He said, ‘I think we’ll have to be very careful what we say about his condition to the media. You know better than I do what they’re like. They’ll want to know about any history of heart trouble, and what exactly we did about it. And if it turns out it was all hushed up and we did nothing, they’ll demand to know why.’ Now that the initial shock was wearing off, he was beginning to perceive a whole series of urgent questions that the world would want answering – indeed that he wanted answering himself. ‘Tell me, was anyone with the Holy Father when he died? Did he receive absolution?’
Bellini shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid he was already dead when he was discovered.’
‘Who found him? When?’ Lomeli beckoned to Archbishop Woźniak to join them. ‘Janusz, I know this is hard for you, but we’ll need to prepare a detailed statement. Who discovered the Holy Father’s body?’
‘I did, Your Eminence.’
‘Well, thank God, that’s something.’ Of all the members of the Papal Household, Woźniak was the one who had been closest to the Pope. It was comforting to think that he had been the first on the scene. And also, purely from a public relations point of view, better him than a security guard; better him by far than a nun. ‘What did you do?’
‘I called the Holy Father’s doctor.’
‘And how quickly did he arrive?’
‘Immediately, Eminence. He always spent the night in the room next door.’
‘But there was nothing to be done?’
‘No. We had all the equipment necessary for resuscitation. But it was too late.’
Lomeli thought it over. ‘You discovered him in bed?’
‘Yes. He was quite peaceful, almost as he looks now. I thought he was asleep.’
‘This was at what time?’
‘Around eleven thirty, Eminence.’
‘Eleven thirty?’ That was more than two and a half hours ago.
Lomeli’s surprise must have shown in his face, because Woźniak said quickly, ‘I would have called you sooner, but Cardinal Tremblay took charge of the situation.’
Tremblay’s head turned at the mention of his name. It was such a small room. He was only a couple of paces away; he was beside them in an instant. Despite the hour, his appearance was fresh and handsome, his thick silver hair immaculately coiffed, his body trim and carried lightly. He looked like a retired athlete who had made a successful transition to television sports presenter; Lomeli vaguely remembered that he had played ice hockey in his youth. The French Canadian said, in his careful Italian, ‘I’m so sorry, Jacopo, if you feel offended by the delay in informing you – I know His Holiness had no closer colleagues than you and Aldo – but I felt as Camerlengo that my first responsibility was to secure the integrity of the Church. I told Janusz to hold off from calling you so that we could have a brief period of calm to ascertain all the facts.’ He pressed his hands together piously, as if in prayer.
The man was insufferable. Lomeli said, ‘My dear Joe, my only concerns are for the soul of the Holy Father and the well-being of the Church. Whether I am told a thing at midnight or at two is neither here nor there as far as I’m concerned. I am sure you acted for the best.’
‘It’s simply that when a Pope dies unexpectedly, any mistakes made in the initial shock and confusion can lead to all manner of malicious rumours afterwards. You only have to remember the tragedy of Pope John Paul I – we’ve spent the past forty years trying to convince the world he wasn’t murdered, and all because nobody wanted to admit his body was discovered by a nun. This time, there must be no discrepancies in the official account.’
From within his cassock he drew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Lomeli. It was warm to the touch. (Hot off the press, thought Lomeli.) Neatly printed on a word processor, it was headed, in English, ‘Timeline’. Lomeli ran his finger down the columns of type. At 7.30 p.m., the Holy Father had eaten with Woźniak in the cordoned-off space reserved for him in the dining room of the Casa Santa Marta. At 8.30, he had retired to his apartment and had read and meditated on a passage from The Imitation of Christ (Chapter 8, ‘Of the dangers of intimacy’). At 9.30, he had gone to bed. At 11.30, Archbishop Woźniak had checked to see that he was well and had failed to observe any vital functions. At 11.34, Dr Giulio Baldinotti, seconded from the Vatican’s San Raffaele Hospital in Milan, commenced emergency treatment. A combination of cardiac massage and defibrillation was attempted, without result. The Holy Father had been pronounced dead at 12.12 a.m.
Cardinal Adeyemi came up behind Lomeli and began reading over his shoulder. The Nigerian always smelled strongly of cologne. Lomeli could feel his warm breath on the side of his neck. The power of Adeyemi’s physical presence was too much for him. He gave him the document and turned away, only to have more papers thrust into his hand by Tremblay.
‘What’s all this?’
‘The Holy Father’s most recent medical records. I had them brought over. This is an angiogram conducted last month. You can see here,’ said Tremblay, holding up an X-ray to the central light, ‘there is evidence of blockage…’
The monochrome image was tendrilled, fibrous – sinister. Lomeli recoiled. What in God’s name was the point of it? The Pope had been in his eighties. There was nothing suspicious about his passing. How long was he supposed to live? It was his soul upon which they should be focused at this moment, not his arteries. He said firmly, ‘Release the data if you must, but not the photograph. It’s too intrusive. It demeans him.’
Bellini said, ‘I agree.’
‘I suppose,’ added Lomeli, ‘you’ll tell us next there will have to be an autopsy?’
‘Well, there are bound to be rumours if there isn’t.’
‘This is true,’ said Bellini. ‘Once, God explained all mysteries. Now He has been usurped by conspiracy theorists. They are the heretics of the age.’
Adeyemi had finished reading the timeline. He took off his gold-framed glasses and sucked on the stem. ‘What was the Holy Father doing before seven thirty?’
Woźniak answered. ‘He was celebrating vespers, Eminence, here in the Casa Santa Marta.’
‘Then we should say so. It was his last sacramental act, and implies a state of grace, especially as there was no opportunity for the viaticum.’
‘A good point,’ said Tremblay. ‘I’ll add it.’
‘And going back further – the time before vespers,’ Adeyemi persisted. ‘What was he doing then?’
‘Routine meetings, as far as I understand it.’ Tremblay sounded defensive. ‘I don’t have all the facts. I was concentrating on the hours immediately before his death.’
‘Who was the last to have a scheduled meeting with him?’
‘I believe, in fact, that may have been me,’ said Tremblay. ‘I saw him at four. Is that right, Janusz? Was I the last?’
‘You were, Eminence.’
‘And how was he when you spoke to him? Did he give any indication he was ill?’
‘No, none that I recall.’
‘What about later, when he had dinner with you, Archbishop?’
Woźniak looked at Tremblay, as if seeking his permission before replying. ‘He was tired. Very, very tired. He had no appetite. His voice sounded hoarse. I should have realised-’ He stopped.
‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’ Adeyemi returned the document to Tremblay and put his glasses back on. There was a careful theatricality to his movements. He was always conscious of his dignity. A true prince of the Church. ‘Put in all of the meetings he had that day. It will show how hard he was working, right up to the end. It will prove there was no reason for anyone to suspect he was ill.’