“Did Albanese tell Niklaus why he was there?”

“No. But he was carrying an attaché case with the coat of arms of the Archives on the side.”

“How long did he stay?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Did he have the attaché case when he left?”

She nodded.

“And when he came back at ten o’clock?”

“He told Niklaus that the Holy Father had invited him to pray in the private chapel.”

“Who arrived next?”

“Three cardinals. Navarro, Gaubert, and Francona.”

“The time?”

“Ten fifteen.”

“When did Dottore Gallo arrive?”

“Eleven o’clock. Colonel Metzler and a Vatican cop showed up a few minutes after that.” She lowered her voice. “Then you, Archbishop Donati. You were the last.”

“Did Niklaus know what was happening inside?”

“He had a pretty good idea, but he wasn’t certain until the ambulance attendants arrived with the gurney.”

A few minutes after they entered the apartment, she continued, Metzler came out. He confirmed the obvious. The Holy Father was dead. He warned Niklaus that he was never to speak of what he had witnessed that evening. Not to his comrades in the Guard, not to his friends and family, and certainly not to the media. Then he ordered Niklaus to remain on duty until the Holy Father’s body was removed and the apartment sealed. The camerlengo performed the ritual at half past two.

“Did Cardinal Albanese remove anything from the apartment when he left?”

“One item. He said he wanted something to help him remember the saintliness of the Holy Father. Something he had touched.”

“What was it?”

“A book.”

Donati’s heart banged against his rib cage. “What kind of book?”

“An English murder mystery.” Stefani Hoffmann shook her head. “Can you imagine that?”

BY THE TIME NIKLAUS LEFT the Apostolic Palace, the Press Office had announced the Holy Father’s death. St. Peter’s Square was ablaze with the spectral light of the television crews, and in the cloisters and courtyards of the Vatican, nuns and priests were gathered in small groups, praying, weeping. Niklaus was weeping, too. Alone in his room in the barracks, he changed into civilian clothing and tossed a few things into his duffel bag. He slipped out of the Vatican around five thirty that morning.

“Why did he go to Florence instead of coming home to Switzerland?”

“He was afraid they would find him.”

“The Guard?”

“The Order.”

“And you had no other contact other than the single phone call? No texts or e-mails?”

“Only the package. It arrived the day after I spoke to him.”

“What was it?”

“A dreadful devotional painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I can’t imagine why he would send me such a thing.”

“Was there anything else in the package?”

“Niklaus’s rosary.” She paused, then added, “And a letter.”

“A letter?”

She nodded.

“To whom was it addressed?”

“Me. Who else?”

“What did it say?”

“He apologized for joining the Order of St. Helena and breaking off our engagement. He said it was a terrible mistake. He said they were evil. Especially Bishop Richter.”

“May I read it?”

“No,” she said. “Some parts are too private.”

Donati let it go. For now. “Colonel Metzler told me he spoke to you.”

“He called me the day after the Holy Father died. He said Niklaus had left the barracks without authorization. He asked whether I’d spoken to him. I told him I hadn’t, which was true at the time.”

“Was Metzler the only person who contacted you?”

“No. I heard from someone else the next day.”

“Who?”

“Herr Bauer. The man from Vatican intelligence.”

There it was again, thought Donati. Vatican intelligence …

“Did Herr Bauer show you any identification?”

She shook her head.

“Did he say what division of Vatican intelligence he worked for?”

“Papal security.”

“First name?”

“Maximillian.”

“Swiss?”

“German. Probably from Bavaria, judging by the accent.”

“He phoned you?”

“No. He showed up at the restaurant unannounced, like you and Herr Kiever.”

“What did he want?”

“The same thing Metzler wanted. Where was Niklaus?”

“And when you told him you didn’t know?”

“I’m not sure he believed me.”

“Describe him, please.”

It was Gabriel who had posed the question. Stefani Hoffmann lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

“Tall, well dressed, late forties, maybe early fifties.”

With his expression, Gabriel made it clear her answer was a disappointment. “Come now, Stefani. You can do better than that. You’re an artist, after all.”

“I’m a contemporary painter who reveres Rothko and Pollock. Portraits aren’t my specialty.”

“But surely you could produce one in a pinch.”

“Not a good one. And not from memory.”

“Perhaps I can be of help.”

“How?”

“Bring me your sketchpad and a box of acrylic pencils, and I’ll show you.”

THEY WORKED WITHOUT PAUSE FOR the better part of the next hour, side by side at the kitchen table, with Donati watching anxiously over their shoulders. As Gabriel suspected, Stefani Hoffmann’s memory of the man she knew as Maximillian Bauer was far sharper than even she had imagined. All it took were the right sort of questions posed by an expert draftsman and student of human anatomy—a gifted restorer who could mimic the brushstrokes of Bellini and Titian and Tintoretto, a healer who had repaired the tattered face of Mary and the pierced hand of Christ.

It was a noble face she described. High cheekbones, a slender nose, a refined chin, a thin mouth that did not smile easily, all crowned by a shock of gray-blond hair. He was a worthy opponent, thought Gabriel. A man not to be trifled with. A man who never lost at games of chance.

“So much for the occasional watercolor on holiday,” said Stefani Hoffmann. “You’re obviously a professional. But I’m afraid the eyes are all wrong.”

“I drew the eyes the way you described them.”

“Not quite.”

She took the pad and on a blank page sketched a pair of humorless eyes set deeply beneath the ledge of a prominent brow. Gabriel then sketched the rest of the face around them.

“That’s him. That’s the man who came to see me.”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder at Donati. “Do you recognize him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Stefani Hoffmann took the sketch from Gabriel and deepened the lines around the mouth. “Now it’s perfect,” she said. “But what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to find out who he really is.”