The Inca Prophecy (29 page)

‘We shall see,’ said Felici. ‘Two hundred and seventeen of the 265 popes have been Italian, and although we only have twenty-five Italian cardinals, that’s a powerful voting bloc.’

‘You can bring the others with you?’

‘I think so,’ Felici replied, confirming that he had every intention of being the Italian bloc’s candidate. ‘Although now that we’re back to the two-thirds majority, the bar is fairly high.’ In 1996, John
Paul II had issued
Universi Dominici Gregis
, which allowed a pope to be elected with just over half the votes if a conclave was still deadlocked after thirty rounds of balloting. But in 2007, the decision had been reversed. ‘One third plus one can block any candidate. It’s a much more demanding standard than a normal political election.’

‘Will there be any opportunity to …’

‘To influence?’ Felici smiled. If he were a politician, Bridget would be his first choice for campaign manager.

‘There are a number of foreign cardinals visiting Rome in the next few days,’ the sister said.

Felici nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. The Africans have twelve votes, and the Asian bloc has ten, so they will be important, as will Brazil and Mexico, with nine votes between them. Any meetings will have to be held discreetly. Campaigning for a conclave would be poor form.’

‘Perhaps I could organise an informal function for you here, Eminence? That shouldn’t raise too much interest, and you could take some soundings on where they stand?’

‘That would be a nice touch,’ Felici said. ‘For the good of the Holy Church, it will be important to elect a conservative. A progressive candidate would be a disaster.’

‘And the prophecy, Eminence?’ Bridget’s smile faded as she reflected on St Malachy’s ancient prediction. In 1140 AD, while Bishop Malachy was visiting Rome, he’d fallen into a deep sleep on the Janiculum Hill above the old city and started to talk in Latin. His scribes had recorded his statements and when he woke, Malachy confirmed that God had revealed to him the identity of every Pope until the end of time. The list had proven to be extraordinarily
accurate, and Felici shivered involuntarily as he recalled the prediction for the second last Pope before the end of time. This pope was referred to as
De Gloria Olivae
, and Felici knew well that ‘from the glory of the olive’ was a reference to the olive branch being a symbol of the order of St Benedict. Benedict XVI was the name Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger had chosen when elected.

‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of old Malachy,’ said Felici, sounding more reassuring than he felt. ‘The Holy Church has lasted for 2000 years, and by the grace of God, she will endure and prosper until the end of time.’

Felici poured the remainder of the Mouton and, glass in hand, led the way upstairs to his spacious bedroom where Bridget closed the heavy velvet curtains, switched off the lights, and moved towards her cardinal, slowly helping him to disrobe.

Chapter 35

Felici’s private secretary knocked quietly and opened the doors to the cardinal’s office.

‘Dr Rossi wants to see you in the papal apartments, Eminence. It’s urgent.’ Father Cordona looked grave. The papal physician, as a matter of protocol, would never summon the Vatican’s most senior cardinal unless … Both men knew the summons could only mean one thing.

‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

‘
Certamente
, Eminence.’

Cardinal Felici didn’t hurry across the cobblestones of the Piazza San Pietro. The Pope’s health was already the subject of intense speculation and Felici had no intention of fuelling any further intrigue in the Vatican’s corridors of power. He curtly acknowledged the salutes of the Swiss Guards, both armed with a halberd, a twin-bladed axe on a long pike. Dressed in their distinctive red,
blue and yellow striped uniform, they were stationed outside the massive bronze doors that led to the Apostolic Palace and the papal apartments. Felici took the lift and strode down the corridor leading to the Pope’s private bedroom, where he was met by Dr Rossi.

‘Thank you for coming, Eminence. His Holiness’s condition has deteriorated rapidly overnight.’

‘You were right to call me. May I see him?’

‘Yes, but I warn you, he’s very weak and slipping in and out of consciousness.’

Felici stepped into the bedroom and moved closer to the bed, in which a pale old man lay with his eyes closed. ‘Holiness, we are all praying for your recovery,’ the cardinal said, his voice muted.

The Pope opened his eyes briefly and seemed to have trouble focusing. ‘Make sure the Church is left in good hands,’ he whispered, his voice rasping and feeble. His eyes closed again and his head lolled to one side of his pillow. From the opposite side of the bed, Dr Rossi reached for the Pope’s hand, his fingers wrapping around the wrist. Minutes passed, the two men standing in silence over the prone form. And then Dr Rossi looked up.

‘He’s gone,’ he said.

Two of the Pope’s household sisters started to weep and Felici motioned to Monsignor Abati, the Pope’s private secretary, for them to be removed.

‘Summon the papal master of ceremonies and the prelates of the Apostolic Camera to the library,’ Felici ordered briskly as soon as Monsignor Abati returned. ‘We’ll need to verify His Holiness’s death in their presence and these apartments will then be sealed.’

‘
Certamente
, Eminence.’

Felici turned to the Prefect of the Papal Household, Bishop Michalski, who had just arrived, looking shocked and pale.

‘Inform the dean of the College of Cardinals of His Holiness’s passing. He will need to inform the rest of the college and the heads of nations, although the media will undoubtedly beat him to it. And tell the director of the press office to report to me immediately.’ As
camerlengo
, Felici was now the acting head of state. He had long prepared for just this moment. He wasn’t responsible for governing the wider Church at a time of
sede vacante
, a vacant seat – that would be left to the cardinals – but as the one responsible for funeral arrangements and the conclave, Felici fully intended to maximise his position of power.

A short while later, in the presence of three other cardinals, Felici ceremonially cut the Fisherman’s Ring of the deceased Pope with a pair of shears, ensuring that it could not be used to sign any documents. He sealed the papal apartments and returned to his own office to run the interregnum from across the Piazza San Pietro.

O’Connor glanced at the television and reached for the remote. The broadcast was in Italian, but neither O’Connor nor Aleta had any trouble with the translation as the footage of the newsreader covering the breaking news switched to the Holy See’s Press Office Director, Monsignor Giovanni Mancini.

‘The Holy Father died this afternoon at 2.37 p.m., local time, in his private apartment, after a short illness. The Camerlengo and the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal
Felici, and the Papal Physician, Dr Rossi, were at the pontiff’s side. Dr Rossi noted that the Holy Father passed away peacefully.’ The vision cut to the Piazza San Pietro, and a close-up of a group of nuns weeping on the steps of the basilica, and then back to the network anchor.

‘Messages of condolence are pouring into Vatican City from around the world, and crowds have gathered in St Peter’s Square. We cross now to the renowned Vatican watcher, Father Dennis O’Flaherty, for an analysis of the pontiff’s legacy, and what this means for the future of the Catholic Church.’

‘I need to move,’ O’Connor said, grabbing his soft leather briefcase and checking he had the security pass marked
Access Authority – Archivum Secretum Apostolicum Vaticanum
. Shaked’s boys in Lima had turned out to be just as good at forging documents as those in the back rooms of Langley.

‘It will be chaos over there,’ responded Aleta. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off waiting a while?’

O’Connor shook his head. ‘Precisely why I should go now. When they get on top of things, they may close the secret archives until after the election of a new pope, and that might be enough time for Wiley to work out where we are. And don’t worry if I don’t get back tonight … I may be gone for quite a while.’

O’Connor left the hotel and made his way along the cobblestones of Borgo Pio, then across Via di Porta Angelica, crammed with people heading for Piazza San Pietro. He reached the Porta di Sant’Anna and strode purposefully through, giving a businesslike nod to the Swiss Guard. The noise of the street and the thronging crowd faded behind the high walls of the Vatican City and
O’Connor headed unerringly towards the courtyard behind the papal apartments, and the entrance to the archives.

O’Connor showed his pass to the first of the Swiss Guards, who waved him through, but the second guard was more meticulous and closely scrutinised the request for access to the codex of the trial of Galileo Galilei. O’Connor had chosen it deliberately. It was a document the Vatican had already made available to scholars. To ask for one that was yet to be studied was courting refusal. Despite the Vatican’s avowed ‘opening’ of the archives, O’Connor knew no one was given carte blanche to browse the massive holdings, particularly those areas that covered the Vatican’s involvement with the Nazis. The Vatican had steadfastly refused to allow any outsider to see them. The guard pushed a buzzer and one of the archivists assigned to work amongst the massive collection appeared.

‘Father McLoughlin,’ O’Connor intoned, introducing himself. ‘A sad day.’

‘A very sad day,’ the archivist agreed. ‘In fact, very few people are here, even on the staff.’

‘Yes, I apologise for the timing, but my time is limited before I have to return to Dublin.’

‘Of course. If you’ll follow me.’

O’Connor followed the archivist past the shelving, of which there was more than 84 kilometres, past ancient wooden cabinets housing millions of documents bound in cream vellum and tied with lawyers’ ribbon. Some of the papers dated back to the early 800s. The priceless collection included letters between pontiffs and the giants of history: Michelangelo, Queen Elizabeth I, Voltaire, Mozart, Erasmus and Adolf Hitler. They reached the empty reading rooms of
the Tower of Winds, where the computers looked strangely out of place on the old heavy wooden tables. It was an area constructed in 1580 to facilitate astronomical studies, and was characterised by its Pomeranian frescoes and a creaking wooden elevator surrounded by white marble steps leading to the Leo XIII study. O’Connor was told to take a seat.

A short while later, the archivist returned. ‘This is the document you’ve requested,’ he said, placing the ancient manuscript and a pair of white gloves on the table. ‘In view of the tragic circumstances, I’m afraid we’ll be shutting the archives early, at five p.m.’

‘Perfectly understandable. I won’t be long, I promise you.’ O’Connor perused the seventeenth-century
Codice del Processo di Galileo
. The brown ink on the parchment had gone fuzzy over the centuries, but it was still perfectly readable. The Inquisition had handed down its verdict on 22 June 1633, finding Galileo guilty of heresy, namely of believing that the earth was not at the centre of the universe; but that it moved around a stationary sun, contrary to Holy Scripture. O’Connor shook his head at the Church’s decision to place Galileo’s books on the prohibited reading and publication list, and to imprison Galileo at the pleasure of the Inquisition.

O’Connor left the document on the desk and quietly moved towards the staircase leading to the Diplomatic Floor above. Here, documents of the Secretariat of State going back to the 1500s were stored in hundreds of old wooden cabinets. O’Connor cast around for a place to hide until after closing time. The wooden cabinets stretched to the ceiling, and every room had a set of steps on wheels to facilitate access to the higher cabinets. O’Connor opened the high cabinets in the first room and then the second, but all were full.
In the third room he found one with enough space to crawl into, and he pulled the door shut behind him.

An hour later, the lights were extinguished, and O’Connor waited, but shortly afterwards, the lights were switched on again and he could hear footsteps.

‘He may have left of his own accord, Excellency.’ O’Connor recognised the voice of the archivist. The person he was talking to was probably the Prefect of the Secret Archives, Bishop Romano.

‘He may have,’ the other voice replied, ‘but the guard on duty didn’t see him leave and it doesn’t hurt to check. It would be unthinkable to have someone roaming the archives unaccompanied.’

After a pause, O’Connor heard the unwelcome sound of cupboards being opened in the next room, moving ever closer to his hiding hole.

Chapter 36

President McGovern walked from the Oval Office downstairs to the situation room, where he received daily briefings from watch teams around the world. The original mahogany-panelled walls of the room, which had made it hard to hear video and teleconferencing calls because of reflected noise, had been replaced by high-tech ‘whisper walls’, with six embedded large flat screens. During the Gulf War and the assault on Baghdad, communication failures meant the screens were too frequently blacked out, but the latest technology ensured that encrypted conferences with other world leaders and American generals on battlefields around the world were uninterrupted. The lighting included a closed-circuit camera to enable the President’s Secret Service agents to see what was going on inside the room. The situation room had once been President Truman’s bowling alley, but after the Bay of Pigs fiasco President Kennedy’s security advisor converted it to its current
function. ‘Watch teams’, monitoring events around the world, were on call to provide daily briefings. Curiously, Kennedy directed crises from the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room and Nixon and Ford had done the same, whereas during the Vietnam War, Lyndon Johnson spent so much time in the situation room, he had his Oval Office chair moved there. Clinton had many briefings there, and President William McGovern operated in a similar mode, insisting on daily updates in the room.