The Secret Cardinal (18 page)

As most of the cardinals rose to hand over their notes, Gagliardi remained seated, staring at the final count. Magni garnered twenty-four votes—a decent showing in the initial ballot and roughly where the Sicilian expected his man to be. Totals for the other original papabili ranged from the mid- to high teens. But right behind Magni with twenty-three votes was Yin—a man no elector was even considering a few hours earlier.

Madness.
Gagliardi shook his head.
To pluck an Asian out of thin air and name him supreme pontiff? It was madness.

Gagliardi paid little attention to the tightness spreading across his neck and shoulders or the chill of a cold sweat as his olive skin turned ash-gray.

“Your notes, Eminence,” a cardinal assistant said.

As Gagliardi stretched out his left arm to hand over the papers, a burning pain ran up the limb. His muscles from fingertips to shoulder contracted into quivering knots of pained tissue that throbbed with each increasingly erratic heartbeat.

“Are you all right?” the cardinal assistant asked.

Those were the last words Gagliardi heard before the pain in his chest overwhelmed his senses and he toppled forward. The assistant dropped his sheaf of collected papers and slowed the Sicilian's fall to the marble floor.

“The doctors, quickly!” the cardinal assistant shouted as he cradled Gagliardi's head and shoulders.

Donoher ordered the doors to the chapel unbolted, and the two on-call doctors rushed in with a gurney and an emergency cart. Prior to the conclave, both men had studied the medical histories of the cardinal electors and were familiar with the Sicilian cardinal's ongoing struggle with cardiovascular disease.

The doctors lifted Gagliardi onto the gurney and, after a quick assessment, cut open the top of the cardinal's cassock down to his navel and applied a defibrillator to his chest. It took three jolts to return the Sicilian's heart to a normal rhythm. The doctors rushed their stabilized patient to a waiting ambulance.

“Close the doors,” Donoher ordered as soon as the doctors had departed with the stricken cardinal.

The chapel was once again sealed off from the outside world. The cardinal assistants collected the remaining notes and put them on the long table with the official tallies and the ring of ballots. Donoher placed his ballot tally in a leather folio—later, he would prepare a document declaring the results of the voting. He would do this after each ballot until a pope was elected. Then the collection of documents would be handed to the new pontiff for placement in the archives in a sealed envelope that could not be opened without the explicit permission of the pope.

The ballots and the other records were taken to a small stove and burned with a handful of chemicals. In Saint Peter's Square, the waiting crowd saw wisps of black smoke emerge from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

22

Grin muted the sound on the broadcast. Two of the monitors on his workstation displayed feeds from Fox and CNN, and both networks were covering the breaking news at the Vatican but with little to report. Almost as an aside, the reporters mentioned the black smoke billowing from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. He left the feeds silently running and cranked up his music again. The remaining monitors on his workstation displayed images from the security cameras at Chifeng Prison.

“Any word at all from China?” Donoher asked as he entered the catacombs workroom.

Grin swiveled in his chair and noticed immediately that Donoher was clad in black clericals trimmed with amaranth-red details. From a distance, the cardinal camerlengo looked like a bishop, which was apparently his intent. With reporters and cameras on the ground and in the air around the Vatican, footage of a scarlet-robed cardinal outside the secured areas of the conclave would definitely have drawn unwanted interest.

“Nolan's in the belly of the beast,” Grin replied, his voice somber with concern.

“Now we wait to see if he can get himself and the good bishop out.” Donoher sighed. “Heaven help him.”

“Your lips to God's ears.”

Roy Orbison's falsetto soared from the computer's speakers into the final chorus of his famous paean to the fairer sex. The final note hung in the air a moment, and then faded, to be replaced by a thunderous ode from Joey Ramone to CNBC business anchor Maria Bartiromo.

“That's quite a leap from ‘Pretty Woman,'” Donoher opined as he sat down. “Whatever
is
that you're listening to?”

“A weekly radio show called Little Steven's Underground Garage.” Grin leaned back and tapped the pause button on a psychedelic jukebox floating in the corner of the Mac Pro's thirty-inch video display. “Little Steven is rock ‘n' roll's answer to James Burke, thematically connecting songs, history, and cultural trivia. Just before Roy and Joey, he played cuts from The Charms, Nancy Sinatra, The Pipettes, and a clip of Al Pacino at his best from “Scent of a Woman.” I needed something cool to clear the cobwebs. A session in the Underground Garage usually does the trick. What happened up there today?”

“Before I can answer that question, would you please stand?”

As Grin rose, Donoher pulled a Bible from his briefcase and held out the book with his left hand.

“Repeat after me,” Donoher began, leading Grin through the same oath sworn by all those providing service to the cardinal electors.

As Grin recited, he wondered what his devoutly religious parents would think of their highly unorthodox son being made a party to the secrets of a papal election.

“—and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand,” Grin said, completing the oath.

Donoher slipped the Bible back into his briefcase. “I swore you in because there are matters we need to discuss that are bound up in the rules of the conclave.”

“And if I'm not in, I'm out.”

“Precisely,” Donoher said. “Pope Leo has let the proverbial cat out of the bag.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shortly before the start of the opening session, the late pope's personal assistant took me aside and gave me a disk containing a message from the late pontiff to the conclave. In it, His Holiness, God rest His soul,” Donoher said the last phrase through clenched teeth, “revealed that Yin was in fact the cardinal he had named in pectore so many years ago, then as much as said that I was mounting a jailbreak to get him out and that the cardinal electors should consider Yin himself for the papacy.”

“You're kidding.”

Donoher's expression was devoid of humor. “As we speak, my staff is preparing a dossier on Bishop Yin for the cardinal electors to review before the session tomorrow morning. Most of my esteemed brothers know very little about the man, and now that Yin is in the running, they would like to make a more informed decision.”

“The talking heads of the media have been chattering about a secret cardinal,” Grin offered. “So Bishop Yin is really a cardinal?”

“No, but only because he could not be named publicly and attend a consistory. Yin was a cardinal only in the heart of Pope Leo, and until today, Nolan and I were the only ones brought into his confidence. It's a dangerous secret,” Donoher explained, “one I would have preferred stayed secret until after Yin was free.”

“Is there really a chance Yin could be elected pope?”

“Honestly, I don't know. I wouldn't have thought it possible until Velu spoke up on his behalf—resulting in Yin drawing the second highest number of votes. It's either the most selfless act I've ever seen or the most Machiavellian.”

“How so?” Grin asked.

“Just an odd thought, but going into the conclave, there were five cardinals with a strong possibility of being elected. And since graft, bribery, and sex have little to do with Vatican politics these days, and there is no campaigning per se, a papal election boils down to networking and personality. You'd be right in thinking that five papabili would split the electorate five ways, making it unlikely that anyone would secure the supermajority required to win. I'm wondering, perhaps, if Velu might have backed Yin to muddy the waters.”

“But wouldn't that damage his own candidacy?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The introduction of Bishop Yin makes this a completely different race from what we were all expecting. Yin's story evokes a certain amount of sympathy, which has translated into votes. Not enough to get him elected, mind you, but enough to shake the status quo. As long as Yin remains in China, he is unelectable, and once that reality begins to set in, his backers will begin to look elsewhere. They'll remember Velu and the selfless act he performed in front of them all.”

“You have a very devious mind, Your Eminence.”

“This election will play out as God wills, but now I have to contend with a chapel full of cardinals who know we're up to something in China. I pray for the sake of Nolan and the others that none of this information gets out.”

“That would be bad,” Grin agreed.

“It would indeed.”

“Any way to dissuade the Yin vote?”

“Overtly, no, but I will certainly continue to do what I can without violating both the letter and the spirit of the Apostolic Constitution.”

Both of the news feeds on Grin's monitors cut to a live image of a Vatican official delivering a statement to the press. In a split screen appeared a file photo of Cardinal Gagliardi.

“You mind turning up the volume?” Donoher was staring at the monitors.

“Sure.”

“—the Vatican has confirmed that it was indeed one of the cardinals who was rushed just a short time ago to the Gemelli Polyclinic here in Rome,”
a newscaster said off-screen.
“The cardinal has been identified as Cardinal Gagliardi of Sicily, a long-time Vatican insider with a history of heart trouble. No word yet on the cardinal's status, though clearly this is serious enough for him to be removed from the conclave.”

“That's enough,” Donoher said.

Grin muted the feed. “You did have an exciting session.”

“Much more than I would have wished.”

23

Donoher displayed his identification to the security guards at the entrance to the cardiac care unit. Although most press members respected the needs of the patient and satisfied themselves with updates from the hospital's public relations staff, there were some paparazzi who would employ any guise to get a photograph of a cardinal stricken ill during the conclave.

Once stabilized in the emergency room, Gagliardi was admitted to the CICU—the cardiac intensive care unit. The nurse station was an island in the center surrounded by glass-walled patient rooms. Cleared to enter the unit, Donoher was led by the head nurse to where the Sicilian cardinal lay under careful observation.

Through the glass, Donoher saw that Gagliardi was with another visitor—a man in his early forties who bore a strong resemblance to the Sicilian churchman, equally large-framed if much more physically fit. The man was talking on a cell phone.

“If you'll wait here a moment, Your Eminence,” the nurse said, “I must have a word with the cardinal's other visitor.”

Donoher could not hear the exchange, but the nurse was clearly irritated with the man's use of a cell phone inside the hospital. Unrepentant, the man ended his call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his leather briefcase.

“You may go in now,” the nurse told Donoher as she exited the room, satisfied that order had been restored.

Gagliardi reclined in bed, his body connected by wires and tubes to a dozen different medical devices. He was still ashen and appeared old and frail. The cardinal's other visitor leaned over him as Donoher entered the room.

“Uncle, you have a visitor,” he said in a warm, friendly tone.

Gagliardi opened his eyes and smiled weakly. Donoher wrapped his hands around one of Gagliardi's—it felt cool and clammy.

“It is very kind of you to come,” Gagliardi said, his voice a hoarse whisper filled with emotion, “especially at such a difficult time.”

“Wasn't it you who once told me that caring for the sick is more important than paperwork? The others would be here as well if they could, but I am the only one permitted to leave the area of the conclave. Know that their prayers are with you, my friend.”

“I know, and mine are with them.” Gagliardi lifted his other hand feebly, pointing in the direction of the young man. “This is my nephew, Guglielmo Cusumano. He's an antique book dealer here in Rome.”

“An honor to meet you, Your Eminence,” Cusumano said before kissing Donoher's ring. “My uncle speaks very highly of you.”

“It is good of you to be here. Family is very important at times like this.”

“Go finish that call to your mother,” Gagliardi suggested. “I believe the camerlengo and I have some matters to discuss privately.”

Donoher nodded, and Cusumano took the hint. “I'll be back in the morning, Uncle, in time to meet with your doctors.”

“He is a good boy,” Gagliardi said, after Cusumano departed.

“What have your doctors told you?”

“Nothing I haven't heard before. A lifetime of bad habits has finally caught up with me. The doctors are still running tests, but apparently three more arteries in my heart are blocked. Had the doctors not been standing by outside the chapel, I would now be dead.”

“Then perhaps it's not your time.”

“That remains to be seen. The last time they opened my chest, the surgeon offered me a lifetime guarantee on his work. At this moment, I am not comforted. The message from His Holiness was quite a surprise.”