The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,93
reminded Donati of a backgammon board. Never before had he seen it so crowded. Though he could not be certain, it appeared that all 116 of the cardinal-electors were present. Each of the varnished wooden chairs had been claimed, leaving several other princes of the Church, including the cardinal camerlengo, a late arrival, no choice but to huddle like stranded airline passengers at the back.
Dean Francona had taken to the pulpit. From a single sheet of paper he was reading a series of announcements—housekeeping matters, issues related to security, the schedule for the shuttle buses between the Casa and the Sistina. The microphone was switched off. His voice was thin, his hands were shaking. Donati’s were shaking, too.
I’m going to kill her. Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain …
Was it real or a ruse? Was she still alive or already dead? Had he made the biggest mistake of his life by walking into this den of vipers and leaving her to her fate? Or did he make that mistake a long time ago, when he returned to the Church instead of marrying her? It was not too late, he thought. There was still time to abandon this sinking ship and run away with her. There would be a scandal, of course. His name would be dragged through the mud. They would have no choice but to go into seclusion. A Caribbean island, perhaps. Or a little villa in the hills near Perugia. Schubert’s piano sonatas, a few paperbacks scattered on the bare tile floor, Veronica wearing nothing but his old Georgetown sweatshirt. For a few glorious months, she was entirely his.
Francona’s voice dragged Donati from the past to the present. As yet, he had failed to explain Donati’s presence in the Casa Santa Marta on the eve of the conclave. It was clear, however, that Francona’s audience was thinking of nothing else. Forty-two of them had accepted the Order’s money in exchange for their votes. It was a crime against a conclave, the sacred passing of the keys of St. Peter from one pope to the next. For now, at least, it was still a crime in progress.
Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain …
They were not all hopelessly corrupt, thought Donati. In fact, many were good and decent men of prayer and reflection who were more than capable of leading the Church into the future. Cardinal Navarro, the favorite, would make a fine pope. So would Gaubert or Duarte, the archbishop of Manila, though Donati was not convinced the Church was ready for an Asian pope.
It was, however, ready for an American. Kevin Brady of Los Angeles was the obvious choice. Youngish and telegenic, he was a fluent Spanish speaker with an Irishman’s gift of the gab. He’d made mistakes with a couple of abusive priests, but for the most part he had emerged from the scandal cleaner than most. The worst thing Donati could do was tip his hand. It would be the kiss of death. He intended to bestow that on Cardinal Franz von Emmerich of Vienna.
Francona folded his paper in half, twice, as though it were a conclave ballot. Donati realized he still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to these men assembled before him, these high priests of the Church. Admittedly, homilies were not his strong suit. He was a man of action rather than words, a priest of the streets and the barrios, a missionary.
A fighter of lost causes …
Francona noisily dislodged something from his throat. “And now a final piece of business. Archbishop Donati has requested permission to address you on a matter of the utmost urgency. After careful consideration, I have agreed—”
It was Domenico Albanese who objected, loudly. “Dean Francona, this is most unusual. As camerlengo, I must protest.”
“The decision to let Archbishop Donati speak is entirely mine. Having said that, you are under no obligation to stay. If you intend to leave, please do so now. That goes for all of you.”
No one moved, including Albanese. “Does this not constitute outside interference in the conclave, Dean Francona?”
“The conclave does not begin until tomorrow afternoon. As for the question of interference, you would know better than I, Eminence.”
Albanese seethed but said nothing more. Francona stepped away from the pulpit and with a nod invited Donati to take his place. He walked slowly toward the first row of chairs instead and stood directly in front of Cardinal Kevin Brady.