Michener had already considered the same thing, but he was determined to handle the situation better than when John Paul I had died suddenly in 1978, only thirty-three days into his pontificate. The subsequent rumors and misleading information—designed simply to shield the fact that a nun had discovered the body instead of a priest—only fueled conspiratorialists with visions of a papal murder.
“I agree,” Michener conceded. “A suicide cannot be publicly known. But we should know the truth.”
“So that we can lie?” Valendrea asked. “This way we know nothing.”
Interesting Valendrea was concerned about lying, but Michener kept silent.
Ngovi faced the doctor. “Would a blood sample suffice?”
The physician nodded.
“Take it.”
“You have no authority,” Valendrea boomed. “That would need a consultation with the Sacred College. You are not pope.”
Ngovi’s features remained expressionless. “I for one want to know how this man died. His immortal soul is of concern to me.” Ngovi faced the doctor. “Run the test yourself, then destroy the sample. Tell the results only to me. Clear?”
The man nodded.
“You’re overstepping, Ngovi,” Valendrea said.
“Take it up with the Sacred College.”
Valendrea’s dilemma was amusing. He couldn’t overrule Ngovi nor, for obvious reasons, could he take the matter to the cardinals. So the Tuscan wisely kept his mouth shut. Maybe, Michener feared, he was simply giving Ngovi enough rope to hang himself.
Ngovi opened the black case he’d brought with him and removed a silver hammer, then stepped to the head of the bed. Michener realized the ritual about to be performed was required of the camerlengo, no matter how useless the task may be.
Ngovi lightly tapped Clement’s forehead with the hammer and asked the question that had been posed to the corpses of popes for centuries. “Jakob Volkner. Are you dead?”
A full minute of silence passed, then Ngovi asked the question again. After another minute of silence, he asked a third time.
Ngovi then made the required declaration. “The pope is dead.”
Ngovi reached down and lifted Clement’s right hand. The Fisherman’s Ring wrapped the fourth finger.
“Strange,” Ngovi said. “Clement did not usually wear this.”
Michener knew that to be true. The cumbersome gold ring was more a signet than a piece of jewelry. It depicted St. Peter the fisherman, encircled by Clement’s name and date of investiture. It had been placed on Clement’s finger after the last conclave by the then-camerlengo and was used to seal papal briefs. Rarely was it worn, and Clement particularly shunned it.
“Maybe he knew we would be looking for it,” Valendrea said.
He was right, Michener thought. Apparently, some planning had occurred. Which was so like Jakob Volkner.
Ngovi removed the ring and dropped it into a black velvet bag. Later, before the assembled cardinals, he would use the hammer to shatter both the ring and the pope’s lead seal. That way, no one could stamp any document until a new pope was chosen.
“It is done,” Ngovi said.
Michener realized the transfer of power was now complete. The thirty-four-month reign of Clement XV, the 267th successor of St. Peter, the first German to hold the throne in nine hundred years, was over. From this moment on he was no longer the papal secretary. He was merely a monsignor in the temporary service of the camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church.
Katerina rushed through Leonardo da Vinci Airport toward the Lufthansa ticket counter. She was booked on a one o’clock flight to Frankfurt. From there she was unsure of her next destination, but she’d worry about that tomorrow or the day after. The main thing was that Tom Kealy and Colin Michener were in the past, and it was time to make something of herself. She felt awful about deceiving Michener, but since she’d never made contact with Valendrea and had told Ambrosi precious little, perhaps the violation could be forgiven.
She was glad to be done with Tom Kealy, though she doubted if he would even give her a second thought. He was on the rise and didn’t need a clinging vine, and that was exactly the way she felt. True, he’d need somebody to actually do all the work that he’d eventually take credit for, but she was sure some other woman would come along and take her place.
The terminal was busy, but she began to notice crowds huddled around the televisions that dotted the concourse. She also spotted women crying. Her gaze finally settled on one of the elevated video screens. St. Peter’s Square spanned out from an aerial view. Drifting close to the monitor, she heard, “There is a profound sadness here. Clement XV’s death is being felt by all who loved this pontiff. He will be missed.”
“The pope is dead?” she asked out loud.
A man in a wool overcoat said to her, “He died in his sleep last night at Castle Gandolfo. May God take his soul.”
She was taken aback. A man she’d hated for years was gone. She’d never actually met him—Michener had tried once to introduce them, but she’d refused. At the time, Jakob Volkner was the archbishop of Cologne, in whom she saw everything she despised about organized religion—not to mention the other side of a tug-of-war that had yanked at Colin Michener’s conscience. She’d lost that battle and had resented Volkner ever since. Not for what he may or may not have done, but for what he symbolized.
Now he was dead. Colin must be devastated.
A part of her said to head for the ticket counter and fly to Germany. Michener would survive. He always did. But there would soon be a new pope. New appointments. A fresh wave of priests, bishops, and cardinals would flood to Rome. She knew enough about Vatican politics to realize that Clement’s allies were through. Their careers were over.
None of that was her problem. Yet a part of her said that it was. Maybe old habits truly were hard to break.
She turned, luggage in hand, and headed out of the terminal.
THIRTY-ONE
CASTLE GANDOLFO, 2:30 P.M.
Valendrea stared at the assembled cardinals. The mood was tense, many of the men pacing the room in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety. There were fourteen in the villa’s salon, mainly cardinals assigned to the Curia or to posts near Rome who’d heeded the call made three hours ago to all 160 members of the Sacred College: CLEMENT XV IS DEAD. COME TO ROME IMMEDIATELY. To those within a hundred-mile radius of the Vatican, an additional message urged that they meet at Castle Gandolfo at two P.M.
The interregnum had begun, that period of time between the death of one pope and the election of another, a lapse of uncertainty when the reins of papal power hung loose. In centuries past this was when cardinals seized control, buying conclave votes with either promises or violence. Valendrea missed those times. The victor should be the strongest. The weak had no place at the apex. But modern papal elections were much more benign. The battles now were fought with television cameras and public opinion polls. Picking a popular pope was deemed far more critical than selecting a competent one. Which, Valendrea had often thought, explained more than anything else the rise of Jakob Volkner.
He was pleased with the turnout. Nearly all of the men who’d come were in his column. By his latest count he was still shy of the two-thirds-plus-one needed for an early ballot victory, but among himself, Ambrosi, and the tape recorders, over the coming two weeks he should secure the needed support.
He was unsure as to what Ngovi was going to say. The two of them had not spoken since earlier in Clement’s bedroom. He could only hope the African would use good judgment. Ngovi was standing toward the end of the long room before an elegant white marble fireplace. All the other princes were standing, too.