The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 29

SIX MONTHS INTO his Papacy, His Holiness Innocent XIV was no more used to the splendor of his changed surroundings than he was to his changed name. When he had first come to the Vatican forty years ago and met John XXIII in these same rooms, it had never occurred to him that he himself might one day occupy them. Indeed, the thought hadn’t truly crossed his mind until the sixth vote of the last conclave, when he’d thought it must be a mistake when his name was read out as having received a single vote. On the seventh ballot, he’d received more than fifty votes, and had been elected on the tenth, an event that had stunned him even more than the world beyond the confines of the Sistine Chapel.

In his own mind he was still Pietro Vitali, from the Tuscan hills north of Rome.

And he still enjoyed eating a small and simple supper alone at his desk while he tried to complete the day’s work, even though that desk was now in the Papal apartment. The moment he put his fork down on the empty plate, both plate and fork were whisked away by an attendant who seemed to appear out of nowhere by the kind of magic of which the Church thoroughly disapproved. As the servant disappeared as silently as he’d appeared, the Pope sipped his tea and spent a quiet moment enjoying the exquisite art that decorated the walls.

As he was reflecting on the poverty of the priesthood, a soft rap at the door announced the arrival of his final appointment of the day.

“Cardinal Morisco to see you, Your Holiness,” the young Swiss priest, who served as his secretary, said as he opened the door.

With a sigh, the Pope rose from his desk chair. He didn’t especially want to see Morisco this evening; he was tired and had an enormous amount of reading still to do before retiring, but the Cardinal had been insistent and tomorrow’s schedule held no opportunities. He nodded his readiness to the secretary, and was already moving toward the door when Morisco appeared. The Cardinal kneeled to kiss the gold Fisherman’s ring on his hand, but the Pope waved him back to his feet as the secretary vanished as silently as had the servant before him. “No need for that this late in the day, Guillermo. What is so important that you gave up your supper at Gianni’s just to see the likes of me?” The Pope settled into a chair that had been especially built for his diminutive stature, and indicated that Morisco sit across from him.

“Seeing you is always a pleasure, Holiness,” Morisco began, but once again the Pope brushed the formality aside.

“Why don’t we just get to the point, so you can get to Gianni’s and I — since I can no longer go to Gianni’s with you — can get to my reading?”

“After you see what I’ve just seen,” Morisco replied, dropping back into the easy familiarity he and Pietro Vitali had enjoyed for the last twenty years, “you might just want to go to Gianni’s with me, or at least have a bottle of his best Sangrantino sent up here.” As the Pope raised a skeptical brow, Morisco handed him the fax of Father Laughlin’s report to Cardinal Rand in Boston.

The Pontiff scanned the document for no more than a few seconds. “Another exorcism?” he asked, groaning silently. When he had been established for a year or two, he would be able to brush off some of these things. But for now he’d do better to give up twenty minutes listening to Morisco than to spend those same twenty minutes arguing that he knew far too much about all the ancient rites to be impressed by yet another in what seemed to be a growing flood of reports on exorcisms that invariably proved to be nothing more than the fancies of some priest’s overactive imagination.

Morisco shook his head. “I think this is something different.” The Cardinal queued up the video clip and set the computer on the table next to the Pope’s chair, then returned to his own seat.

A moment later, an image appeared, and the Pontiff watched as the ritual unfolded, turning up the sound.

“I’m afraid it’s rather badly garb—” Morisco began, but the Pope held up a silencing hand, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

As the rite proceeded, the Pope instantly recognized some of its elements, even though he’d never actually witnessed them before. As soon as the clip was over, he played it again, this time concentrating on the priest who was performing the rite.

The man worked with confidence.

He knew what he was doing.

He’d done it before.

When the video ended, the Pope tented his fingers, resting his chin on them, then straightened in his chair. “This is very interesting, Guillermo. You were right to bring it to me.” The Cardinal visibly relaxed. “Tell me, who is behind this?”

“His name is Father Sebastian Sloane,” Morisco replied, and the Pope felt his pulse quicken. “Until recently, he was a professor at Notre Dame.”

“I know of him,” the Pope said. “His doctoral dissertation was a study of our rites in the Dark Ages.”

“Which, of course, you’ve read,” Morisco dryly observed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“After the results of the last conclave, I should think nothing would ever surprise you again, Guillermo,” the Pope replied, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “And don’t pretend you didn’t assume I’d read Sloane’s dissertation — I believe I remember talking to you about it a year ago.” He smiled wistfully. “At Gianni’s, as I recall.” His smile faded. “Where is Sloane now?”

“A small school in Boston.”

“Boston?” the Pope echoed. “This took place in Boston?”

Morisco nodded, but said nothing.

“I want you to reply to Boston, Guillermo. Tell them that if Father Sloane can duplicate what I’ve seen here tonight, I will rearrange my post-Easter trip to include a visit to Boston.”

“A visit?” Cardinal Morisco repeated, visibly shaken by the specter of rearranging at this late date what was already a complex schedule. “Your Holiness,” he said, unconsciously retreating from the easy familiarity he’d shared with his old friend for so many years. “The agenda is set. We leave in a couple of weeks! To add another stop at this late—”

“Come now, Guillermo,” the Pope said, holding up his hand so that the ring of St. Peter glittered in the light of the chandelier. “No plan of man’s is ever set in stone. We must keep in mind that Boston is a failing Archdiocese, and that a visit from us might resuscitate its spirit.” His deliberate use of the Papal “we,” combined with his equally deliberate display of the golden symbol of his authority had exactly the effect the Pontiff had intended, and he could see Morisco beginning to calculate the logistics of effecting a change in the schedule. “If Father Sloane can re-create this, have him send us the proof. What we have seen could be illusory — a mere fluke. But if he can do it twice, then we will go to Boston and witness this ourselves.”

“As you wish,” Morisco said, though his expression clearly belied the calmness of his words.

“I am certain he will be able to do what we ask,” the Pope said, rising to his feet. “So please plan accordingly.”

Morisco rose as well. “I am your humble servant.”

“We are all God’s humble servants,” the Pope observed. As they moved toward the door, he laid a hand on Morisco’s shoulder. “Some of us, of course, are more humble than others.” As they approached the door, it once again opened as if by magic, and his secretary appeared, ready to escort the Cardinal out of the apartment. As he watched Morisco go, Pope Innocent XIV found himself reflecting on the power of his new position, which allowed him to change even such a vast undertaking as a Papal tour simply by uttering a few words.

He must be very careful with such power; he must pray tonight for divine guidance so that he could use that power more wisely than certain of his predecessors.

And if Father Sloane had truly done what the Pope thought he had done, then far more power was about to come into his hands than any pope had even dreamed of for at least five hundred years.