Possible, but he could just as easily be locked in a tight election. “What troubles me is that our African friend apparently has his own information network. I didn’t realize I was such a high priority with him.” It also bothered him that Ngovi had so easily linked his Romanian trip with Tibor’s murder. That could become a problem. “I want you to find Katerina Lew.”
He’d purposely not talked with her after Romania. No need. Thanks to Clement, he knew everything he needed to know. Yet it galled him that Ngovi was dispatching envoys on private missions. Especially missions that involved him. Still, there was little he could do about it since he couldn’t risk involving the Sacred College. There’d be too many questions and he’d have too few answers. It could also provide Ngovi a way to force an inquiry into his own Romanian trip, and he was not about to present the African with that opportunity.
He was the only one left alive who knew what the Virgin had said. Three popes were gone. He’d already destroyed part of Tibor’s cursed reproduction, eliminated the priest himself, and flushed Sister Lucia’s original writing into the sewers. All that remained was the facsimile translation waiting in the Riserva. No one could be allowed to see those words. But to gain access to that box he needed to be pope.
He stared up at Ambrosi.
“Unfortunately, Paolo, you must stay here over the coming days. I will need you nearby. But we have to know what Michener does in Bosnia, and she is our best conduit. So find Katerina Lew and reenlist her help. “
“How do you know she’s in Rome?”
“Where else would she be?”
THIRTY-SIX
6:15 P.M.
Katerina was drawn to the CNN booth, just outside the south colonnade in St. Peter’s Square. She’d seen Tom Kealy from across the cobbled expanse, beneath bright lights and in front of three cameras. The piazza was dotted with many makeshift television sets. The thousands of chairs and barricades from Clement’s funeral were gone, replaced by souvenir hawkers, protestors, pilgrims, and the journalists who’d flocked to Rome, ready for the conclave that would begin tomorrow morning, camera lenses angled for the best view of a metal flue high above the Sistine Chapel where white smoke would signal success.
She drew close to a ring of gawkers huddled around the CNN dais where Kealy was talking to the cameras. He wore a black wool cassock and Roman collar, looking very much the priest. For someone with so little regard for his profession, he seemed entirely comfortable with its physical trappings.
“—that’s right, in the old days, ballots were simply burned after each scrutiny with either dry or wet straw to produce black or white smoke. Now a chemical is added to produce color. There’s been a lot of confusion in recent conclaves about the smoke. Apparently even the Catholic Church can, at times, let science make matters easier.”
“What have you been hearing about tomorrow?” asked the female correspondent sitting beside Kealy.
Kealy turned his attention toward the camera. “My guess is that there are two favorites. Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea. Ngovi would be the first African pope since the first century and could do a lot for his home continent. Look what John Paul II did for Poland and Eastern Europe. Africa could likewise use a champion.”
“But are Catholics ready for a black pope?”
Kealy gave a shrug. “What does it matter anymore? Most of today’s Catholics are from Latin and South America and Asia. The European cardinals no longer dominate. All of the popes since John XXIII made sure of that by expanding the Sacred College and packing it with non-Italians. The Church would be better off, in my opinion, with Ngovi than Valendrea.”
She smiled. Kealy was apparently having his revenge on the righteous Alberto Valendrea. Interesting how the tide had turned. Nineteen days ago, Kealy was on the receiving end of a Valendrea barrage, on the way to excommunication. But during the interregnum, that tribunal, along with everything else, was suspended. Now here was the accused, on worldwide television, disparaging his chief accuser, a man about to make a serious run for the papacy.
“Why would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?” asked the correspondent.
“Valendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. He’s also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.”
“Some might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.”
Kealy shook his head. “You spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernize—do a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institution—then toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. He’s the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when there’s somebody like Ngovi, equally as papabile, and far more attractive to the world.”
A hand on Katerina’s shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.
“He doesn’t seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,” the priest whispered.
“Get your hand off my shoulder.”
A smile frayed the edges of Ambrosi’s mouth and he withdrew his hand. “I thought you might be here.” He motioned to Kealy. “With your paramour.”
A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. “What do you want?”
“Surely you don’t want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.”
“I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt I’m your type.”
Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.
“It’s disgusting,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. “They think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.”
“And I’m sure the collection boxes in St. Peter’s have been closed since Clement died.”
“You have a smart mouth.”
“What’s wrong? The truth hurt?”
They were beyond the Vatican, on Roman streets, strolling down a via lined with a warren of trendy apartments. Her nerves throbbed, keeping her on edge. She stopped. “What do you want?”
“Colin Michener is going to Bosnia. His Eminence wants you to go with him and report what he does.”
“You didn’t even care about Romania. I haven’t heard a word from you till now.”
“That became unimportant. This is more so.”
“I’m not interested. Besides, Colin is going to Romania.”
“Not now. He’s going to Bosnia. To the shrine at Medjugorje.”
She was confused. Why would Michener feel the need to make such a pilgrimage, especially after his earlier comments?
“His Eminence urged me to make clear that a friend within the Vatican is still available to you. Not to mention the ten thousand euros already paid.”
“He said that money was mine. No questions.”
“Interesting. Apparently, you’re not a cheap whore.”
She slapped his face.
Ambrosi showed no surprise. He simply stared back at her through piercing eyes. “You shall not strike me again.” There was a bitter edge to his voice, one she did not like.
“I’ve lost interest in being your spy.”
“You are an impertinent bitch. My only hope is that His Eminence tires of you soon. Then, perhaps, I will pay you a return visit.”