“I hadn’t noticed.”

She shot him an envious glance. “You haven’t gained an ounce. You never do.”

“I have the Tintoretto to thank for that.”

Chiara nudged the tart closer to Gabriel. “You eat it.”

“You’re the one who ordered it.”

Chiara dislodged a slice of strawberry from the bed of cream. “How long do you think it will take Unit 8200 to find Janson’s phone number?”

“Given the insecurity of the Vatican network, I’d say about five minutes flat. Once they get it, it won’t take them long to pinpoint his location.” Gabriel inched the tart closer to Chiara. “And then we can go back to Venice and resume our holiday.”

“What if the phone is powered off or lying on the bottom of the Tiber?” Chiara lowered her voice. “Or what if they’ve already killed him?”

“Janson?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And who are they?”

“The same men who murdered the pope.”

Gabriel frowned. “We’re not there yet, Chiara.”

“We passed there a long time ago, darling.” Chiara sliced off a piece of the tart and pierced it through the cream and crust. “I have to admit I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“What are you worried about?”

“An awkward pause in the conversation.”

“You know, Gabriel, you didn’t actually kill Carlo Marchese.”

“I didn’t exactly prevent him from falling over that barrier, either.”

“Perhaps Veronica won’t bring it up.”

“I certainly don’t intend to.”

Chiara smiled and looked around the room. “What do you suppose normal people do on holiday?”

“We are normal people, Chiara. We just have interesting friends.”

“With interesting problems.”

Gabriel plunged his fork into the tart. “That, too.”

THERE WAS AN OLD OFFICE safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the church of the Trinità dei Monti. Housekeeping hadn’t had time to stock the pantry. It was no matter; Gabriel wasn’t anticipating a long stay.

In the bedroom they unpacked the shopping bags. Gabriel had acquired his evening wardrobe swiftly, with a single stop at Giorgio Armani. Chiara had been more discriminating in her conquest. A strapless black cocktail dress from Max Mara, a car-length coat from Burberry, a pair of stylish black pumps from Salvatore Ferragamo. Now Gabriel surprised her with a strand of pearls from Mikimoto.

Beaming, she asked, “What are these for?”

“You’re the wife of the director-general of the Israeli intelligence service and the mother of two young children. It’s the least I can do.”

“Have you forgotten about the apartment on the Grand Canal?” Chiara placed the strand of pearls around her neck. She looked radiant. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m the luckiest man in the world.” The cocktail dress was laid out on the bed. “Is that a negligee?”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Where do you intend to conceal your weapon?”

“I wasn’t planning to bring one.” She pushed him toward the door. “Go away.”

He went into the sitting room. From its tiny terrace he could see the Spanish Steps descending sedately toward the piazza and, in the distance, the floodlit dome of the basilica floating above the Vatican. All at once he heard a voice. It was the voice of Carlo Marchese.

What is this, Allon?

Judgment, Carlo.

His body had split open on impact, like a melon. What Gabriel remembered most, however, was the blood on Donati’s cassock. He wondered how the archbishop had explained Carlo’s death to Veronica. It promised to be an interesting evening.

He went inside. From the next room he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself as she dressed, one of those silly Italian pop songs she so adored. Better the sound of Chiara’s voice, he thought, than Carlo Marchese’s. As always, it filled him with a sense of contentment. His journey was nearing its end. Chiara and the children were his reward for somehow having survived. Still, Leah was never far from his thoughts. She was watching him now from the shadows at the corner of the room, burned and broken, her scarred hands clutching a lifeless child—Gabriel’s private pietà. Do you love this girl? Yes, he thought. He loved everything about her. The way she licked her finger when she turned the page of a magazine. The way she swung her handbag when she walked along the Via Condotti. The way she sang to herself when she thought no one was listening.

He switched on the television. It was tuned to the BBC. Remarkably, there had been no fatalities in the Berlin bombing, though twelve people had been wounded, four critically. Axel Brünner of the far-right National Democratic Party was blaming the attack on the pro-immigration policies of Germany’s centrist chancellor. Neo-Nazis and other assorted right-wing extremists were gathering for a torchlight rally in the city of Leipzig. The Bundespolizei were bracing for a night of violence.

Gabriel changed the channel to CNN. The network’s premier foreign affairs correspondent was broadcasting live from St. Peter’s Square. Like her competitors, she was unaware of the fact that a letter addressed to the director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service had mysteriously vanished from the pope’s study the night of his death. Nor did she know that the Swiss Guard who had been standing watch outside the papal apartments was missing, too. If Niklaus Janson’s phone was powered on and broadcasting a signal, the cyberwarriors at Unit 8200 would find it, perhaps before the night was out.

Gabriel switched off the television as Chiara came into the sitting room. He took his time with his appraisal—the pearls, the strapless black dress, the pumps. She was a masterpiece.

“Well?” she asked at last.

“You look …” He faltered.

“Like a mother of two who’s gained eight pounds?”

“I thought you said five.”

“I just stepped on the bathroom scale.” She gestured toward the bedroom door. “It’s all yours.”

Gabriel quickly showered and dressed. Downstairs, they climbed into the back of a waiting embassy car. As they raced up the Via Veneto, his phone pulsed with an incoming message from King Saul Boulevard.

“What is it?”

“The Unit just breached the outer wall of the Swiss Guard’s computer network. They’re searching the database for Janson’s personnel file and contact information.”

“What if they’ve deleted it already?”

“Who?”

“The same men who murdered the pope, of course.”

“We’re not there yet, Chiara.”

“Not yet,” she agreed. “But we will be soon.”

10

CASA SANTA MARTA

UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, SWISS GUARDS did not stand watch outside the Casa Santa Marta. But at eight fifteen that same evening, there were two. The clerical guesthouse was now occupied by several dozen princes of the Church, mainly from the distant corners of the realm. On the eve of the conclave, the remaining cardinal-electors would join them. After that, no one but the Casa Santa Marta’s staff—nuns from the Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul—would be allowed to enter. For now, a select few, including Bishop Hans 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.