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The chamberlain shook his head. "There's been no movement."
He knew the staff waited outside each morning until they heard Clement stirring, usually between six and six thirty. The sound of the pope waking would be followed by a gentle tap on the door and the start of a morning routine that included a shower, shave, and dressing. Clement did not like anyone assisting him with bathing. That was done in private while the chamberlain made the bed and laid out his clothes. The nun's task was to straighten the room and bring breakfast.
"Perhaps he's just sleeping in," Michener said. "Even popes can get a little lazy every once in a while."
His two listeners smiled.
"I'll go back to my room. Come get me when you hear him."
It was thirty minutes later that a knock came to his door. The chamberlain was outside.
"There is still no sound, Monsignor," the man said. Worry clouded his face.
He knew no one, save himself, would enter the papal bedroom without Clement's permission. The area was regarded as the one place where popes could be assured of privacy. But it was approaching seven thirty, and he knew what the chamberlain wanted.
"All right," he said. "I'll go in and see."
He followed the man back to where the nun stood guard. She indicated that there was still silence from inside. He lightly tapped on the door and waited. He tapped again, a little louder. Still nothing. He grasped the knob and turned. It opened. He swung the door inward and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The bedchamber was spacious, with towering French doors at one end that opened to a balcony overlooking the gardens. The furnishings were ancient. Unlike the apartments in the Apostolic Palace, which were decorated by each successive pope in a style that made him comfortable, these rooms remained constant, oozing an Old World feel reminiscent of a time when popes were warrior-kings.
No lights were on, but the morning sun poured in through drawn sheers and bathed the room in a muted haze.
Clement lay under the sheets on his side. Michener stepped over and quietly said, "Holy Father."
Clement did not respond.
"Jakob."
Still nothing.
The pope's head faced away, the sheets and blanket pulled halfway over his frail body. He reached down and lightly shook the pope. Immediately he noticed a coldness. He stepped around to the other side of the bed and stared into Clement's face. The skin was loose and ashen, the mouth open, a pool of spittle dried on the sheet beneath. He rolled the pope onto his back and yanked the covers down. Both arms draped lifelessly at Clement's sides, the chest still.
He checked for a pulse.
None.
He thought about calling for help or administering CPR. He'd been trained, as had all the household staff, but he knew it would be useless.
Clement XV was dead.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer, a wave of grief sweeping through him. It was like losing his mother and father all over again. He prayed for his dear friend's soul, then gathered his emotions. There were things to do. Protocol that must be adhered to. Procedures of long standing, and it was his duty to ensure that they were strictly maintained.
But something caught his attention.
Resting on the nightstand was a small caramel-colored bottle. Several months back, the papal physician had prescribed medication to help Clement rest. Michener himself had ensured that the prescription was filled, and he'd personally placed the bottle in the pope's bathroom. There were thirty of the tablets and, at last count, which Michener had taken only a few days ago, thirty remained. Clement despised drugs. It was a battle to simply get him to take an aspirin, so the vial, here, beside the bed, was surprising.
He peered inside the container.
Empty.
A glass of water resting beside the vial contained only a few drops.
The implications were so profound that he felt a need to cross himself.
He stared at Jakob Volkner and wondered about his dear friend's soul. If there was a place called heaven, with all his fiber he hoped the old German had found his way there. The priest inside him wanted to forgive what had apparently been done, but now only God, if He did exist, could do that.
Popes had been clubbed to death, strangled, poisoned, suffocated, starved, and murdered by outraged husbands.
But never had one taken his own life.
Until now.
THIRTY
9:00 A.M.
Michener watched from the bedroom window as the Vatican helicopter touched down. He hadn't left Clement since his discovery, using the phone beside the bed to telephone Cardinal Ngovi in Rome.
The African was the camerlengo, chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, the first person to be informed of a papal death. Under canon law Ngovi was charged with administering the Church during the sede vacante, the Vacant See, which was now the official designation for the Vatican government. There was no supreme pontiff. Instead Ngovi, in conjunction with the Sacred College of Cardinals, would administer a government by committee that would last for the next two weeks, during which time funeral preparations would be made and the coming conclave organized. As camerlengo, Ngovi would not be acting pope, just a caretaker, but his authority was nonetheless clear. Which was fine by Michener. Somebody was going to have to control Alberto Valendrea.
The chopper blades whirled down and the cabin door slid open. Ngovi exited first, followed by Valendrea, both dressed in scarlet regalia. As secretary of state, Valendrea's presence was required. Two more bishops followed Valendrea, along with the papal physician, whom Michener had specifically requested. He'd told Ngovi nothing of the details surrounding the death. Nor had he told the villa staff, merely informing the nun and chamberlain to make sure no one entered the bedroom.
Three minutes passed before the bedchamber door swung open and the two cardinals and physician entered. Ngovi closed the door and secured the latch. The doctor moved toward the bed and examined Clement. Michener had left everything exactly as he found it, including Clement's laptop computer, still on, connected to a phone line, its monitor bright with a screen saver programmed specially for Clement--a tiara crossed by two keys.
"Tell me what happened," Ngovi said, laying a small black satchel on the bed.
Michener explained what he'd found, then motioned to the table. Neither of the cardinals had noticed the pill vial. "It's empty."
"Are you saying the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church killed himself?" Valendrea asked.
He wasn't in the mood. "I'm not saying anything. Only that there were thirty pills in that container."
Valendrea turned toward the doctor. "What's your assessment, Doctor?"
"He's been dead for some time. Five or six hours, maybe longer. There's no evidence of trauma, nothing to outwardly indicate cardiac arrest. No blood loss or bruising. From a first look, it appears he died in his sleep."
"Could it have been from the pills?" Ngovi asked.
"There's no way to tell, except through an autopsy."
"That's out of the question," Valendrea immediately said.
Michener faced the secretary of state. "We need to know."
"We don't need to know anything." Valendrea's voice rose. "In fact, it's better we know nothing. Destroy that pill vial. Can you imagine the impact on the Church if it became known that the pope took his own life? The mere suggestion could cause irrevocable harm."
Michener had already considered the same thing, but he was determined to handle the situation better than when John Paul I had died suddenly in 1978, only thirty-three days into his pontificate. The subsequent rumors and misleading information--designed simply to shield the fact that a nun had discovered the body instead of a priest--only fueled conspiratorialists with visions of a papal murder.
"I agree," Michener conceded. "A suicide cannot be publicly known. But we should know the truth."
"So that we can lie?" Valendrea asked. "This way we know nothing."
Interesting Valendrea was
