He wore a black wool cassock and Roman collar, looking very much the priest. For someone with so little regard for his profession, he seemed entirely comfortable with its physical trappings.
“—that’s right, in the old days, ballots were simply burned after each scrutiny with either dry or wet straw to produce black or white smoke. Now a chemical is added to produce color. There’s been a lot of confusion in recent conclaves about the smoke. Apparently even the Catholic Church can, at times, let science make matters easier.”
“What have you been hearing about tomorrow?” asked the female correspondent sitting beside Kealy.
Kealy turned his attention toward the camera. “My guess is that there are two favorites. Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea. Ngovi would be the first African pope since the first century and could do a lot for his home continent. Look what John Paul II did for Poland and Eastern Europe. Africa could likewise use a champion.”
“But are Catholics ready for a black pope?”
Kealy gave a shrug. “What does it matter anymore? Most of today’s Catholics are from Latin and South America and Asia. The European cardinals no longer dominate. All of the popes since John XXIII made sure of that by expanding the Sacred College and packing it with non-Italians. The Church would be better off, in my opinion, with Ngovi than Valendrea.”
She smiled. Kealy was apparently having his revenge on the righteous Alberto Valendrea. Interesting how the tide had turned. Nineteen days ago, Kealy was on the receiving end of a Valendrea barrage, on the way to excommunication. But during the interregnum, that tribunal, along with everything else, was suspended. Now here was the accused, on worldwide television, disparaging his chief accuser, a man about to make a serious run for the papacy.
“Why would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?” asked the correspondent.
“Valendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. He’s also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.”
“Some might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.”
Kealy shook his head. “You spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernize—do a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institution—then toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. He’s the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when there’s somebody like Ngovi, equally as
A hand on Katerina’s shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.
“He doesn’t seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,” the priest whispered.
“Get your hand off my shoulder.”
A smile frayed the edges of Ambrosi’s mouth and he withdrew his hand. “I thought you might be here.” He motioned to Kealy. “With your paramour.”
A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. “What do you want?”
“Surely you don’t want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.”
“I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt I’m your type.”
Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.
“It’s disgusting,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. “They think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.”
“And I’m sure the collection boxes in St. Peter’s have been closed since Clement died.”
“You have a smart mouth.”
“What’s wrong? The truth hurt?”
They were beyond the Vatican, on Roman streets, strolling down a
“Colin Michener is going to Bosnia. His Eminence wants you to go with him and report what he does.”
“You didn’t even care about Romania. I haven’t heard a word from you till now.”
“That became unimportant. This is more so.”
“I’m not interested. Besides, Colin is going to Romania.”
“Not now. He’s going to Bosnia. To the shrine at Medjugorje.”
She was confused. Why would Michener feel the need to make such a pilgrimage, especially after his earlier comments?
“His Eminence urged me to make clear that a friend within the Vatican is still available to you. Not to mention the ten thousand euros already paid.”
“He said that money was mine. No questions.”
“Interesting. Apparently, you’re not a cheap whore.”
She slapped his face.
Ambrosi showed no surprise. He simply stared back at her through piercing eyes. “You shall not strike me again.” There was a bitter edge to his voice, one she did not like.
“I’ve lost interest in being your spy.”
“You are an impertinent bitch. My only hope is that His Eminence tires of you soon. Then, perhaps, I will pay you a return visit.”
She stepped back. “Why is Colin going to Bosnia?”
“To find one of the Medjugorje seers.”
“What is all this with seers and the Virgin Mary?”
“I assume, then, you are familiar with the Bosnian apparitions.”
“They’re nonsense. You don’t really believe the Virgin Mary appeared to those children every day for all those years, and is still appearing to one of them.”
“The Church has yet to validate any of the visions.”
“And that seal of approval is going to make it real?”
“Your sarcasm is tiresome.”
“So are you.”
But a stirring of interest was forming inside her. She didn’t want to do anything for Ambrosi or Valendrea, and she’d stayed in Rome only because of Michener. She’d learned that he moved from the Vatican—Kealy had reported that as part of an analysis on the aftermath of a papal death—but she hadn’t made any effort to track him down. Actually, after their encounter earlier, she’d toyed with the idea of following him to Romania. But now another possibility had opened. Bosnia.
“When does he leave?” she asked, hating herself for sounding interested.
Ambrosi’s eyes flickered in satisfaction. “I don’t know.” The priest slid a hand under his cassock and came out with a scrap of paper. “That’s the address for his apartment. It’s not far from here. You could . . . comfort him. His mentor is gone, his life in chaos. An enemy will soon be pope—”
“Valendrea is quite sure of himself.”
She ignored his question. “And the problem?”
“You think Colin’s vulnerable? That he’ll open up to me—even let me go with him?”
“That’s the idea.”
“He’s not that weak.”
Ambrosi smiled. “I’m betting that he is.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
ROME, 7:00 P.M.
Michener strolled down the Via Giotto toward the apartment. The quarter surrounding him had evolved into a gathering spot for the theater crowd, its streets lined with lively cafes that had long hosted intellectuals and political radicals. He knew that Mussolini’s rise to power had been organized nearby, and thankfully most of the
