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He quivered with anger. She was pushing him, but what the hell.
"I told Peter, after Romania, to leave you alone."
"So that's why I'm being beaten by his lapdog."
"You're lucky that's all I'm doing to you."
"Maybe Valendrea would be jealous. Perhaps we ought to keep this between us?"
The taunt brought pressure to her throat. Not enough to block her breathing, but enough to let her know to shut up.
"You're a tough man to a woman with her hands and feet bound. Untie me and let's see how brave you are."
Ambrosi rolled off her. "You're not worth the effort. We only have a couple of hours left. I'm going to get some dinner before I finish this." His gaze bore into her. "For good."
SIXTY-SEVEN
VATICAN CITY, 6:30 P.M.
Valendrea strolled through the gardens and enjoyed an unusually mild December evening. This first Saturday of his papacy had been busy. He'd celebrated Mass in the morning, then met with a procession of people who'd traveled to Rome to offer him their best wishes. The afternoon had started with a gathering of cardinals. About eighty were lingering in town, and he'd met with them for three hours to outline some of what he intended. There'd been the usual questions, only this time he'd taken the opportunity to announce that all appointments of Clement XV would remain in place until the following week. The only exception was the cardinal-archivist, who, he'd said, had tendered his resignation for health reasons. The new archivist would be a Belgian cardinal who'd already returned home, but was on his way back to Rome. Beyond that, he'd made no decisions and would not until after the weekend. He'd noticed the look on many in the chamber, waiting for him to make good on preconclave assurances, but no one questioned his declarations. And he liked that.
Ahead of him stood Cardinal Bartolo, waiting where they'd arranged earlier after the cardinals' gathering. The prefect from Turin had been insistent they talk today. He knew Bartolo had been promised the position as secretary of state and now, apparently, the cardinal wanted that promise kept. Ambrosi was the one who'd made the promise, but Paolo also had advised him to delay that particular selection for as long as possible. After all, Bartolo had not been the only man assured the job. For the losers, excuses would have to be found to eliminate them as contenders--sufficient reasons to quell bitterness and prevent retaliation. Certainly alternative posts could be offered to some, but he well knew that secretary of state was something more than one senior cardinal coveted.
Bartolo stood near the Pasetto di Borgo. The medieval passageway extended through the Vatican wall into the nearby Castel Sant'Angelo, a fortification that had once protected popes from invaders.
"Eminence," Valendrea greeted as he approached.
Bartolo bowed his bearded face. "Holy Father." The older man smiled. "You like the sound of that, don't you, Alberto?"
"It does have a resonance."
"You've been avoiding me."
He waved off the observation. "Never."
"I know you too well. I'm not the only one the secretary of state position has been offered to."
"Votes are hard to come by. We must do what we must." He was trying to keep the tone light, but realized Bartolo was not naIve.
"I was directly responsible for at least a dozen of your votes."
"Which turned out not to be needed."
The muscles in Bartolo's face tightened. "Only because Ngovi withdrew. I imagine those twelve votes would have been critical if the fight had continued."
The rising pitch of the old man's voice seemed to sap the strength from the words, gestating them into a plea. Valendrea decided to get to the point. "Gustavo, you are too old to be secretary. It is a demanding post. Much travel is required."
Bartolo glared at him. This man was going to be a difficult ally to placate. The cardinal had indeed delivered a number of votes, confirmed by the listening devices, and had been his champion from the beginning. But Bartolo's reputation was one of a slacker with a mediocre education and no diplomatic experience. His selection for any post would not be popular, especially one as critical as secretary of state. There were three other cardinals who'd worked equally hard, with exemplary backgrounds and greater standing within the Sacred College. Still, Bartolo offered one thing they did not. Unremitting obedience. And there was something to be said for that.
"Gustavo, if I considered appointing you, there would be conditions." He was testing the waters, seeing how inviting they might be.
"I'm listening."
"I intend to personally direct foreign policy. Any decisions will be mine, not yours. You would have to do exactly as I say."
"You are pope."
The response came quick, signaling desire.
"I would not tolerate dissension or maverick actions."
"Alberto, I have been a priest nearly fifty years and have always done as popes said. I even knelt and kissed the ring of Jakob Volkner, a man I despised. I cannot see how you would question my loyalty."
He allowed his face to melt into a grin. "I'm not questioning anything. I just want you to know the rules."
He eased a bit down the path and Bartolo followed. He motioned upward and said, "Popes once fled the Vatican through that passageway. Hiding like children, afraid of the dark. The thought makes me sick."
"Armies no longer invade the Vatican."
"Not troops, but armies do still invade. Today's infidels come in the form of reporters and writers. They bring their cameras and notebooks and try to destroy the Church's foundation, aided by liberals and dissidents. Sometimes, Gustavo, even the pope himself is their ally, as with Clement."
"It was a blessing he died."
He liked what he was hearing, and he knew it wasn't platitudes. "I intend to restore glory to the papacy. The pope commands a million or more when he appears anywhere in the world. Governments should fear that potential. I intend to be the most traveled pope in history."
; "And you would need the constant assistance of the secretary of state to achieve all that."
They walked a bit farther. "My thoughts exactly, Gustavo."
Valendrea glanced again at the brick passageway and imagined the last pope who'd fled the Vatican as German mercenaries stormed through Rome. He knew the exact date--May 6, 1527. One hundred and forty-seven Swiss guards died that day defending their pontiff. The pope barely escaped through the brick-enclosed corridor rising above him, tossing off his white garments so no one would recognize him.
"I will never flee the Vatican," he made clear to not only Bartolo, but also the walls themselves. He was suddenly overcome with the moment and decided to disregard what Ambrosi had counseled. "All right, Gustavo, I'll make the announcement Monday. You will be my secretary of state. Serve me well."
The old man's face beamed. "In me you will have total dedication."
Which made him think of his most loyal ally.
Ambrosi had phoned two hours ago and told him that Father Tibor's reproduced translation should be his at seven P.M. So far, there was no indication that anyone had read it, and that report pleased him.
He glanced at his watch. Six fifty P.M.
"Must you be somewhere, Holy Father?"
"No, Eminence, I was only considering another matter that is, at this moment, being resolved."
SIXTY-EIGHT
BAMBERG, 6:50 P.M.
Michener climbed a steep path toward the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. George and entered a sloping, oblong piazza. Below, a landscape of terra-cotta roofs and stone towers rose from the town proper, illuminated by pools of light that dotted the city. The dark sky yielded a steady fall of spiraling snow, but did not deter the crowds already making their way toward the church, its four spires splashed in a blue-white glow.
