The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,88
was paid and where the money was deposited.” Gabriel released the blind and turned. “And I’m afraid it only gets worse.”
He tapped the touchscreen of his phone. A moment later it emitted the sound of two men speaking German.
He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.
Two million and one …
He paused the recording.
“Bishop Richter and Jonas Wolf, I presume?”
Gabriel nodded.
“What are the two million reasons why I shouldn’t tell the conclave what I know about the Order’s plot?”
“It’s the amount of money Wolf and Richter put in your account at the Vatican Bank.”
“They want to make it appear as though I’m as corrupt as they are?”
“Obviously.”
“And the one?”
“I’m still working on that.”
Donati’s eyes flashed with anger. “And to think they wasted two million dollars on such an obvious ploy.”
“Perhaps you can put it to good use.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Donati dialed Angelo Francona, dean of the College of Cardinals. There was no answer.
He checked the time again. It was 4:45.
“I suppose you should give me the names.”
“Azevedo of Tegucigalpa,” said Gabriel. “One million. Bank of Panama.”
“Next?”
“Ballantine of Philadelphia. One million. Vatican Bank.”
“Next?”
AT THAT SAME MOMENT, Cardinal Angelo Francona was standing like a sentinel near the reception desk of the Casa Santa Marta. Resting on the white marble floor at his feet was a large aluminum case filled with several dozen mobile phones, tablets, and notebook computers, all carefully labeled with the owners’ names. For security reasons, the switchboard of the clerical guesthouse remained operative, but the phones, televisions, and radios had been removed from its 128 rooms and suites. Francona’s telefonino was in the pocket of his cassock, silenced but still functioning. He planned to switch it off the instant the last cardinal walked through the door. At that point, the men who would select the next supreme Roman pontiff would effectively be cut off from the outside world.
At present, 112 of the 116 voting-eligible cardinals were safely beneath the Casa Santa Marta’s roof. Several were milling about the lobby, including Navarro and Gaubert, the two leading contenders to succeed Lucchesi. At last check, Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese was upstairs in his suite. A migraine. Or so he claimed.
Francona felt a pre-conclave headache coming on as well. Only once before had he taken part in the election of a pope. It was the conclave that had shocked the Catholic world by choosing a diminutive, little-known patriarch from Venice to succeed Wojtyla the Great. Francona had been among the group of liberals who had tipped the conclave in Lucchesi’s favor. Regrettably, Lucchesi’s papacy would be remembered for the terrorist attack on the basilica and the sexual abuse scandal that had left the Church on the brink of moral and financial collapse.
Therefore, the conclave that would commence the following afternoon had to be utterly above reproach. Already a cloud was hanging over it. It had been placed there by the murder of that poor Swiss Guard in Florence. There was more to the story, Francona was sure of it. His task now was to preside over a scandal-free conclave, one that would produce a pontiff who could heal the Church’s wounds, unite its factions, and lead it into the future. He wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible. Secretly, he feared it was spinning out of control and that anything could happen.
The double glass doors of the guesthouse opened, and Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the doctrinaire archbishop of Vienna, flowed into the lobby as though propelled by a private conveyor belt. The suitcase he was towing was the size of a steamer trunk. At the reception desk, he collected a room key from the nuns and then reluctantly surrendered his iPhone to Francona.
“I don’t suppose I was lucky enough to be assigned to one of the suites.”
“I’m afraid not, Cardinal Emmerich.”
“In that case, I hope we reach a decision quickly.”
The Austrian made for the elevators. Alone again, Francona checked his phone and was surprised to see he had three missed calls. All were from the same person. There were no messages, which was not his typical style.
Francona hesitated, forefinger floating above the touchscreen. It was unorthodox, but strictly speaking it was not a violation of the rules governing the conduct of the conclave, as laid out in Universi Dominici Gregis.
Francona dithered for another precious minute before finally dialing the number and lifting the phone to his ear. A few seconds later he closed his eyes. It was spinning out of control, he thought. Anything could happen. Anything …