The Caravaggio Conspiracy (31 page)

Halfway down the aisle, with Dempsey and Maya sitting next to him, O’Malley said a silent prayer.

As the choir of St Peter’s began a soaring anthem, Della Chiesa and Bosani – who as Camerlengo was the sole member of the hierarchy still in office – then led cardinals in procession from the Basilica to the nearby Domus Sanctae Marthae, built on the orders of John Paul II to house cardinals in civilized conditions during conclaves. By tradition and canon law, the electors would not re-emerge until a new pope was elected, notice of which would be conveyed by white smoke issuing from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

Along with the cardinals, into the hostel went the secretary of the College of Cardinals; the papal master of ceremonies and his three assistants (who would prepare the new pontiff for his investiture); the former dean’s secretary; confessors; two doctors and a selection of cooks and housekeepers, most of them nuns. No televison, radio or newspapers were permitted. Mobile phones and Blackberrys were confiscated. There would be no communication of any kind with the outside world. Security was provided by the Swiss Guard, commanded personally by Colonel Studer.

Outside, the crowds in St Peter’s Square continued to grow. By lunchtime, police estimated that as many as 300,000 people had arrived from every corner of the globe. There were nuns from Ethiopia and Uganda; priests from France and Paraguay; worshippers from Wisconsin and the Ukraine. There were even parties of Japanese tourists and punks from London – well-wishers of every religion and none. No other international event, with the possible exception of the World Cup, could have produced such a multitude.

Dempsey, granted a special security pass by Colonel Studer, pushed his way through the heaving throng with Maya. Unknown to anyone, Franco Lucchese was also there. For he, too, was on a special mission.

The first black smoke, indicating a failed ballot, emerged from the chapel chimney after two hours. A groan of disappointment rose up from onlookers. Most of those present, including a majority of Italians, were in good humour, soaking up the carnival atmosphere and not wanting it to end too quickly. But others were dour and intense, like compulsive gamblers, rooting for their preferred candidates. The fervour shown reminded Dempsey of passionate meetings in town squares at which Shiite clergy would stir up renewed hatred of the Kurds. He sensed unease as well as expectation among sections of the faithful and couldn’t help becoming wary himself. He tried to imagine how Bosani would play it. He wanted his man elected and had done everything in his power to influence the cardinals’ choice. But he left nothing to chance and was sure to have one final trick up his sleeve. Dempsey did his best to keep his wits about him. The Swiss Guard, armed with more than medieval halberds, were on duty outside all entrances, backed by the papal gendarmerie. The security services of the Vatican and Italy had men
patrolling
St Peter’s Square and its environs. More than a thousand officers from the Rome city police were on duty, with hundreds more in reserve. Closed-circuit cameras surveyed the crowd. A helicopter flew overhead.

Another puff of black smoke curled up from the chimney. This meant that another vote had failed to produce a result. Voting, ideally, was by ‘inspiration’.

The mood of the gathering would be judged by the dean and Camerlengo and a name put out for approval by acclamation. Inspiration, however, was extremely rare. The standard practice, when no obvious candidate emerged, was an elaborate process of secret balloting, known as ‘scrutiny’, aimed at finding someone who had the support of two-thirds of the electors. This could take days, sometimes weeks. Another groan rose from the crowd. Whatever was going to happen, it was clear it wasn’t going to happen quickly. As the mid-summer temperature continued to soar, an unstoppable lethargy overtook the multitude, which slowly spread to the police and security services. It was as if the world and everything in it had stopped for the afternoon.

Shortly after four, Dempsey took a call from his uncle on his mobile. ‘I wish I could be there with you, Liam. What was it the O’Rahilly said as he set out for the GPO in 1916? “I’ve helped to wind the clock, now I’ve come to hear it strike.” But the truth is, I’d only provoke a riot. Best if I stay out of sight for a while. After all, there’s nothing more anyone can do.’

‘Isn’t there, though?’ Dempsey replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bosani’s in there. I don’t doubt that Plan A is unfolding as we speak. He will have prepared the ground and mustered his troops. But there has to be something more – something we haven’t thought of. From what you tell me, there are few enough liberals left in the College of Cardinals, which is as old school as they come. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to have everything his own way. What about the pragmatists, or the ones who simply want the Church to continue on its own terms? They won’t want to vote for someone who could end up leading Europe into an unwinnable war with Islam. There has to be something else – a Plan B – that will drive the waverers over the edge and persuade them of the
rightness
of his cause.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m trying to put myself in his position. I’ve lived among madmen, don’t forget. Iraq was full of them. They don’t stop at half-measures. If he can’t change things from the inside, it’ll have to be from the outside.’

‘Oh, dear Lord!’ his uncle said.

‘What?’

‘A suicide bomber!’

For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Demspey said, ‘That’s what I was thinking. But he wouldn’t dare … would he?’

‘He might. He just might. The man is demonic – a monster. He’s already killed one of his own, as well as Cardinal Rüttgers. Why not 500 Catholic pilgrims? The way he sees it, he’d be doing God’s work.’

‘It would also explain why Yilmaz Hakura is in town.’

‘Exactly. Bosani is like an army general calling in special forces.’

‘… who can be counted on to perform the actions that others would baulk at.’ Dempsey thought hard for a moment. He could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest. ‘Call Colonel Studer,’ he said. ‘He’s the only one we know with the clearance to make something of this.’

‘I’ll get onto it right away. And I’ll speak to Aprea … he’ll know who to contact to get things moving. Meanwhile, keep your eyes skinned – and get Maya the hell out of there.’

Maya had been talking to two tourists from Lyon while Demspey was on the phone. Now she looked alarmed. ‘You’ve turned pale,’ she said. ‘What did your uncle just say to you?’

‘I want you to go home,’ Demspey said. ‘Seriously. Get inside and stay there. Bosani has only one card left to play and I don’t want you around for it.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘If you see your father, tell him there could be a suicide bomber in St Peter’s Square, dressed as a priest, or a nun, or just an
ordinary
tourist. It could be anybody.’

Maya’s face turned pale. ‘Good God! What are you going to do?’

‘My uncle’s contacting police headquarters. In the meantime, I’m going to keep my eyes open, see if there’s anyone acting suspiciously. Other than that, I swear to God, I don’t know.’

Less than a hundred metres away, also in St Peter’s Square, Franco was engaged in his own search for the bomber. Renzo Giacconi, his Genovese capo, had been shocked to learn from him that Father Visco, far from being an opponent of Islam, was actually a Muslim himself, trying to foment a war with Christian Europe.

‘But Visco was only a puppet,’ he had said. ‘The question is, who is pulling the strings?’

Franco had thought about this. When the truth hit him, it was with a sense of shock. Yes. Bosani was the puppet master. Who else could it possibly be? The truth had been staring him in the face for years. Visco had always done the Camerlengo’s bidding. He was no more than his master’s voice, desperate to please through every word and action. The assassin had been raised in a culture of hierarchy – Church, Mafia and the army – and could not imagine how someone of Visco’s essentially empty nature could simply have drifted into such a dangerous conspiracy. His conversion could only have come about at the behest of a powerful personality, and there was no more powerful personality in Rome than Cardinal Lamberto Bosani.

The Camerlengo had always been careful to sound like he was the most Catholic of high Catholics when Franco was around. But how else could he play it? He could hardly have confessed all to a mere hitman. The justification he gave for the actions he ordered (followed invariably by five minutes in the confessional with Father Visco) was that, in setting the Church and Islam at each other’s throats, he was doing God’s work, helping prepare the way for the ultimate triumph of Christ. Though dismayed by the murder of priests, even a prince of the Church, Franco had comforted himself that Bosani knew what he was doing and that he, for his part, was only following orders. But now, after talking with his capo, he felt that he had been used and, worse than that, betrayed. And who was to say that when Bosani’s final purpose was achieved, he wouldn’t find some reason to extinguish the faithful Franco? That would be a sensible move. It would tie up a dangerous loose end and reduce the circle of those who understood his true purpose. There was also his mother to consider. Mama would be horrified to learn that her son, however unwittingly, had acted against Jesus and His Holy Mother, and Franco was not one to offend his mother, even after she was dead.

Giacconi was following the news from Rome with great care and attention and believed he had worked out Bosani’s likely strategy. Once you accepted, he said, that the cardinal was not who he said he was, but a Muslim agent set on bringing down the Church, the suicide-bomber ploy followed as night followed day. Franco had been despatched on the overnight train from Genoa, and told to keep a close watch in St Peter’s Square for any signs of trouble. He was then under orders to do whatever was necessary to stop it. From a payphone in the terminus in Rome, he had called the security services and left an anonymous warning of a threat to pilgrims, which he assumed would be ignored. Other than that, he reasoned, there was nothing more he could do.

It was therefore a fact that by 4.30 in the afternoon, both Dempsey and Franco were actively looking for a bomber. DIGOS, aware of the possible presence in Rome of Yilmaz Hakura, was aware that anything could happen and had circulated details of the Hizb ut-Tahrir operative. But the Vatican’s position was that there was no reason to fear a terrorist attack. They were on high alert because the election of the Pope was that kind of an occasion, but in their hearts they did not expect to have to deal with more than medical alerts, occasional rowdies and the inevitable upsurge of joy that would greet the first puff of white smoke.

O’Malley had tried and failed to contact Colonel Studer, who was not using his normal mobile phone. He left a message with the front desk and on his
voicemail
. Maya hadn’t reached her father either. Not even her mother had any hope of speaking with the colonel until the new Pope was announced and the crowds had dispersed. Frustrated, she had then called the Rome police and told a duty officer of Dempsey’s fears of a suicide bomber in St Peter’s Square. The young woman duly took a note and promised to pass it on. It later turned out that Maya’s call was the 147th that day with essentially the same message.

Equally frustrated, not knowing how best to be useful in a situation that had escalated far beyond his control, O’Malley called Chief Inspector Aprea, and agreed to meet him in the control room of the Vatican Security Corps, part of the gendarmerie, based on an upper floor of the Governate. The control room was the hub of the surveillance operation. Scores of high-resolution LCD screens were arranged in banks along one side of the room, monitored by trained officers able to zoom in on groups and individuals gathered in the square.

Aprea had already spoken to the inspector in charge, asking him to direct his officers to look out for anyone, including religious and clergy, carrying too much bulk or seeming to have another purpose in mind than celebration of a new pope.

Below, standing on the pedestal of the Egyptian obelisk in the centre of the square, Dempsey was beginning to think that he must have got it all wrong. There was no bomber and Bosani’s cause was lost. He started to think about Maya and wondered how soon they could meet up again once all this was over.

Fifty metres away, Franco was coming to the same conclusion. The Camerlengo was a ruthless man and his behaviour in recent months had been increasingly bizarre. But was it honestly possible that he could be a Muslim? It was crazy stuff. The capo was deluding himself. He was so used to people who lied to him about everything, just to save their skins, that he couldn’t recognize truth any longer. And even if he was right and the Camerlengo had switched faiths, not even he, for God’s sake, would set off a bomb among a crowded throng of pilgrims come to greet their new Pope.

Dempsey and Franco, without knowing it, were less than fifty metres apart. The Italian had dyed his newly shorn hair and was again wearing dark glasses. The last thing he wanted was to be picked up by the police. He was watching for any kind of supicious movement, especially from anyone who might be an Arab or an Iranian, or any kind of Muslim … but also for shifty-looking priests, or nuns carrying a bit too much weight.

Dempsey, having seen the results of two suicide bombs in Iraq, was equally vigilant, but here, out of the Middle-East context, was less sure what a potential bomber would look like. He was also curious to learn what was going on in the conclave, which had failed twice now to produce a result and ought to be gearing up for the final ballot of the day. Bosani was clearly a man possessed and would be working to set up someone he could control – a small-minded bigot with a martyr complex. But there were no guarantees. What if the conclave chose a technocrat like Ratzinger, who became Benedict XVI, or a saint like Roncalli – John XXIII – or a bore like Montini, who as Paul VI presided over twenty-five years of stasis? Who among the crowd of pensioners he had watched shuffling into the Sistine Chapel, worried about their prostates, their bad hearts and their flatulence, was really capable of turning the world upside down and leading the West towards an early date with Armageddon?