue-box-size charges containing a mixture of potassium chlorate, lactose, and pine resin. A few seconds later a roar arose from the thousands of pilgrims outside in St. Peter’s Square. They had spotted the white smoke pouring from the chapel’s chimney.

Francona walked over to the doors and knocked twice. They were opened instantly by Monsignor Guido Montini. It was obvious from his expression he had heard the reaction in the square.

“Bring me a phone,” said Francona. “Quickly.”

59

JESUIT CURIA, ROME

AT THAT SAME MOMENT, IN the dining hall of the Jesuit Curia, Archbishop Luigi Donati was watching the televised images of white smoke pouring from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. His face was ashen. The speed of the decision suggested that the corrupt cardinals had ignored his warnings and voted for Emmerich. If that proved to be the case, Donati had every intention of following through with his threat. When he was finished, not one stone would be left standing on another. He would build a new church. A church Jesus would recognize.

Donati’s fellow Jesuits, however, were electrified by the conclave’s unusually swift selection of a new pope. Indeed, the commotion in the room was so loud that he could not make out what the commentators were saying. Nor, for that matter, could he hear his Nokia telephone, which was lying on the table next to Gabriel’s. When he finally checked it, he was shocked to see he had five missed calls, all in the last two minutes.

“Dear God.”

“What is it?” asked Gabriel.

“You’ll never guess who’s been frantically trying to reach me.”

Donati dialed and raised the phone swiftly to his ear.

“It’s about time,” said Cardinal Angelo Francona.

“What is it, Dean?”

“Have you seen the smoke?”

“Yes, of course. Please tell me it isn’t—”

“We’ve had an unexpected development.”

“Obviously, Eminence. But what is it?”

“You’ll know when you get here.”

“Where?”

“There’s a car waiting downstairs. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

The call went dead. Donati lowered the phone and looked at Gabriel. “I could be mistaken, but I believe I’ve just been summoned to the Sistine Chapel.”

“Why?”

“Francona wouldn’t tell me, which means it can’t be good. In fact, I’d feel better if you came with me.”

“To the Sistine Chapel? You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not as if you’ve never been there before.”

“Not during a conclave.” Gabriel tugged at the collar of his leather jacket. “Besides, I’m not really dressed for the occasion.”

“What does one wear to a conclave?” asked Donati.

Gabriel looked at Veronica and smiled. “White, I believe.”

TO AVOID THE CROWDS IN St. Peter’s Square, the car slipped into the Vatican through the motor entrance near the Palace of the Holy Office. From there it made its way around the back of the basilica to a small courtyard at the foot of the Sistine Chapel. Monsignor Guido Montini pounced on Donati’s door like a hotel bellman. He seemed to be resisting an impulse to genuflect.