The Devil Will Come Read Free Page B

me?’
    Paciolla, a tall cultured Roman accustomed to tending to rich and powerful men, didn’t seem fazed by the setting of the house-call or this particular patient. ‘Simply to inform Your Holiness – certainly not to bury you.’
    ‘Well, good,’ the Pope said. ‘The Holy See has more important matters to attend to than calling for a Conclave. Give me the report, then. Is it white smoke or black?’
    Paciolla looked at the floor for a moment, then met the Pope’s steady gaze. ‘The cancer has not responded to the chemotherapy. I’m afraid it’s spreading.’
    Cardinal Bishop Aspromonte poked his large balding head into the dining room to make sure that Cardinal Diaz’s favorite sparkling wine was on the table. It was a trifling detail for the Secretary of State and Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church but it was entirely within character. His private secretary, Monsignor Achille, a wiry man who had long ago followed Aspromonte from Genoa to the Vatican, directed his attention to the green bottle on the sideboard.
    Aspromonte mumbled his approval and disappeared for a moment, only to enter again when he heard the telephone ring. ‘That’s probably Diaz and Giaccone.’
    Achille picked up the dining-room phone, nodded, then commanded starchily, ‘Send them up.’
    ‘Five minutes early,’ Aspromonte said. ‘We’ve trained our guests well over the years, haven’t we?’
    ‘Yes, Your Eminence, I believe we have.’
    Monsignor Achille escorted Cardinals Diaz and Giaccone into the book-lined study where Aspromonte waited with his blue-veined hands clasped over his expansive belly. His private rooms were splendid, thanks to recent renovations courtesy of a wealthy Spanish family. He greeted the two men warmly, his jowls wobbling when he grasped their hands, then sent Achille scurrying for aperitifs.
    The three old friends wore red-trimmed black cassocks with wide red sashes but that was the extent of their similarities. Cardinal Diaz, the venerable Dean of the College of Cardinals who had formerly held Aspromonte’s job as Secretary of State, was at seventy-five the oldest but the most imposing. He towered over his colleagues. In his youth in Malaga before joining the priesthood he had been quite the boxer, a heavyweight, and he had carried this athleticism into old age. He had large hands, a squared-off face and ample grey hair but his most remarkable feature was his posture which gave him a strong upright appearance even when he was sitting.
    Cardinal Giaccone was the shortest, with a deeply lined and jowly pug face which could mysteriously change from scowl to grin with only the slightest shift of musculature. The little hair that he had left was confined to a fringe above his beefy neck. Though otherwise nondescript, if all the cardinals were to assemble on a sunny day he could always be picked out of the crowd because of his trademark oversized Prada sunglasses which made him look like a film director. He relaxed now, his worry about being late dissipated. There had been a traffic snarl-up on the way back from the Via Napoleone where, as President, he had held his monthly meeting with the staff of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology.
    ‘The lights are burning upstairs,’ Diaz said, pointing at the ceiling.
    The Pope’s apartment was two floors above their heads in the Vatican Palace.
    ‘I suppose that’s a good sign,’ Aspromonte said. ‘Maybe he has made some improvement today.’
    ‘When did you see him last?’ Giaccone asked.
    ‘Two days ago. Tomorrow I’ll visit again.’
    ‘How did he look?’ Diaz asked.
    ‘Weak. Pale. You can see the pain on his face but he’d never complain.’ Aspromonte looked at Diaz. ‘Come with me tomorrow. I don’t have any formal business. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.’
    Diaz nodded crisply, picked up the glass of Prosecco which Achille had placed by his chair and watched the tiny bubbles rise heavenward.
    The pain had been at an ebb for a