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No one disagreed.
Valendrea was thrilled with the whole display.
A little show-and-tell could only be a good thing.
FORTY-EIGHT
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
9:00 A.M.
Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since she'd woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. She'd first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.
She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.
Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. She'd already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. She'd come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didn't really care about a journalism career any longer. She'd go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.
She'd resented Michener for all those years, but she'd come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. She'd see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.
She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching Michener's description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction they'd taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward Jasna's residence.
She found the house and knocked on the door.
No one answered.
She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that Jasna's car was no longer parked to the side.
She started back toward the hotel.
A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, "It's so awful. So awful. Jesus help us."
Her anguish was alarming.
"What's wrong?" she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.
The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. "It's Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning."
"Is she all right?"
"I don't know. They're going after her now."
The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. "Mother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed."
"Is it that bad?"
"She was barely breathing when they found her."
A thought occurred to her. "Was she alone?"
The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.
"Was she alone?" she asked again.
The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. "No. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her."
FORTY-NINE
VATICAN CITY, 9:30 A.M.
Valendrea made his way up the staircase toward the Sistine Chapel believing that the papacy was within his grasp. All that stood in the way was a cardinal from Kenya who was trying to cling to the failed policies of a pope who'd killed himself. If it were up to him, and it just might be before the day was through, Clement's body would be removed from St. Peter's and shipped back to Germany. He might actually be able to accomplish that feat since Clement's own will--the text of which had been published a week ago--had proclaimed a sincere desire to be buried in Bamberg. The gesture could be interpreted as a loving tribute from the Church to its dead pontiff, one that would surely garner a positive reaction, and one that would likewise rid hallowed ground of a weak soul.
He was still enjoying the display from breakfast. All of Ambrosi's efforts over the past couple of years were beginning to return dividends. The listening devices had been Paolo's idea. At first, he'd been nervous at the possibility of their discovery, but Ambrosi had been right. He would have to reward Paolo. He regretted not bringing him into the conclave, but Ambrosi had been left outside with express orders to remove the tape recorders and listening devices while the election was ongoing. It was the perfect time to accomplish that task since the Vatican was in hibernation, all eyes and ears on the Sistine.
He came to the top of a narrow marble staircase. Ngovi stood on the stoop, apparently waiting.
"Judgment day, Maurice," he said, as he reached the last stair.
"That's one way of looking at it."
The nearest cardinal was fifty feet away and no one else was climbing the steps behind him. Most were already inside. He'd waited until the last moment to enter. "I won't miss your riddles. Yours or Clement's."
"It is the answers to those riddles that interest me."
"I wish you the best in Kenya. Enjoy the heat."
He started to walk away.
"You won't win," Ngovi said.
He turned back. He didn't like the smug look on the African's face, but couldn't help asking, "Why?"
Ngovi did not answer. He simply brushed past and entered the chapel.
The cardinals took their assigned places. Ngovi stood before the altar, appearing almost insignificant before the chaotic vision of color that was Michelangelo's Last Judgment.
"Before the voting begins, I have something to say."
All 113 cardinals turned their heads toward Ngovi. Valendrea sucked a deep breath. He could do nothing. The camerlengo was still in charge.
"Some of you seem to think I am the one to succeed our most beloved and departed Holy Father. Though your confidence is flattering, I must decline. If I am chosen, I will not accept. Know that, and govern your vote accordingly."
Ngovi stepped from the altar and took his place among the cardinals.
Valendrea realized that none of the forty-three men supporting Ngovi would stay with him now. They wanted to be part of a winning team. Since their horse had just bolted from the track, their allegiances would shift. With little chance for a third candidate to emerge at this late time, Valendrea quickly clicked off the math. He needed only to keep his present fifty-nine cardinals and add a fraction of Ngovi's headless bloc.
And that could easily be done.
He wanted to ask Ngovi why. The gesture made no sense. Though he denied wanting the papacy, somebody had orchestrated the African's forty-three votes, and he sure as hell didn't believe the Holy Spirit had much to do with it. This was a battle between men, organized by men, and executed by men. One or more of the men surrounding him was clearly an enemy, albeit a covert one. A good candidate for the ringleader was the cardinal-archivist, who possessed both the stature and the knowledg
e. He hoped Ngovi's strength was not a rejection of him. He would need loyalty and enthusiasm in the years ahead, with dissidents being taught a lesson. That would be Ambrosi's first task. All must understand that there was a price to pay for choosing wrong. But he had to give the African sitting across from him credit. You won't win. No. Ngovi was simply handing him the papacy. But who cared.
A win's a win.
The voting took an hour. After Ngovi's surprise announcement, everyone appeared anxious to end the conclave.
Valendrea did not write down the tally, he just mentally added up each repeat of his name. When the seventy-sixth time occurred, he quit listening. Only when the scrutineers pronounced his election with 102 votes did he focus on the altar.
He'd many times wondered what this moment would feel like. Now he alone dictated what a billion Catholics would or would not believe. No longer could any cardinal refuse his command. He would be called Holy Father, his every need catered to until the day he died. Cardinals had cried and cowered at this moment. A few had even fled the chapel, screaming their refusal. He realized every eye was about to focus upon him. He was no longer Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, bishop of Florence, secretary of state for the Holy See.
He was pope.
Ngovi approached the altar. Valendrea understood the African was about to perform his final duty as camerlengo. After a moment of prayer, Ngovi walked in silence down the center aisle and stood before him.
"Do you, most reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as supreme pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?"
They were words that had been spoken to victors for centuries.
He stared into Ngovi's piercing eyes and tried to sense what the older man was thinking. Why had he refused to be a candidate, knowing a man he despised would almost certainly be selected pontiff? From everything he knew, this African was a devout Catholic. A man who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Church. He was no coward. Yet he'd walked away from a fight he might have won.
He purged those confusing thoughts from his mind and said in a clear voice, "I accept." It was the first time in decades that Italian had been used in response to that question.
