With the tacit approval of Pope Pius XII, Schiller helped dozens of fugitive German and Croatian war criminals escape to South America, which the Order regarded as the next battlefield in the war between Christianity and communism. Funded by the Vatican, it established a network of seminaries and schools throughout Latin America and recruited thousands of new lay members—mainly wealthy landowners, soldiers, and secret policemen. During the dirty wars of the 1970s and 1980s, the Order once again sided with the murderers rather than the victims.

“In 1987, the year of Father Schiller’s death, the Order was at the zenith of its power. It had at least fifty thousand lay members, a thousand ordained priests, and another thousand diocesan clergy who were members of something called the Priestly Society of the Order of St. Helena. When Lucchesi and I moved into the Apostolic Palace, they were among the most influential forces within the Church.”

“What did you do?”

“We clipped their wings.”

“How did they react?”

“Exactly as you would expect. Bishop Hans Richter loathed my master. Almost as much as he loathes me.”

“Is Richter German?”

“Austrian, actually. So is Father Graf. He’s Bishop Richter’s private secretary, acolyte, and personal bodyguard. He carries a gun whenever the bishop is in public. I’m told he knows how to use it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gabriel showed Donati the photograph he snapped when they were lunching at Piperno in Rome.

“That’s him. He must have followed me from the Jesuit Curia.”

“Where might I find him?”

“You’re not to go anywhere near him. Or Bishop Richter.”

“Hypothetically,” said Gabriel.

“Richter divides his time between his palazzo on the Janiculum Hill and the Order’s headquarters in the village of Menzingen in Canton Zug. The Order relocated there in the 1980s. In case you’re wondering, the bishop does not travel commercially. The Order of St. Helena is extraordinarily wealthy. He has a private jet at his disposal twenty-four hours a day.”

“Who owns it?”

“A secret benefactor. The man behind the curtain. At least that’s the rumor.” Donati took up the Holy Father’s letter. “I only wish my master had told you the name of the book.”

“Are you familiar with the collezione?”

Donati nodded slowly.

“Would you be able to find it?”

“That would require gaining access to the Manuscript Depository, no easy feat. After all, they’re called the Secret Archives for a reason.” Donati looked at the composite sketch of the man who had questioned Stefani Hoffmann. “You know, Gabriel, you really should consider taking up painting for a living.”

“Is he a member of the Order?”

“If he is, he isn’t a priest.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because the Order would never send one of their priests to question someone like Stefani Hoffmann.”

“Who would they send?”

“A professional.”

21

ROME—OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING morning, Bishop Hans Richter was awakened by a gentle knock at his door. A moment later a youthful seminarian entered the room bearing a tray of coffee and a stack of newspapers. The boy placed the tray at the edge of the bed and, receiving no additional instructions, withdrew.

Richter sat up and poured a cup of coffee from the ornate silver decanter. After adding sugar and steamed milk, he reached for the newspapers. His spirits sank as he opened La Repubblica. The news from Florence was splashed across the front page. It was obvious the vague statement issued by the Sala Stampa had not played well—especially with Alessandro Ricci, the paper’s star investigative reporter and author of a best-selling book about the Order. Ricci saw evidence of a conspiracy. Then again, he usually did. Still, there was no denying that Niklaus Janson’s death was a disaster, one with the potential to threaten Richter’s ambitions at the coming conclave.

He turned to the papers from Germany. They were filled with stories and photographs from the market bombing in Hamburg. The embattled German chancellor had ordered antiterrorist police to stand guard outside all major rail stations, airports, government buildings, and foreign embassies. Even so, Germany’s interior minister had predicted that another attack was likely, probably within the coming days. A new opinion poll showed a sudden surge in support for Axel Brünner and his anti-immigrant National Democrats. Brünner and the chancellor were now locked in a statistical dead heat.

Richter set aside the newspapers and rose from his canopied Biedermeier bed. His apartment was three thousand square meters, larger than any of the Vatican lodgings occupied by the most senior princes of the Church. The rest of the room’s luxurious furnishings—the chest of drawers, the armoire, the writing desk, the occasional tables and framed mirrors—were resplendent Biedermeier antiques as well. The paintings were all Italian and Dutch Old Masters, including works by Titian, Veronese, Rembrandt, Van Eyck, and Van der Weyden. They were but a small portion of the Order’s massive collection, most of which had been acquired for investment purposes. The collection was hidden in a vault beneath the Paradeplatz in downtown Zurich, along with much of Bishop Richter’s vast personal fortune.

He entered his luxurious bathroom complex. It featured a shower with four heads, a large Jacuzzi, a steam room, a sauna, and a built-in audiovisual system. To the accompaniment of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, he bathed and shaved and moved his bowels. Afterward, he dressed not in his usual magentatrimmed cassock but in a tailored business suit. Then he pulled on an overcoat and a scarf and headed downstairs.

Father Graf was waiting outside in the forecourt next to an elegant Mercedes-Maybach limousine. He was a trim, athletic priest of forty-two, with an angular face, neatly combed blond hair, and bright blue eyes. Like Bishop Richter, he was of noble Austrian descent. Indeed, the blood that flowed through both their veins was midnight blue. He, too, was dressed in business rather than clerical attire. He looked up from his mobile phone as Richter approached and in German bade him a pleasant morning.

The rear door of the Maybach was open. Richter slid into the backseat. Father Graf joined him. The car passed through the Order’s formidable stone-and-steel security gate and turned into the street. The umbrella pines were silhouettes in the first sienna light of dawn. Richter thought it was almost beautiful.

Father Graf was staring at his phone again.

“Anything interesting in the news this morning?” asked Richter.

“The Polizia di Stato released the identity of the young man who was shot to death in Florence.”

“Anyone we know?”

The priest looked up. “Do you know what would have happened if Niklaus had crossed that bridge?”

“He would have given Pope Accidental’s letter to Gabriel Allon.” Richter paused. “All the more reason why you should have removed it from the papal study.”

“It was Albanese’s job. Not mine.”

Richter frowned. “He is a cardinal and a member of the Order, Markus. Try to show him at least a modicum of respect.”