The Devil Will Come Read Online Free Page A

‘Let’s pray that conditions are favorable for him this year.’
    ‘The rains have to stop first,’ Giaccone grumbled. ‘Today’s been mostly clear but, dear God, the last three weeks have been biblical. We should be building an ark!’
    ‘Is it affecting your work?’ Aspromonte asked.
    ‘I just came from a meeting of the Pontifical Commission and I can tell you that the archeologists and engineers are worried about the integrity of the catacombs on the Via Antica Appia, particularly St Sebastiano and St Callixtus. The fields above them are so saturated that some trees were uprooted by wind gusts. There’s fear of sinkholes or collapses.’
    Diaz shook his head and put down his fork. ‘If only that was all we had to worry about.’
    ‘The Holy Father,’ Aspromonte said quietly.
    Diaz said soberly, ‘Many are looking for us to be doing the right things, to be making preparations.’
    ‘You mean planning for a Conclave,’ Giaccone said bluntly.
    Diaz nodded. ‘The logistics aren’t trivial. You can’t just snap your fingers and assemble all the Cardinal Electors.’
    ‘Don’t you think we have to tread lightly here?’ Aspromonte asked, chewing the last of a mouthful of beef. ‘The Pope is alive and, God willing, he will remain so . And we must be mindful not to appear to have any personal aspirations.’
    Diaz finished his glass and let Aspromonte fill it again. He looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. ‘We’re friends. We’ve worked shoulder to shoulder for the better part of three decades. We’ve taken each other’s confessions. If we can’t talk frankly, who can? We all know the chances are good that the next Pope is sitting at this table. And, in my opinion, I’m too old. And not Italian enough!’
    Aspromonte and Giaccone looked down at their plates. ‘Someone had to say it,’ Diaz insisted.
    ‘Some say it’s time for an African or a South American. There are some good men who bear consideration,’ Giaccone said.
    Aspromonte shrugged. ‘I’m told we have some excellent peach gelato for dessert.’
    The Pope was alone in his private chapel. Father Diep had wheeled him in and placed him in front of his usual bronze-clad meditation chair. The ceiling glowed with stained-glass backlit panels, contemporary in style, heavy in primary colors. The floor was white Italian marble with black streaks, also a modernist pattern, but softened by a lovely old brown rug in the center. The altar was simple and elegant: a white lace-covered table holding candles and a Bible. Behind the table a golden crucified Christ floated in the concavity of a floor-to-ceiling installation of red marble.
    The pontiff’s hip started aching and the pain intensified . He had begun to pray and didn’t want to return to his sickbed just now. His infusion pump of morphine was fixed to a pole on the wheelchair but he was especially loath to medicate himself in the presence of this beautiful representation of a suffering Christ.
    He fought the pain and kept the prayers flowing wordlessly for only God to hear.
    Suddenly, a different pain.
    It seized his throat and upper chest.
    The Pope looked down with the irrational thought that someone had sneaked up and was pressing heavily on his chest.
    The pressure made him contort his face and close his eyes.
    But he wanted to keep them open and fought to do so.
    It was as if a flaming arrow had pierced his breast, burning through layers of flesh.
    He couldn’t call out, couldn’t take a good breath.
    He struggled to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the face of the golden Christ.
    Dear God. Help me in my hour of need .
    Monsignor Albano entered Cardinal Aspromonte’s dining room without knocking.
    Aspromonte could tell from his drained face that something was amiss.
    ‘The Pope! He’s been stricken in his chapel!’
*
    The three cardinals rushed up the stairs and hurried through the formal rooms until they entered the chapel. Fathers Diep and Bustamante had moved