The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,96

a vote at a conclave.”

“A grievous sin,” agreed Albanese. “Therefore, one should be extremely cautious before leveling such a charge. One should also bear in mind that proving such a case would be almost impossible.”

“Not when the offense is blatant. As for caution, I don’t have time for it. And so in my last remaining moments, I would like to tell you what I’ve learned, and what I intend to do if my demands are not met.”

“Demands?” Tardini was incredulous. “Who are you to make demands? Your master is dead. You are a nothing man.”

“I am the man,” said Donati, “who holds your future in the palm of his hand. I know how much you received, when you received it, and where it is.”

Tardini lumbered to his feet, his face the color of his biretta. “I won’t stand for this!”

“Then please sit before you injure yourself. And hear the rest of what I have to say.”

Tardini remained standing for a moment before lowering himself unsteadily into his chair with the help of Archbishop Colombo of Naples.

“For centuries,” said Donati, “this Church of ours has seen enemies and threats everywhere it looked. Science, secularism, humanism, pluralism, relativism, socialism, Americanism.” Donati paused, then added quietly, “The Jews. But the enemy, gentlemen, is much closer at hand. He is in this very room tonight. And he will be in the Sistina tomorrow afternoon when you cast your first ballot. Forty-two of you succumbed to temptation and accepted money from him in exchange for your vote. Twelve of you were so thoroughly corrupt, so brazen, you deposited that money in your accounts at the Vatican Bank.” Donati smiled at Tardini. “Isn’t that correct, Eminence?”

It was Colombo who blundered to Tardini’s defense. “I demand that you withdraw your slanderous accusation at once!”

“I’d watch my step if I were you, Colombo. You accepted money, too, although your payment was considerably less than the one wily old Tardini received.”

Albanese was now walking up the center aisle. “And what about you, Archbishop Donati? How much did you receive?”

“Two million euros.” Donati waited for the pandemonium to subside before continuing. “In case any of you are wondering, I am not a member of the Order of St. Helena. In fact, the Order and I were on different sides when I was a missionary in the Morazán Province of El Salvador. They sided with the junta and the death squads. I worked with the poor and dispossessed. Nor am I a voting-eligible cardinal. So the only explanation for the deposit in my account is that it was a pointless attempt to compromise me.”

“You compromised yourself,” said Albanese, “when you crawled into the bed of that whore!”

“Is that your phone I hear ringing, Albanese? You’d better answer it. I’m sure Bishop Richter is anxious to know what’s happening in this chapel.”

Albanese thundered a denial, which was drowned out by the tumult in the room. Most of the cardinals were now on their feet. Donati raised a placatory hand, to no effect. He had to shout to be heard.

“And to think how many poor people we could have clothed and fed with that money. Or how many children we might have vaccinated. Or how many schools we might have built. My God, I could have cared for my entire village for a year with that amount of money.”

“Then perhaps you should give it away,” suggested Albanese.

“Oh, I intend to. All of it.” Donati looked at Tardini, who was trembling with rage. “How about you, Eminence? Will you do the same?”

Tardini swore a Sicilian blood threat.

“And you, Colombo? Will you join our pledge drive to help the poor and the sick? I expect you will. In fact, I anticipate a banner year for Catholic charities. That’s because all of you are going to surrender the money you received from the Order. Every last penny. Otherwise, I will destroy each of you.” His gaze settled coldly on Albanese. “Slowly. With pain.”

“I was paid nothing.”

“But you were there that night. You were the one who found the Holy Father’s body.” Donati paused. “In the study.”

Cardinal Duarte appeared on the verge of tears. “Archbishop Donati, what are you saying?”

A silence descended over the room. It was like the silence, thought Donati, of the grotto beneath the altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, where Pietro Lucchesi’s body lay inside three coffins, a small puncture wound in his right thigh.

“What I am saying is that my master was taken from us too soon. There was much more work to