“It must be nice,” remarked Donati. “I always have to pick up my gun at the counter.”

“Membership has its privileges.”

Gabriel followed the airport exit ramp to the E62 and headed northwest along the shore of the lake. Donati took note of the fact he was driving without the aid of a navigation device.

“Come to Switzerland often?”

“You might say that.”

“They say it’s going to be another bad year for snow.”

“The state of Switzerland’s winter tourism industry is the least of my concerns.”

“You don’t ski?”

“Do I look like a skier to you?”

“I never saw the point of it.” Donati pondered the mountain peaks rising above the opposite shore of the lake. “Any fool can slide down a mountain, but it takes someone of character and discipline to walk up one.”

“I prefer to walk along the sea.”

“It’s rising, you know. Apparently, Venice will soon be uninhabitable.”

“At least it will discourage the tourists.”

Gabriel switched on the radio in time to catch the hourly newscast on SFR 1. The death toll in Hamburg stood at four, with another twenty-five wounded, several critically. There was no mention of a Swiss citizen having been murdered the previous evening on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.

“What are the Polizia di Stato waiting for?” asked Donati.

“If I had to guess, they’re giving the Vatican a chance to get its story straight.”

“Good luck with that.”

The last item on the newscast concerned a report by the Episcopal Conference of Switzerland detailing a sharp increase in the number of new sexual abuse cases.

Donati sighed. “I wish they would talk about something uplifting. The bombing in Hamburg, for example.”

“Did you know the report was coming?”

Donati nodded. “The Holy Father and I reviewed the first draft a few weeks before his death.”

“How is it possible there are still new cases of abuse?”

“Because we apologized and asked for forgiveness, but we never addressed the root causes of the problem. And the Church has deservedly paid a terrible price. Here in Switzerland, Roman Catholicism is on life support. Baptisms, church weddings, and Mass attendance have all fallen to extinction levels.”

“And if you had it to do over again?”

“Despite what my enemies used to say about me, I was not the pope. Pietro Lucchesi was. And he was an innately cautious man.” Donati paused. “Too cautious, in my opinion.”

“And if you were the one with the Ring of the Fisherman on his finger?”

Donati laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“The very idea is preposterous.”

“Humor me.”

Donati considered his answer carefully. “I’d start by reforming the priesthood. It’s not enough merely to weed out the pedophiles. We must create a new and dynamic global community of Catholic religious if the Church is to survive and flourish.”

“Does that mean you would admit women into the priesthood?”

“You said it, not me.”

“How about married priests?”

“Now we’re sailing into treacherous waters, my friend.”

“Other faiths allow their clergy to marry.”

“And I respect those faiths. The question is, can I as a Roman Catholic priest love and cherish a wife and children while at the same time serving the Lord and tending to the spiritual needs of my flock?”

“What’s the answer?”

“No,” said Donati. “I cannot.”

A sign warned they were approaching the lakeside resort town of Vevey. Gabriel turned onto the E27 and followed it north to Fribourg. It was a bilingual city, but the streets bore French names. The rue du Pont-Muré stretched for about a hundred meters through the elegant Old Town, above which soared the spire of the cathedral. Gabriel parked the car in the Place des Ormeaux and took a table at Café des Arcades. Alone, Donati crossed the street to Café du Gothard.

It was a formal, old-fashioned restaurant, with a dark wooden floor and heavy iron fixtures overhead. At that hour, the twilight between lunch and dinner, only one other table was occupied, by an English couple who looked as though they had just declared a fragile truce after a long and calamitous battle. The maître d’ showed Donati to a table near the window. He dialed Gabriel’s number and then laid his Nokia facedown on the tabletop. Several minutes elapsed before Stefani Hoffmann appeared. She placed a menu before him and with considerable effort smiled.

“Something to drink?”

16

CAFÉ DU GOTHARD, FRIBOURG

SHE TUCKED A LOOSE STRAND of blond hair behind her ear and peered at Donati over the top of an order pad. Her eyes were the color of an Alpine lake in summer. The rest of her face matched their beauty. The cheekbones were broad, the jawline was sharp, the chin was narrow with a slight indentation.

She had addressed Donati in French. He responded in the same language. “A glass of wine, please.”

With the tip of her pen she pointed toward the section of the menu devoted to the café’s selection of wines. They were mainly French and Swiss. Donati chose a Chasselas.

“Something to eat?”

“Just the wine for now, thank you.”

She walked over to the bar and checked her phone while a black-shirted colleague poured the wine. The glass sat atop her tray for a moment or two before she finally delivered it to Donati’s table.

“You’re not from Fribourg,” she observed.

“How could you possibly tell?”

“Italy?”

“Rome.”

Her expression was unchanged. “What brings you to dull Fribourg?”

“Business.”

“What business are you in?”

Donati hesitated. He had never found a satisfactory way to admit what he did for his living. “I suppose I’m in the business of salvation.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a clergyman?”

“A priest,” said Donati.

“You don’t look much like a priest.” Her eyes flashed over him provocatively. “Especially in those clothes.”

He wondered whether she addressed all her customers in so forward a manner. “Actually, I’m an archbishop.”

“Where’s your archdiocese?” She was obviously familiar with the lexicon of Catholicism.

“A remote corner of North Africa that was once part of the Roman Empire. There are very few Christians there any longer, let alone Catholics.”

“A titular see?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you really do?”

“I’m about to begin teaching at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome.”

“You’re a Jesuit?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And before the Gregoriana?”

Donati lowered his voice. “I served as the private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”

A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “What are you doing in Fribourg?” she asked again.

“I came to see you.”