But rarely had it changed.
It was presently controlled by the Apostolic Constitution Pastor bonus, issued by John Paul II in 1988, later revised by Francis I.
The waiter arrived with his rabbit stew in a thick-sided crockery bowl, leaving it, along with a basket of warm bread and another glass of wine. He took a moment and enjoyed the stew’s aroma, remembering the way his mother would make the same dish. She’d spend Friday evenings searching for the best rabbit, killing it herself, then dressing and chopping the carcass, marinating the meat with red wine. He and his brother would watch the preparations with fascination, standing on their tiptoes, peering over the counter.
And the sounds.
They’d stayed in his psyche.
The basso tick of a clock hanging on the kitchen wall. The deep bongs of distant church bells. The water boiling. The snap of bone.
Saturday morning the house would wake to the smell of garlic as the stew simmered. He knew all of her ingredients by heart. Tomato passata, olive oil, sugar, bay leaves, carrots, potatoes, peas.
A wondrous mix.
He enjoyed a spoonful of what sat before him.
Not bad.
The restaurant prepared an admirable stew, but it was nothing like what his mother had created.
He missed those weekends.
Before the orphanage. Where there’d been no stew.
No mother.
Spagna was right. He had become a thief and a liar. Why didn’t the mother superior do something? Why had she allowed it to happen? He didn’t for a moment believe God had intervened, sending him off to the seminary and a new life. Faith was not something he’d ever totally embraced. Odd for a cardinal. But he could not help it. Fate was more his style. His life had been a series of fateful events, each one sending him along a seemingly predetermined path to this moment. Had he messed up with the last pope? Absolutely. But what did he have to feel bad about? According to what he’d just read, the Holy See seemed riddled with thieves and liars, too.
He kept eating.
The Roman Catholic Church carried the distinction of being the oldest continuous human institution in the world. It could deal with just about anything except the unexpected—and a pope dying in an instant certainly fit into that category.
Popes came in cycles of young and old.
A young Pius XII, then an old John XXIII. A vibrant Paul VI, followed by the frail John Paul I. The lion John Paul II, succeeded by the elder placeholder Benedict XVI. The pattern stretched back centuries, rarely varying. The last Vicar of Christ, now lying in the crypt beneath St. Peter’s, had been older. His reign had been intended to be short, about a decade, giving other challengers the time to amass support. The longest-serving pope remained the first. Peter. Some said thirty-four, others thirty-seven years. Nobody really knew. So if history were to be trusted, the next pope would be younger, lingering longer, potentially having a greater impact.
He liked that he would not have to disrupt the natural cycle.
He finished the stew and the waiter returned to carry away the dishes. He asked for more wine, which was poured. The young man had no idea who he was serving. He liked how he could move about the world with anonymity. Few outside of the Vatican knew or cared that he existed. And who was he anyway? Just a priest from a rock in the Mediterranean who’d risen to great stature, only to have it all stripped away. Thankfully, they could not take his red hat. Nor the friends he’d made. Men who remained in positions of power and influence and who would shortly be looking for a leader.
There’d been Greek, Syrian, African, Spanish, French, German, and Dutch popes. One Englishman, a single Pole, two laymen, and a ton of Italians. All were either nobles, former slaves, peasants, or aristocracy. Never, though, had there been a Portuguese, Irish, Scandinavian, Slovak, Slovenian, Bohemian, Hungarian, or American pope.
Nor a Maltese.
Thankfully, that blood vessel suddenly rupturing would limit the cardinals’ time for scheming. And make no mistake, cardinals schemed. The whole idea of sealing them away had been to limit the opportunities for bribery and shorten the time for deal making. The Latin root of the word conclave meant “a room that can be locked up.”
That meant few cardinals would be prepared for the coming battle. Thankfully, it appeared he would not be one of those.
He glanced down at the plastic binder.
Thank God one truth remained inviolate.
Powerful men wanted only one thing.
To keep their power.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cotton took a suite at Rome’s Hotel d’Inghilterra, on the top floor with a balcony that ran the length of the building, spring geraniums bursting from its planters. He was being paid top dollar, so, as with the Alfa Romeo, he decided to splurge. He sat on the bed and stared out the terrace doors. Golden blocks of sunshine washed in through the clear glass. Beyond the railing stretched the city’s trademarked irregularly shaped roofs, with their gnarled pipe vents and ceramic-crowned chimneys, satellite dishes the only nod to the 21st century.
He’d flown south with Sir James Grant in a private jet, the trip a quick seventy minutes, during which he’d learned little more about what was happening. Their talks had been about books and world affairs. Along the way he’d confirmed a transfer of one hundred thousand euros into his Danish account. Not that the Brits didn’t have credit with him. It was just always better to be paid in advance.
He needed a shower and a change of clothes, so he took advantage of the hotel’s amenities, the spacious bathroom an amalgam of shiny marble and mirrors. He’d chosen the Inghilterra not only for its reputation but also for its location. It sat only a short distance away from the Via Condotti, the most popular shopping street in Rome, an endless panorama of high-end clothes, leather, silver, glass, jewelry, and stationery. Also on the Via Condotti, at number 68, sat the Palazzo di Malta.
In 1798, when the Hospitallers were tossed from Malta by Napoleon, they wandered the world searching for a home. Finally in 1834 they found one in Rome. Two villas, one here, the other—Villa del Priorato di Malta—a few miles away atop Aventine Hill. About an acre and a half of territory between the two, both independent, holding allegiance to no one, a Roman Catholic country unto itself, making up the smallest sovereign nation in the world.
On the flight south he’d also made use of the onboard WiFi, learning as much as possible about the Hospitallers. Incredibly, they still existed, over nine hundred years after their founding. They were governed by a chapter general of the membership that met once every five years to choose a sovereign council of six members and six high officers who administered things on an everyday basis. The grand master supervised it all, elected for life, holding the rank of cardinal but with no conclave vote for pope. No longer warrior-monks, today they were a quiet, pious, humanitarian organization supporting international health care, operating war zone refugee camps, caring for South American slum children, treating leprosy in Africa and Asia, managing first-aid clinics in the Middle East, running blood banks, ambulance services, soup kitchens, and field hospitals worldwide. Their help was extended to all, regardless of race, creed, or religion. Membership, though, came by invitation only, with a current roster of over thirteen thousand men and women divided into two classes of knights and dames. Protestants, Jews, Muslims, and divorced people were not allowed. More than 40 percent of the members were connected in some way with Europe’s oldest Catholic families. Over one hundred thousand people worked for the organization, 80 percent of those volunteers.