“Heisamong us!” It was Tardini of Palermo, seventy-nine years old, a traditionalist relic who had been given his red hatby Wojtyla. He had accepted a million euros from the Order of St. Helena in exchange for his vote at the conclave. The money was in his account at the Vatican Bank. “But tell us, Excellency. What is Jesus thinking?”
“I believe Jesus does not recognize this Church. I believe he is appalled by the opulence of our palaces and the priceless art that hangs upon their walls. I believe he’s tempted to turn over a table or two.”
“Until recently, you yourself lived in a palace. So did your master.”
“We did so because tradition demanded it. But we also lived quite simply.” Donati looked at Cardinal Navarro. “Wouldn’t you agree, Eminence?”
“I would, Excellency.”
“And what about you, Cardinal Gaubert?”
Ever the diplomat, the former secretary of state nodded once but said nothing.
“And you?” Donati asked of Albanese. “How would you characterize the Holy Father’s living arrangements in the Apostolic Palace?”
“Modest. Humble, even.”
“And you should know. After all, you were the last visitor to the papal apartments the night my master died.”
“I was,” replied Albanese with appropriate solemnity.
“You were there twice that evening, were you not?”
“Only once, Excellency.”
“Are you sure, Albanese?”
A murmur rose and then quickly died.
“It is not something I will ever forget,” Albanese replied evenly.
“Because you were the one who found the body.” Donati paused. “In the papal study.”
“In the chapel.”
“Yes, of course. It must have slipped my mind.”
“That’s understandable, Excellency. You weren’t there that night. You were having dinner with an old friend. A woman, if I’m not mistaken. I omitted that from thebollettinoso as not to embarrass you. Perhaps that was a mistake.”
Duarte of Manila was suddenly on his feet, his face stricken. So was Lopes of Rio de Janeiro. Both were simultaneously appealing to Francona in their native languages to put an end to the bloodletting. Francona appeared paralyzed by indecision.
Donati raised his voice to be heard. “Since Cardinal Albanese has mentioned my whereabouts on the night of my master’s death, I feel obliged to address the matter. Yes, I was having dinner with a friend. Her name is Veronica Marchese. I met her while I was struggling with my faith and preparing to leave the priesthood. I gave her up when I met Pietro Lucchesi and returned to the Church. We are good friends. Nothing more.”
“She is the widow of Carlo Marchese,” said Albanese. “And you, Excellency, are a Roman Catholic priest.”
“My conscience is clear, Albanese. Is yours?”
Albanese appealed to Francona. “Do you hear the way he speaks to me?”
Francona looked at Donati. “Please continue, Excellency. Your time is running short.”
“Thanks be to God,” groaned Tardini.
Donati pondered his wristwatch. It was a gift from Veronica, the only object of value he owned. “It has come to my attention,” he said after a moment, “that several of you are secretmembers of the Order of St. Helena.” He looked at Cardinal Esteban Velázquez of Buenos Aires and in fluent Spanish asked, “Isn’t that correct, Eminence?”
“I wouldn’t know,” replied Velázquez in the same language.
Donati turned to the archbishop of Mexico City. “What do you think, Montoya? How many secret members of the Order are with us tonight? Is it ten? A dozen?” Donati paused. “Or is it eighteen?”
