The Parchment (36 page)

“Professor Michellini died this morning at 7:32
A.M
. We are contacting her family.”

Barbo was stunned. “How did it happen?”

“For that, you must talk to someone on staff. I'll page Doctor Tolato.”

In five minutes, a young intern arrived at the information desk. “Dr. Tolato is performing surgery at the moment. He asked me to meet with you. I understand you are a friend of Professor Michellini?”

“Yes, how did she die?”

“Dr. Tolato had just finished aspirating her right lung. She seemed fine until she started to cough up blood. We rushed her to the emergency room, but it was too late. I'm being frank. We just don't know what happened.”

Cardinal Barbo asked for an envelope. “Do me a favor, Doctor. If Professor Michellini has any remaining hospital charges, take them out of this.” Cardinal Barbo took off his ring and put it in the envelope. “If there's anything else that I can do, please contact me.” Barbo handed the intern a business card.

“Certainly.”

When the intern read the name on the card, he was at a loss. “Your Eminence, I'm sorry—perhaps some coffee — the director of the hospital will insist on greeting you.”

“I'm sorry, but I must return to the Vatican. The conclave begins tomorrow.”

The intern looked at a patient list. “Your Eminence, are you aware that Cardinal Galliardin was admitted to the hospital last night?”

“Pierre Galliardin?”

“Yes, his secretary brought the cardinal to the emergency room. He's resting in a private room. The cancer has spread.”

Barbo was visibly upset. “Take me to his room. He is an old friend.”

The intern escorted Barbo to a floor reserved for cancer patients. “Cardinal Galliardin is in the last room on the right.” The intern hurried off to tell the hospital director that a leading candidate for pope was in his hospital.

Barbo tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. Galliardin sat propped up in bed reading a magazine.

“Pierre, no one told me you were here.” Barbo was shocked at how pale and gaunt Galliardin looked. His cheeks were as white as the sheets on his bed.

“Francesco, I have grown old. Unfortunately, my cancer has grown as well. Now there are lesions in the liver. But enough talk about my health. Tell me about the General Congregation. Does Diefenbacher have a chance? I hope not.”

“There are many who support him.”

“Fools, all of them!” Galliardin hurled his magazine to the floor. “Are they blind to the harm he will cause the Church? I'm eighty-eight, but they won't let wise old owls like me be heard
in the conclave.” Barbo could see that Galliardin was becoming agitated.

“We have been friends for a long time, Francesco. You have grown in the job of secretary of state. I've watched from the sidelines. You have the natural instincts of a diplomat.”

Barbo laid a hand on Galliardin's shoulder. “I had a good mentor. You taught me the importance of nuance and subtlety—how an arched eyebrow can speak volumes.”

“I understand there's much talk of your becoming our next Holy Father. Some see it as a choice among Diefenbacher, Chavez, and you. They say Diefenbacher will come close but fall short of the necessary eighty-three votes. Chavez will not be able to get that many either. Both sides will turn to you as a compromise choice.”

Barbo laughed. “What's the saying? ‘He who enters the conclave pope comes out cardinal.’”

Galliardin got out of bed carefully and walked slowly to a chair. “Before I was admitted here last night, I received a call from an old friend, Aldo Cacaglio.”

“The mayor of Palermo?” Barbo had met Cacaglio at a dinner party at Pietro Visconti's home.

“Yes. He wanted to know what would happen in the conclave.” Barbo gave Galliardin a good-natured look. “Cacaglio chose the right person to call.”

“Thank you, Francesco. But there was more to what he said.”

“More?” Barbo bent down to pick up the magazine Galliardin had thrown on the floor. Barbo saw that the front page story was an interview with Cardinal Calvaux.

“Cacaglio was quite circumspect, but he was clearly using me to pass a message to you. He knows that we are friends.”

“What was the message?”

Galliardin hesitated before continuing. “The Mafia could help you become the next pope. There are at least five cardinals who will do their bidding.”

Barbo smiled at his old friend. “There's always talk of this or that bishop being connected to organized crime, but to say that
there are five electors who would vote for the candidate selected by the Mafia—I refuse to accept that.”

Galliardin poured himself a glass of water. “I'm amazed that there aren't more of them. It's costly to run a diocese.”

“And the price for Mafia support?”

“Cacaglio didn't say. I'm not sure he even knows. All he said was that Barbo would know what the price is.”

“Was there anything else in Cacaglio's message?”

“Yes. If you wish the support of the five cardinals, submit a blank ballot on the first vote of the conclave. When the tally comes up one short, they'll know you've agreed to what the Mafia wants.”

“As well as anyone, you know that I won't allow myself to owe the papacy to the Mafia. I've already told them that I will not do business with them.”

Galliardin cleared his throat. “The Catholic Church is like an old tree, Francesco. It produces good fruit and bad fruit. What is so remarkable is that with all its imperfections and with all its faults, it perseveres.”

“You're not suggesting that I do the bidding of the Mafia?”

“I suggest nothing, Francesco. All I say is this. Anyone who sits in the Chair of Peter has made compromises along the way. The Church has learned—wisely I think—not to shine too much light on the complexities of a papal election. A glimpse or two by candlelight is more than sufficient. We all talk of the will of the Holy Spirit, but in the end, it is compromise that elects a pope.”

“But these are criminals — they....”

“Francesco,” Cardinal Galliardin scowled at his friend. “Didn't Pius XI sign the Lateran Treaty with Mussolini? Didn't he also sign a concordat with Hitler?”

“Yes.”

“They were distasteful compromises, but Pius agreed to them because he was a man who had both feet rooted here on earth. He was a realist, not a dreamer.”

“There's a difference between what Pius did and this. Mussolini and Hitler were heads of state; they were not ordinary criminals like those in the Mafia.”

“So where does this logic lead us? Nations perform criminal acts just like individuals do. We could write a criminal history of any country. You choose — Italy, France, the United States. There's little difference between making a compromise with Mussolini and making a compromise with the Mafia.”

“You argue your case well, my old friend, but I'm not convinced by your realpolitik.”

“Francesco, I don't know what the Mafia wants of you and I don't care to know. But I do know one thing. You understand diplomacy, and you are a courageous and compassionate man. I would rather see you on the Throne of Saint Peter than Chavez or Diefenbacher.”

“Even if I owed my election to the Mafia?” Barbo asked.

“Yes, even if you owed your election to the Mafia.”

A lonely church bell rang eleven o'clock. Barbo looked at his watch. “I must go, Pierre. The camerlengo wants me to attend this morning's session of the General Congregation to answer any last-minute questions about the situation in the Middle East. Once we are out of conclave, I will come back to see you.”

As Barbo stood up to leave, Galliardin took his hand. “You told me once about an image that the Templars used in their meditations. They concentrated on the place on the Cross where the vertical and horizontal bars come together.”

“Yes. For them, it was a symbol of the need to integrate the spiritual and the material. You have a good memory, Pierre.”

“The image stayed with me. I have often thought of it in my own meditations. Francesco, all I ask you to do is think of the problems facing the Church—the scandals in America, relations with Islam, the rise of Christian fundamentalism in Third World countries. Then decide where you should center yourself on the Cross.”

“You leave little room for the Holy Spirit.”

“The Holy Spirit works through our heads and our hearts. Consider what I've said, Francesco.”

Anticipation filled the streets of Rome as the cardinals met for the final session of the General Congregation. Cardinal Marini's agenda listed only a few last-minute items. Two cardinals, each with a pacemaker implant, asked that medical technicians be allowed to accompany them into the conclave. The requests were granted without debate. The only item that required discussion was an unusual request from Cardinal Stewart, the Archbishop of Melbourne, Australia. Stewart had undergone hip-replacement surgery. The cardinal's doctors would not let him fly until a month after the surgery. As a consequence, the earliest flight he could take would arrive at Leonardo da Vinci Airport late on the first day of the conclave. His request to enter the conclave late was granted, although several Latin American cardinals supporting Chavez voted against it. They assumed Stewart was a supporter of Diefenbacher.

As the cardinals left the final session of the General Congregation, several reporters tried to interview Cardinal Barbo but he smiled and continued walking. He did stop to speak with a troop of boy scouts from Milan. With their sleeping bags and knapsacks, they planned to sleep in the St. Peter's Square until the new pope was chosen. He blessed the group and jocularly prayed that the weather would not turn cold.

As Barbo walked into his office, Detective Cameri was sitting in the reception area.

He jumped to his feet when Barbo entered the room. “Your Eminence, I must have a word with you right now. Professor Mi-chellini is dead.”

“Yes, I know.”

Barbo escorted Cameri into his office and closed the door behind them.

“You know more than you're telling me. Who is behind this homicide? Visconti?”

Barbo did not respond. He knew what the alternatives were. He could meet privately with Diefenbacher and threaten that, unless the South African withdrew his candidacy for pope, Barbo would rise in the conclave and accuse Diefenbacher of having
bought stolen property from Visconti. An accusation like this coming from a respected cleric like Barbo would doom Diefen-bacher's chances of being elected pope. Not only that, the accusation would publicly humiliate him in front of his colleagues in the Sacred College. Given the consequences, Diefenbacher would have no choice but to withdraw his candidacy. If Barbo did that and nothing more, however, Diefenbacher would escape punishment for his possible complicity in Michellini's death. When the scandal over priestly sex abuse surfaced in the United States, Barbo was outspoken in his criticism of the subsequent cover-up by members of the episcopacy. If he failed to divulge Diefenbacher's possible involvement in Michellini's death, how was he any different from those American bishops? Failing to accuse a prince of the Church of possible complicity in murder was morally indistinguishable from failing to accuse wayward priests of child abuse.

“You must make me one promise, Cameri?”

“What is that?”

“What I tell you must be kept in confidence until you have proof of what I say.”

“You have my word.”

“I believe one of my colleagues — Hans Cardinal Diefenbacher— was involved in Michellini's death.”

“A prince of the Church?”

“Yes.”

“Why would Cardinal Diefenbacher conspire to kill Michellini?”

“Look at this, Cameri. It's a copy of a manuscript that Professors Bielgard and Michellini found in the Vatican Library. They used it to blackmail the Church.”

“What does it say?”

“It says that Jesus and the Magdalene were married and had two children. Bielgard and Michellini hired Visconti to blackmail the Church on their behalf.”

“But it didn't turn out that way.”

“No, it didn't. Once Visconti knew what the parchment said, he decided that he would use it against the Church in his own way. He had two of his men take the manuscript away from Bielgard and Michellini that night on Via di San Marco.”

“How much did he want from the Church?”

“It wasn't money. Visconti wanted favors for his clients — the use of Vatican bank accounts to transfer money, Vatican pressure on the Italian government to remove troublesome prosecutors. When I refused, he said he would sell it to Diefenbacher.”

“Why would Diefenbacher want it?”

“Votes in the conclave!”

“Ah, now I see. The parchment showing Jesus was married would allow him to attack priestly celibacy and the role of women in the Church.”

“Yes, he would become an instant hero of the liberal wing of the Sacred College. The parchment might be enough to put him in the Chair of Peter.”

“And the connection to Michellini?” Cameri thought for a moment. “Of course, she would be the only person who could realistically hurt Diefenbacher's chances. It would not help his papal aspirations if he were found to have bought stolen goods from the Mafia.”

“No, it wouldn't.”

“So you think Diefenbacher arranged her death?”

“‘Arranged’ may not be the precise word, but at some level, I'm sure Diefenbacher was involved in it.”

“Why have you told me all of this, Your Eminence?”

“I don't want Michellini's death on my conscience.”

“I cannot prosecute you as an accessory in the murder of either Bielgard or Michellini.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Can't. The Italian Government grants diplomatic immunity to both the pope as head of the Vatican state, and the secretary of state as head of the Vatican government. Office has its privileges.”

“I will not hide behind my office or a technicality.”

“I doubt the prime minister will want the Italian government caught up in a diplomatic controversy with the Holy See — particularly when it involves the Vatican secretary of state. But such immunity does not extend to Diefenbacher.”

The phone rang at Interpol's headquarters in Paris. “This is Detective Cameri from the Rome Police Department. Is Ira Panner there?”