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Richter, superior general of the Order of St. Helena, were free to come and go as they pleased. With Cardinal Domenico Albanese
     firmly in control of the machinery of the city-state, Bishop Richter’s long exile was finally over.
    One of the Swiss Guards held open the glass door, and Richter, his right hand raised in blessing, went inside. The gleaming white lobby echoed with a multilingual din. The 225 members of the College of Cardinals had spent the afternoon discussing the Church’s future. Now they were partaking of white wine and canapés in the lobby before sitting down to supper in the Casa Santa Marta’s simple dining room. The Apostolic Constitution dictated that only the 116 cardinals under the age of eighty would be allowed to take part in the conclave. The elderly cardinals emeriti made their preferences known during informal gatherings such as these, which was where the real pre-conclave horse trading took place.
    Richter discreetly acknowledged the greetings of a pair of well-known traditionalists and endured the icy stare of Cardinal
     Kevin Brady, the liberal lion from Los Angeles who saw a pope each time he looked in the mirror. Brady was conspiring with
     tiny Duarte of Manila, the great hope of the developing world. Cardinal Navarro was brimming with confidence, as though the
     papacy was already his. It was obvious that Gaubert, who was scheming with Villiers of Lyon, did not plan to go down without
     a fight.
    Only Bishop Hans Richter knew that none of them stood a chance. The next pope was at that moment standing near the reception desk, an afterthought in a room filled with towering egos and boundless ambition. He had been given his red hat by none other than Pietro Lucchesi, who had been deceived into believing he was a moderate, which he most definitely was not. Fifty million euros, discreetly deposited in bank accounts around the world, including twelve at the Vatican Bank, had all but guaranteed his election by the conclave. Securing thevast sum of money required to purchase the papacy had been the easiest part of the operation. Unlike the rest of the Church, which was on the verge of financial collapse, the Order of St. Helena was awash with cash.
    Cardinal Domenico Albanese was whispering something into the ear of Angelo Francona, the dean of the College of Cardinals.
     Spotting Richter, he beckoned with a thick, furry hand. Francona, a leading liberal, immediately turned on his heel and fled.
    â€œDid I do something to give offense?” asked Richter in flawless curial Italian.
    â€œYou offend by your very existence, Excellency.” Albanese took Richter by the arm. “Perhaps we should speak in my room.”
    â€œDon’t tell me you’ve actually moved in.”
    Albanese grimaced. As prefetto of the Secret Archives, he was entitled to a luxurious apartment above the Lapidary Gallery of the Vatican Museums. “I’m
     simply using my room here as an office until the start of the conclave.”
    â€œWith any luck,” said Richter quietly, “you won’t have to stay long.”
    â€œThe media are predicting a titanic struggle between the reformers and the reactionaries.”
    â€œAre they?”
    â€œSeven ballots seems to be the general consensus.”
    A blue-habited nun offered Richter a glass of wine. Declining, he followed Albanese to the elevators. He could almost feel
     the eyes of the room boring holes in his back as they waited for a carriage to arrive. When one finally appeared, Albanese
     pressed the call button for the fourth floor. Mercifully, the doors closed before loquacious Lopes of Rio de Janeiro could
     squeeze inside.
    Bishop Richter made several unnecessary adjustments to his purple-trimmed cassock as the carriage slowly rose. Handmade by an exclusive tailor in Zurich, it fit him to perfection. At seventy-four, he remained an imposing physical specimen, tall and square-shouldered, with iron-gray hair and an