She looked up from the sketchpad. “But who are you?”

“I’m an associate of the archbishop.”

“Are you a priest?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “I’m a professional.”

WHICH LEFT ONLY THE LETTER. The letter in which Niklaus Janson had described the Order of St. Helena as evil. Three times Donati asked to see it. Three times Stefani Hoffmann refused. The letter was of an intensely personal nature, written by an emotionally distressed man whom she had known since childhood. A man who had been publicly murdered on the most famous bridge in Italy. She would not show such a letter to her closest friend and confidante, she insisted, let alone a Roman Catholic archbishop.

“In that case,” said Donati, “might I at least see the picture?”

“Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane? You don’t get enough of that sort of thing at the Vatican?”

“I have my reasons.”

It was propped against the wall behind Stefani Hoffmann’s chair, still entombed in a shallow cardboard box. Donati checked the waybill. It was from a DHS Express near Roma Termini. Niklaus must have shipped it before boarding the train to Florence.

Donati removed the picture from the box and freed it from its cocoon of bubble wrap. It was about fourteen inches by twelve. The illustration itself was a rather shopworn depiction of Jesus on the night before his torture and execution at the hands of the Romans. The frame, museum glass, and matting were of high quality.

“Bishop Richter gave it to him the day he swore his oath of allegiance to the Order,” explained Stefani Hoffmann. “If you turn it over, you’ll see the Order’s coat of arms.”

Donati was still staring at the image of Jesus.

“Don’t tell me you actually like it.”

“It’s not exactly Michelangelo,” he admitted. “But it’s nearly identical to a picture that hung in my parents’ bedroom in the little house in Umbria where I was raised.”

Donati did not tell Stefani Hoffmann that after his mother’s death he found several thousand euros hidden inside the picture. His mother, justifiably, had distrusted Italian banks.

He turned over the picture. The Order of St. Helena’s coat of arms was embossed on the back of the matting, which was held in place by four metal brackets. One of the clasps, however, was loose.

Donati removed the other three and attempted to pry away the matting. Failing, he turned over the frame and allowed the weight of the glass panel to do the task for him.

It landed on the tabletop without shattering. Donati separated the matting from the picture and found a cream-colored envelope, also of high quality. It, too, was decorated with a coat of arms.

The private papal armorial of His Holiness Pope Paul VII.

Donati lifted the flap. Inside were three sheets of rich stationery, almost like fine linen. He read the first lines. Then he returned the letter to the envelope and pushed it across the table toward Gabriel.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I believe this belongs to you.”

19

LES ARMURES, GENEVA

IT WAS APPROACHING NINE O’CLOCK by the time Gabriel and Donati arrived in Geneva, too late to make the last flight to Rome. They checked into adjacent rooms at a small hotel near the St. Pierre Cathedral and then walked to Les Armures, a wood-paneled restaurant in the Old Town. After placing his order, Gabriel rang a friend who worked for the NDB, Switzerland’s small but capable foreign intelligence and internal security service. The friend, whose name was Christoph Bittel, was the head of the counterterrorism division. He answered guardedly. Gabriel had a long and distinguished track record in Switzerland. Bittel was still cleaning up the mess from his last visit.

“Where are you?”

Gabriel answered truthfully.

“I’d order the veal cutlet if I were you.”

“I just did.”

“How long have you been in the country?”

“A few hours.”

“I don’t suppose you arrived on a valid passport?”

“Define valid.”

Bittel sighed before inquiring as to the reason for Gabriel’s call.

“I’d like you to place a Swiss citizen under protective surveillance.”

“How unusual. What’s the Swiss citizen’s name?”

Gabriel told him, then recited her address and place of work.

“Is she an ISIS terrorist? A Russian assassin?”

“No, Bittel. She’s a painter.”

“Anyone in particular you’re worried about?”

“I’ll send you a composite. But whatever you do, don’t give the job to that kid who watched my back in Bern a couple of years ago.”

“He’s one of my best men.”

“He’s also a former Swiss Guard.”

“Does this have something to do with Florence?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The Polizia di Stato just released the name of the victim in that shooting last night. He was a Swiss Guard. Come to think of it, he was from Rechthalten, too.”

Gabriel killed the connection and checked the website of Corriere della Sera, Italy’s premier newspaper. Donati went straight to the Twitter feed of the Vatican Press Office. There was a brief bollettino, five minutes old. It expressed the Holy See’s shock and sorrow over the senseless and random act of gun violence that had claimed the life of Lance Corporal Niklaus Janson of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. It made no mention of the fact that Janson was on duty outside the papal apartments the night of the Holy Father’s death. Nor did it explain why he was in Florence while his comrades were working overtime in preparation for the conclave.

“It’s a masterpiece of curial doublespeak,” said Donati. “On its face, the statement is entirely accurate. But the lies of omission are glaring. Clearly, Cardinal Albanese has no intention of allowing Niklaus’s murder to delay the opening of the conclave.”

“Perhaps we can convince him to see the error of his ways.”

“With what? A tawdry tale of sex and secretive religious orders, told by a woman who was bitter over the dissolution of her engagement to a handsome young Swiss Guard?”

“You don’t believe her story?”

“I believe every word of it. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s pure hearsay, or that every element can be denied.”

“Except for this.” Gabriel displayed the envelope. The high-quality cream-colored envelope embossed with the private papal armorial of His Holiness Pope Paul VII. “Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know what was in this letter?”

“I didn’t.”

Gabriel removed the three sheets of stationery from the envelope. The letter had been composed in pale blue ink. The salutation was informal. First name only. Dear Gabriel … There were no preliminaries or pleasantries.

While researching in the Vatican Secret Archives, I came upon a most remarkable book …

The book, he continued, had been given to him by a member of the Archives staff, without the knowledge of the prefetto. It was stored in what was known as the collezione, a secret archive within the Secret Archives, located on the lower level of the Manuscript Depository. The material in the collezione was highly sensitive. Some of the books and files were political and administrative in nature. Others were doctrinal. None were referenced in the one thousand directories and catalogues housed in the Index Room. Indeed, nowhere within the Archives was there a written inventory of the material. The knowledge was passed down through the centuries verbally, prefetto to prefetto.