He headed for the hall, where he found Cardinal Ngovi walking toward the bedroom.
“They’re here?” Ngovi asked.
“Italian law requires a twenty-four-hour period before embalming. You know that. This may be Vatican territory, but we’ve been through this argument before. The Italians would require us to wait.”
Ngovi nodded. “I understand, but the doctor called from Rome. Jakob’s bloodstream was saturated with medication. He killed himself, Colin. No doubt. I can’t allow evidence of that to remain. The doctor has destroyed his sample. He cannot, and will not, reveal anything.”
“And the cardinals?”
“They’ll be told he died from cardiac arrest. That’s what will appear on the death certificate.”
He could see the strain on Ngovi’s face. Lying did not come easy to this man.
“We have no choice, Colin. He has to be embalmed. I can’t worry about Italian law.”
Michener ran a hand through his hair. This had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. “I knew he was bothered by something, but there was nothing that pointed to him being this troubled. How was he while I was gone?”
“He went back into the Riserva. I’m told Valendrea was there with him.”
“I know.” He told Ngovi what Clement had said. “He showed him what Father Tibor sent. What it was, he wouldn’t say.” He then told Ngovi more about Tibor and how the pope had reacted on learning of the Bulgarian’s death.
Ngovi shook his head. “This is not the way I thought his papacy would end.”
“We must ensure his memory is preserved.”
“It will be. Even Valendrea will be our ally on that.” Ngovi motioned to the door. “I don’t think anyone will question our actions in embalming this soon. Only four people know the truth, and shortly no proof will remain if any one of us chooses to speak. But there’s little worry that will happen. The doctor is bound by laws of confidentiality, you and I loved the man, and Valendrea has self-interests. This secret is safe.”
The door to the bedroom opened and one of the technicians stepped out. “We are nearly finished.”
“You will burn the pontiff’s fluids?” Ngovi asked.
“That has always been our practice. Our company is proud to be of service to the Holy See. You can depend on us.”
Ngovi thanked the man, who returned to the bedroom.
“What now?” Michener asked.
“His pontifical vestments have been brought from Rome. You and I shall dress him for burial.”
He saw the significance in that gesture and said, “I think he would have liked that.”
The motorcade slowly wound its way through the rain toward the Vatican. It had taken nearly an hour to drive the eighteen miles from Castle Gandolfo, the route lined with thousands of mourners. Michener rode in the third vehicle with Ngovi, the remaining cardinals in an assortment of cars hastily ferried from the Vatican. A hearse led the procession, with Clement’s body lying in the rear dressed in robes and miter, illuminated so the faithful could see. Now, inside the city, nearing six P.M., it seemed as if all of Rome filled the sidewalks, the police keeping the way clear so the cars could proceed.
St. Peter’s Square was packed, but an alley had been cordoned off among a sea of umbrellas that twisted a path between the colonnades to the basilica. Wails and weeping followed the cars. Many of the mourners tossed flowers on the hoods, so many it was becoming difficult to see out the windshield. One of the security men finally swiped the piles away, but another simply started in its place.
The cars passed through the Arch of the Bells and left the crowds behind. Into the Piazza of the Protomartyrs the procession rounded the sacristy of St. Peter’s and headed for a rear entrance into the basilica. Here, safe behind the walls, the airspace above restricted, Clement’s body could be readied for three days of public viewing.
A light rain sheathed the gardens in a frothy mist. Walkway lights burned in blurred images like the sun through thick clouds.
Michener tried to imagine what was happening in the buildings around him. In the workshops of the sampietrini a triple coffin was being constructed—the inner of bronze, the second of cedar, the outer of cypress. A catafalque had already been assembled and positioned inside St. Peter’s, a solitary candle burning nearby, awaiting the corpse it was to support in the days ahead.
Michener had noticed, as they’d inched through the piazza, television crews installing cameras on the balustrades, the choicest spots among the 162 statues surely being claimed fast. The Vatican press office was by now under siege. He’d assisted during the last papal funeral and could envision the thousands of calls that would come in the days ahead. Statesmen from around the world would soon be arriving, and legates would have to be assigned to assist them. The Holy See prided itself on strict adherence to protocol, even in the face of indescribable grief, the task of ensuring success resting with the soft-spoken cardinal sitting beside him.
The cars stopped and cardinals began to congregate near the hearse. Priests shielded each of the princes with an umbrella. The cardinals wore their black cassocks adorned with a red sash, as required. A Swiss honor guard in ceremonial dress stood at the entrance to the basilica. Clement would not be without them in the days ahead. Four of the guards cradled a bier on their shoulders and paraded toward the hearse. The papal master of ceremonies stood nearby. He was a Dutch priest with a bearded face and a rotund body. He stepped forward and said, “The catafalque is ready.”
Ngovi nodded.
The master of ceremonies moved toward the hearse and assisted the technicians with the removal of Clement’s body. Once the corpse was centered on the bier and the miter positioned, the Dutchman motioned the technicians away. He then carefully arranged the vestments, slowly creasing each fold. Two priests held umbrellas over the body. Another young priest stepped forward, holding the pallium. The narrow band of white wool marked with six purple crosses signified the plenitude of the pontifical office. The master of ceremonies draped the two-inch band around Clement’s neck, then arranged the crosses above the chest, shoulders, and abdomen. He made a few adjustments to the shoulder blocks and finally straightened the head. He then knelt, signaling that he was finished.
A slight nod of Ngovi’s head caused the Swiss guard to raise the bier. The priests with umbrellas withdrew. The cardinals fell into line behind.
Michener did not join the procession. He was not a prince of the Church, and what lay ahead was only for them. He would be expected to empty his apartment in the palace by tomorrow. It, too, would be sealed awaiting the conclave. His office must likewise be cleared. His patronage ended with Clement’s last breath. Those once in favor departed to make room for those soon-to-be-in-favor.
Ngovi waited until the end to join the line into the basilica. Before he marched off, the cardinal turned and whispered, “I want you to inventory the papal apartment and remove his belongings. Clement would have wanted no other to tend to his possessions. I have left word with the guards that you are to be allowed entrance. Do it now.”
The guard opened the papal apartment for Michener. The door closed behind him and he was left alone with an odd feeling. Where once he’d relished his time here, he now felt like an intruder.
The rooms were exactly as Clement had left them Saturday morning. The bed was made, the curtains parted, the pope’s spare reading glasses still lying on the nightstand. The leather-bound Bible that usually lay there, too, was at Castle Gandolfo, on the desk beside Clement’s laptop, both to be returned to Rome shortly.
A few papers remained on the desk beside the silent desktop computer. He thought it best to start there, so he booted the machine and checked the folders. He knew Clement e-mailed a few distant family members and some cardinals on a regular basis, but he apparently hadn’t saved any of those transmissions—there were no files recorded. The address book contained about two dozen names. He scanned all of the folders on the hard drive. Most were reports from curial departments, the written word now replaced by ones and zeros on a video screen. He deleted all the folders, using a special program that removed all traces of the files from the hard drive, then switched off the machine. The terminal would stay and be used by the next pope.