The doors to the Sistine were closed and locked. The conclave had begun. There would be another sermon, then the first vote would be taken. Before him on the clothed table were a few pencils, a scrutiny sheet where a count of any voting could be recorded, a copy of Ordo Rituum, the Order for Rites in the conclave, and a stack of ballot cards with the words ELIGO IN SUMMUM PONTIFICEM printed at the top.
I elect as Supreme Pontiff.
He planned to write his name on the first ballot. No one else would. And no one would think a thing of it, as many would vote either for themselves or for a friend, too. Never in modern times had a pope been chosen by two-thirds on the first vote. Supposedly that was to avoid the sin of pride.
But at least his name would enter the fray.
And by nightfall several of the men around him would fully understand that significance.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Cotton followed Cardinal Stamm as they walked from the basilica toward the Sistine Chapel. They entered a room labeled the Sala Regia, the Regal Room. A large audience hall where emperors and kings were once received, the walls were decorated with more massive frescoes. He caught some of the Latin captions beneath them. The return of Pope Gregory XI from Avignon. The Battle of Lepanto. The reconciliation of Pope Alexander III with Frederick Barbarossa. Each depicted an important point in the church’s history.
Braggadocio, for sure.
These were glory walls.
Overhead, the ceiling was an elegant barrel vault that boasted ornate insignia of popes, together with biblical figures. Like everything else inside the Vatican, the color and style more attacked than soothed the senses. At the far side was the entrance to the famed Pauline Chapel. In the center of one of the long walls stood towering wooden doors, a Swiss Guard on either side, both in billowy costumes of blue, orange, and red stripes.
The entrance to the Sistine Chapel.
Closed.
The high vaulted roof above echoed the murmur of the fifty or so people who milled about on the marble floor. Some priests, some bishops, most men dressed in suits and ties. Several held cameras, with press credentials draped from their necks.
“We’re too late,” Stamm said. “Give me a moment.”
The cardinal drifted away toward a knot of suits.
“We can’t let this go on,” he said to Stephanie.
“Unfortunately, it’s a Vatican matter.”
“Pollux Gallo tried to kill Luke. That’s an American matter.”
“That’s a reach.”
“But it could be enough.”
She gestured across the hall. “Those two guards aren’t going to be impressed by our jurisdiction, and I’m sure this whole palace is loaded with security, ready to deal with any intrusion.”
He got the message. This was going to require diplomacy, rather than force.
Stamm walked back their way, his movements slow, his whole air casual, nothing to signify urgency. “The doors have been closed for less than ten minutes. They will be listening to a sermon for a short while. It’s traditional before the first scrutiny is taken.”
That meant they had time to think, and Cotton could see the cardinal was debating the next course. More conversations swept through the hall, amplified by the marble surrounding them.
“We need to clear this hall,” Stamm said.
“You’ve decided?’ Stephanie asked.
“I never cared for Cardinal Gallo. I considered him a blowhard who knew little to nothing about anything. I never cared much for Archbishop Spagna, either. But it was not my place to judge either man. And no one deserves to be murdered. It’s my duty to keep the church protected, its priests and princes protected, and the process of selecting a new pope free of taint.” Stamm paused. “You saw the knights’ Nostra Trinità?”
Cotton nodded. “We found it.”
“I checked,” Stamm said. “Cardinal Gallo arrived at the Domus Sanctae Marthae with a large duffel bag. I had his room searched a few moments ago. There are four old parchments there, inside an ancient reliquary.”
“With red wax seals on each end?” Cotton added. “One of which is broken?”
Stamm nodded.
“That’s it,” Cotton said. “Inside that reliquary is Constantine’s Gift.”
“I haven’t had a chance to see if that’s true. But if after seven hundred years it has found its way back to us, there could be a problem.”
“It’s that important?”
“If the rumors are to be believed.”
Cotton smiled. This man knew how to play his cards close to his vest.
“Our imposter wants to be pope,” Stamm said. “I would imagine that the last thing he desires is for the church to lose stature, in any way. Instead he plans to extort his way to the throne of St. Peter. Your point is a good one, Mr. Malone. We cannot allow that first scrutiny. We have no idea what Pollux Gallo has done. Whether we stop it now, or later, the public relations damage is the same. So I’ve decided to act.”
* * *
Pollux listened to the sermon, which seemed only to bring a sense of duty and long-windedness. As if any of the men in the room required a reminder of their responsibilities. This was his first experience at seeing how the cardinals functioned as a group and he’d watched the faces. Some were clearly interested, but most were trying to keep stoic, revealing nothing, holding their thoughts within. Surely some deals had already been made, preliminary alliances forged. Nobody here, other than fools, was waiting for the Holy Spirit to swoop down and inspire them.
Maybe he was the Holy Spirit?
Perhaps the flash drive had been meant to fall into his hands.
The German monsignor finally shut up and the presiding cardinal stood before the altar. The first scrutiny was about to begin. He listened as the prelate explained the procedure, grateful for the final instructions. He’d read all about the process, but any refresher was appreciated. On the card before them each cardinal would write a name. Then, in order of precedence, they would take their ballot to the altar and deposit it into a gold chalice. Before casting their ballot, each cardinal would swear another oath. In Latin. I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.
I
n former times a cardinal had to sign his name to each ballot, along with a small motif, a symbol unique to him. The ballot was then folded to cover the signature and motif, then sealed with wax to provide a measure of privacy. But the scrutineers, the ones who counted the ballots, all knew who voted for who. Pius XII ended that nonsense. This method was much better. Secret should be secret.
The presiding cardinal finished his explanations and invited the balloting to begin. Some of the men immediately reached for their pencils, while others bowed their heads in prayer. He decided to take a moment before scrolling his brother’s name.
A banging broke the silence.
Which surprised everyone.
From the main doors.
More banging.
Incredible.
Someone was knocking.
He came alert and watched as the presiding cardinal stepped from the altar and paraded down the center aisle, his hands folded before him. All of the men focused on the massive double doors beyond the marble screen. A slight murmur of voices arose. A few of the cardinals stood and crept into the center aisle. He decided to do the same. More of the puzzled men joined him there.
The presiding cardinal approached the double doors, released the inner lock, and eased open one side enough that he could step outside. Suspicion brushed across his mind. Nothing about this seemed good. They’d already been told about the second way in and out of the chapel, through a small door behind the altar that led either up to Raphael’s Stanze or down to Collection of Modern Religious Art in the Vatican Museums. The museums themselves were closed, their massive exhibit halls empty. Restrooms were provided on either floor for cardinals in need.
But the route could also prove a means of escape.
He drifted away from the cardinals, their combined attention fixated on the doors. He, too, kept his focus on the center opening in the marble screen, hoping this was a false alarm.
The double doors swung open.