“If it wasn’t for the Church, he’d be a bricklayer.”

Richter examined his reflection in the vanity mirror. “The bricklayer’s bollettino has bought us some valuable breathing room. But it is only a matter of time before the press find out where Niklaus was working the night of the Holy Father’s death, and that he was a member of the Order.”

“In six days, it won’t matter.”

“Six days is an eternity. Especially for a man like Gabriel Allon.”

“At the moment, I’m more worried about our old friend Alessandro Ricci.”

“As am I. His sources inside the Curia are impeccable. You can be sure our enemies are talking to him.”

“Perhaps I should have a word with him, too.”

“Not yet, Markus. But in the meantime, keep an eye on him.” Richter looked out his window and frowned. “My God, this city really is atrocious.”

“It will be different after we take power, Excellency.”

Indeed, thought Bishop Richter. Much different.

THE ORDER’S GULFSTREAM G550 WAS waiting on the tarmac outside Signature Flight Support at Ciampino Airport. It delivered Bishop Richter and Father Graf to Salzburg, where they boarded an executive helicopter for the short flight across the German border. Andreas Estermann, a former German intelligence officer who served as the Order’s chief of security and operations, waited on the helipad of the compound outside Berchtesgaden, his gray-blond hair twisting in the wash of the rotors. He pressed his lips to the ring on Bishop Richter’s proffered right hand, then gestured toward a waiting Mercedes sedan.

“We should hurry, Excellency. I’m afraid you’re the last to arrive.”

The car bore them smoothly up the private valley to the chalet, a modern citadel of stone and glass set against the base of the towering mountains. A dozen other vehicles lined the drive, watched over by a small battalion of armed security men. All wore black ski jackets emblazoned with the logo of the Wolf Group, a Munich-based conglomerate.

Estermann escorted Bishop Richter and Father Graf inside and up a flight of stairs. To the left was an anteroom filled with aides and dark-suited security men. Bishop Richter handed Father Graf his overcoat and followed Estermann into the great hall.

It was sixty feet by fifty, with a single enormous window gazing northward across the Obersalzberg. The walls were hung with Gobelin tapestries and several oil paintings, including what appeared to be Venus and Amor by Bordone. A bust of Richard Wagner frowned at Richter from its perch atop a plinth. The longcase clock, which was crowned by a heraldic Roman-style eagle, read nine o’clock. Richter, as usual, had arrived precisely on time.

He surveyed the others with a jaundiced eye. They were, without exception, an unappetizing lot, scoundrels and grifters, each and every one. But they were also a necessary evil, a means to an end. The laborites and secular social democrats were the cause of Europe’s calamitous plight. Only these creatures were prepared to undertake the hard work necessary to undo the damage of seventy-five years of postwar liberal twaddle.

There was, for example, Axel Brünner. His fancy suit and rimless spectacles could not conceal the fact that he was a former skinhead and street brawler whose only claim to fame was a distant blood relationship to the infamous Nazi who had rounded up the Jews of Paris. He was chatting with Cécile Leclerc, his comely counterpart from France, who had inherited her anti-immigrant party from her father, a moron from Marseilles.

Richter felt a warm blast of coffee-scented breath and, turning, found himself shaking the oily paw of the Italian prime minister, Giuseppe Saviano. The next hand he grasped was attached to Peter van der Meer, the platinum-haired, putty-skinned Catholic from Amsterdam who had promised to rid his country of all Muslims by 2025, an admirable if entirely unattainable goal. Jörg Kaufmann, the camera-ready Austrian chancellor, greeted Bishop Richter like an old friend, which he was. Richter had presided over Kaufmann’s baptism and First Communion, along with his recent wedding to Austria’s most famous fashion model, a union Richter approved with considerable misgivings.

Presiding over this menagerie was Jonas Wolf. He wore a heavy roll-neck sweater and flannel dress trousers. His silver mane of hair was swept back from his face, which was dominated by a bird-of-prey nose. It was a face to be stamped on a coin, thought Richter. Perhaps one day, when the Muslim invaders had been cast out and the Roman Catholic Church was once again ascendant, it would be.

At five minutes past nine, Wolf took his place at the head of the conference table, which had been placed near the soaring window. Andreas Estermann had been assigned the seat at Wolf’s right hand; Bishop Richter, at his left. At the German’s request, Richter led the assemblage in a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.

“And may you grant us the strength and determination to complete our sacred mission,” intoned Richter in conclusion. “We do this in your name, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.”

“Amen,” came the response along the table.

Jonas Wolf opened a leather folder. The conference was now in session.

THE MOUNTAIN PEAKS WERE RECEDING into darkness when Wolf finally gaveled the session to a close. A fire was lit, cocktails served. Richter, who drank only room-temperature mineral water, somehow became entangled with Cécile Leclerc, who insisted on addressing him in her impenetrable French-accented German. Richter managed to decipher every fourth or fifth word, which was a blessing. Like her father, Cécile was no intellectual. Somehow she had managed to acquire a law degree from an elite Paris institution of learning. Still, one could easily picture her behind the counter of a Provençal boucherie with a bloody apron around her ample waist.

Therefore, Richter was relieved when Jonas Wolf, perhaps sensing his discomfort, cut in like a dancer on a ballroom floor and asked whether they might have a word in private. Followed by Andreas Estermann, they walked through the unpopulated rooms of the chalet to Wolf’s chapel. It was the size of a typical parish church. The walls were hung with German and Dutch Old Master paintings. Above the altar was a magnificent Crucifixion by Lucas Cranach the Elder.

Wolf genuflected and then rose unsteadily to his feet. “All in all, a productive session, don’t you think, Excellency?”

“I must admit, I was a bit distracted by Van der Meer’s hair.”

Wolf nodded sympathetically. “I’ve spoken to him about it. He insists it’s part of his branding.”

“Branding?”

“It’s a modern word used to describe one’s image on social media.” Wolf gestured toward Estermann. “Andreas is our expert on that sort of thing. He’s convinced Van der Meer’s hair is a political asset.”

“He looks like Kim Novak in Vertigo. And that ridiculous comb-over! How on earth does he maneuver it all into place?”

“Apparently, it takes a great deal of time and effort. He buys hair spray by the case. He’s the only man in Holland who doesn’t go outside when it rains.”

“It conveys a sense of vanity and deep insecurity. Our candidates must be above reproach.”

“They can’t all be as polished as Jörg Kaufmann. Brünner has his problems, too. Fortunately, the bombings in Berlin and Hamburg have given his campaign a badly needed boost.”