“Why?” asked Donati.

“I was afraid I was going to lose him.”

“To what?”

“The Church.”

“You thought he might become a priest?”

“He talked about it all the time, even after he got out of the military.”

He was subjected to no background check or formal interview. Father Erich’s affirmation that Niklaus was a practicing Catholic of good moral character was all it took. On the night before he left for Rome, he gave Stefani an engagement ring with a small diamond. She was wearing it a few months later when she attended the solemn ceremony, held in the San Damaso Courtyard, where Niklaus swore to lay down his life to defend the Vatican and the Holy Father. He was exceedingly proud of his dress uniform and red-plumed medieval-style helmet, but Stefani thought he looked rather silly, a toy soldier in the world’s smallest army. After the ceremony he took his parents to meet His Holiness. Stefani was not allowed to come.

“Only wives and mothers could meet the Holy Father. The Guard doesn’t like girlfriends.”

She saw Niklaus every couple of months, but they did their best to keep up their relationship with daily video calls and text messages. The work of the Swiss Guard was grueling and, most of the time, terribly dull. Niklaus used to recite the rosary while standing his three-hour shifts, his feet pointing outward at sixty-degree angles, as per Swiss Guard regulations. He spent most of his free time in the Swiss Quarter, the Guard’s enclave near St. Anne’s Gate. Like most Swiss, he thought Rome was a filthy mess.

Within a year of joining the Guard, he was working inside the Apostolic Palace. There he observed the comings and goings of the most senior princes of the Church—Gaubert, the secretary of state; Albanese, keeper of the Secret Archives; Navarro, keeper of the faith itself. But the Vatican official Niklaus admired most did not wear a red hat. He was the Holy Father’s private secretary, Archbishop Luigi Donati.

“He used to say that if the Church had any sense, it would make you the next pope.”

She managed a smile, which faded as she described Niklaus’s downward spiral into depression and drinking. Somehow Donati had missed the signs of Niklaus’s emotional turmoil. One priest, however, had noticed. A priest who worked in a relatively insignificant department of the Roman Curia, something to do with establishing a dialogue between the Church and nonbelievers.

“Could it have been the Pontifical Council for Culture?” probed Donati gently.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And the priest’s name?”

“Father Markus Graf.”

Donati gave his associate a look that made it clear the priest in question was pure trouble. Stefani Hoffmann, while pouring boiling water into the French press, explained why.

“He’s a member of a reactionary order. Secretive, too.”

“The Order of St. Helena,” said Donati, more for Gabriel’s benefit than Stefani Hoffmann’s.

“Do you know him?”

Donati revealed a flash of his old arrogance. “Father Graf and I move in rather different circles.”

“I met him once. He’s slippery as an eel. But quite charismatic. Seductive, even. Niklaus was quite taken with him. The Guard has its own chaplain, but Niklaus chose Father Graf as his confessor and spiritual guide. They also began spending a great deal of time together socially.”

“Socially?”

“Father Graf had a car. He used to take Niklaus to the mountains around Rome so he wouldn’t be homesick. The Apennines aren’t exactly the Alps, but Niklaus enjoyed getting out of the city.”

“He was reprimanded twice for curfew violations.”

“I’m sure it had something to do with Father Graf.”

“Was there anything more to their relationship?”

“Are you asking whether Niklaus and Father Graf were lovers?”

“I suppose I am.”

“The thought crossed my mind. Especially after the way he acted the last time I went to Rome.”

“What happened?”

“He refused to have sex with me.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“Father Graf had instructed him not to engage in sexual intercourse outside of marriage.”

“And how did you react?”

“I said we should get married right away. Niklaus agreed, but on one condition.”

“He said you had to become a lay member of the Order of St. Helena.”

“Yes.”

“I assume Niklaus was already a member.”

“He swore his oath of obedience to Bishop Richter at the Order’s palazzo on the Janiculum Hill. He said Bishop Richter had reservations about certain aspects of my character but had agreed to allow me to join.”

“How did Bishop Richter know about you?”

“Father Erich. He’s a member of the Order, too.”

“What did you do?”

“I threw my engagement ring into the Tiber and returned to Switzerland.”

“Do you recall the date?”

“How could I forget? It was the ninth of October.” She poured three cups of coffee and placed one before the man she knew as Heinrich Kiever. “Doesn’t he have any questions for me?”

“Herr Kiever is a man of few words.”

“Just like Niklaus.” She sat down at the table. “After I refused to join the Order, he cut off all communication. Tuesday was the first time I’d spoken to him in weeks.”

“And you’re sure it was the morning of the Holy Father’s funeral?”

She nodded. “He sounded awful. For a moment, I didn’t think it was him. When I asked what was wrong, he just cried.”

“What did you do then?”

“I asked him again.”

“And?”

She raised her coffee to her lips. “He told me everything.”

18

RECHTHALTEN, SWITZERLAND

NIKLAUS HAD ALREADY PULLED TWO shifts that day. Arch of Bells in the morning, Bronze Doors in the afternoon. When he arrived at the papal apartments at nine p.m., his legs were shaking with fatigue. The first person he saw was the Holy Father’s private secretary. He was on his way out.

“Did he know where I was going?”

“Dinner with a friend. Outside the walls.”

“Did he know the friend’s name?”

“A rich woman who lived near the Villa Borghese. Her husband died in a fall from the dome of the basilica. Niklaus said you were there when it happened.”

“Where did he hear a thing like that?”

“Where do you think?”

“Father Graf?”

She nodded. She was holding her mug of coffee with both hands. A nimbus of steam swirled about her flawless face.

“What happened after I left?”

“Cardinal Albanese arrived around nine thirty.”

“The cardinal told me he didn’t arrive until ten.”

“That was his second visit,” said Stefani Hoffmann. “Not the first.”

Cardinal Albanese had not told Donati about an earlier visit to the appartamento. Nor had he included it in the official Vatican time line. That single inconsistency, were it ever to become public, would be enough to plunge the Church into scandal.