Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

Once more a cloud of black smoke issued from the Sistine Chapel chimney as Flight 401 from Tel-Aviv touched down at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.

‘I think I’m in the wrong business,’ Patrick O’Hara whispered to Allegra as they followed David and the Shin Bet agents through a private doorway and the Italian customs agent waved them straight through.

‘ Buongiorno, Signor, Signora. Benvenuti a Roma.’

‘It has its compensations,’ Allegra agreed. ‘Mind you, it would want to!’

There were two cars and despite David indicating that it was a private visit and a request for things to be done on a low key, they came with the inevitable carabinieri escort.

‘At least the media aren’t anywhere in sight,’ David said to Allegra as they followed the police escort in the first car with Patrick following in the second.

‘Give them time,’ Allegra said cynically.

‘Be fair,’ David said. ‘They haven’t had someone quite so photogenic as you in public life in years. Golda Meir might have been a great stateswoman, but she was no oil painting.’

‘David!’ Allegra whispered, tilting her head towards the Shin Bet driver and agent in the front seat. She needn’t have worried, the agents from the Personal Protection Unit had smiles wider than David’s.

‘Do you think the media in Jerusalem will get wind of you being away?’

‘The most feared investigative journalist in Jerusalem is about to join us at the Vatican. For the rest of them they’ll be told it’s urgent family business.’

‘I guess that much is true, Giovanni is certainly part of the family. When do we raise the other issue?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the diplomatic briefcase that David had not let out of his hands since they’d left Israel. Inside it was the priceless Omega Scroll.

‘After the conclave, if they can make up their minds quickly. If not, you will have to stay on.’

‘Let’s hope they can decide,’ Allegra said putting her hand on David’s knee and leaning over to kiss him. ‘Thank you so much for this.’

‘There will be a price,’ David said instantly.

‘You are dreadful!’

Half an hour later the Swiss Guard on St Anne’s Gate snapped to attention.

Father Thomas showed them in to the Secretary of State’s opulent waiting room. ‘The Camerlengo sends his apologies,’ he said smoothly, ‘but he has been delayed for a few minutes, can I get you some coffee? Tea?’

‘He might have agreed to see us,’ Patrick warned when Father Thomas had withdrawn, ‘but he’s no doubt furious at the thought of interrupting the conclave. We’ll just have to play it by ear.’

A short while later Patrick O’Hara’s fears were realised.

‘Absolutely out of the question, Bishop O’Hara!’

Cardinal Monetti’s eyes blazed and his face suddenly matched the colour of the scarlet zucchetto that partly covered his bald head.

‘Even if those allegations against Cardinal Petroni were true, which I very much doubt, the Holy Spirit decides this election and I will certainly not be an agent provocateur on yours or anyone else’s behalf.’ Cardinal Monetti turned to David. He reminded Allegra of a ferocious terrier.

‘I regret that I cannot be of greater assistance, Dr Kaufmann, although I must confess to being somewhat confused as to why a possible future Prime Minister of Israel would allow himself to become so closely involved with such a tawdry allegation. If any word of this ever got out,’ he said pointedly, ‘it could cost you your election.’

‘My decision to come over here today is guided by one thing and one thing only,’ David replied evenly. ‘The truth. To be blunt, Eminence, the Catholic Church has covered this sort of thing up for far too long and in many cases the truth has run a bad second to Church image and politics. That said, I respect your decision. I would ask that you respect mine.’

‘Father Thomas will show you out,’ Cardinal Monetti replied coolly. ‘If you will excuse me, I have a conclave to attend to.’

‘Where did they find him?’ Tom asked as, to the consternation of their bodyguards, they decided to join the crowd that had gathered in St Peter’s Square in the hope of seeing white smoke issue from the Sistine Chapel chimney.

Giovanni left the Sistine Chapel and retired to his room for a session of prayer in the break between votes. Initially he had been somewhat bemused, but as his name was read out an astonishing forty-two times he had become at first concerned, and then alarmed. He sank to his knees, his mind racing. What if they elected him? It was unthinkable. He consoled himself with the thought that Petroni had done as well as he was going to and the next ballot would see either of his friends Rodriguez Medici or Daniel Thuku come through. Either, he knew, would make an outstanding Pope.

Cardinal Thuku was chatting quietly with some of the cardinals from the African bloc. ‘I know him well, my friend, he has a brilliant mind and a gentle heart. As to the other question, how much notice should we take of media releases that are timed to be issued the day before the conclave?’

On the other side of the room Rodriguez Medici was also in quiet conversation with some of his Asian colleagues. Some of the Italian bloc were listening quietly to Salvatore Bruno.

A short while later the crowd in St Peter’s Square erupted as great clouds of white smoke poured out of the Sistine Chapel chimney.

‘My God, David,’ Allegra exclaimed, grabbing David’s arm. ‘They’ve reached a decision! Please God, don’t let it be Petroni!’ It was an entreaty to a God she had not spoken with for a long time.

Inside the Sistine Chapel the Camerlengo had announced the results of the third ballot.

‘Cardinal Rodriguez Medici, one vote.’

Giovanni had stuck to his man to the last.

‘Cardinal Lorenzo Petroni, twelve votes.’

‘Cardinal Giovanni Donelli, one hundred and two votes.’

Giovanni felt utterly bewildered. Cardinal Salvatore Bruno was beaming at him from the other side of the chapel. As the Dean of the College of Cardinals approached down the centre aisle in the chapel, the words of Giovanni’s old mentor flooded back to him: ‘If they offer you the Keys to St Peter, accept. It will be for a reason.’

‘Do you accept your canonical election as supreme Pontiff?’ Giovanni heard the words in the distance and his reply caught in his throat.

‘Yes, I do,’ he said.

‘And by what name do you wish to be known?’

Without hesitation Giovanni replied, ‘John XXIV.’

The Master of Ceremonies joyfully threw in no fewer than six candles with the ballots and Rome’s Il Capo di Fuoco Vigiliare could have been forgiven for thinking Michelangelo’s priceless fresco was under threat as more white smoke belched out over the Piazza San Pietro. As the Cardinal Deacon came out onto the main balcony of St Peter’s and intoned the words Habemus papam, the packed square of St Peter’s erupted again.

‘We have a Pope! Pope John XXIV!’ At the mention of a successor to the much loved John XXIII of ‘ sono fa brutto ’ fame, the roar of the crowd reached a crescendo. When Allegra saw Giovanni step onto the balcony of St Peter’s her eyes filled with tears. Giovanni’s secretary Vittorio also wiped away a tear. His beloved Church, he knew, was in good hands as the warmth of Giovanni’s smile seemed to fill the square.

Roma

T he next day Pope John XXIV knelt in prayer in his private chapel, asking for guidance and support. The task he had been given was awesome and Giovanni felt very alone.

The Spirit smiled.

Getting to his feet and crossing himself he walked back towards his study on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace to find Vittorio waiting for him. The two worked well together and despite opposition from Cardinal Petroni, immediately after his election, Giovanni had promoted Vittorio to Monsignor and asked him to stay on in Rome as his private secretary.