“The new polls are encouraging. But can he win?”

“If there is another attack,” said Wolf, “his victory will be all but assured.”

He sat down in the first pew. Richter joined him. There followed a companionable silence. Richter might have despaired of the rabble upstairs, but Jonas Wolf he truly admired. Wolf was one of the few men who had been a member of the Order longer than Richter. He was its most prominent layman, a co–superior general in everything but name. For more than a decade, he and Richter had been engaged in a clandestine crusade to transform Western Europe and the Church of Rome. Sometimes even they were astounded by the speed with which they had succeeded. Italy and Austria were already theirs. Now the German Federal Chancellery was within their grasp, as was the Apostolic Palace. The seizure of power was nearly complete. Lesser men would serve as their public standard-bearers, but it would be Jonas Wolf and Bishop Hans Richter of the Order of St. Helena who would be whispering in their ears. They saw themselves in apocalyptic terms. Western civilization was dying. Only they could save it.

Andreas Estermann was the third member of their holy trinity. He was the Project’s irreplaceable man. Estermann dispersed the money, worked with the local parties to hone their platforms and recruit presentable candidates, and oversaw a network of operatives drawn from Western European intelligence services and police forces. In a computer-filled warehouse outside Munich, he had established an information warfare unit that flooded social media daily with false or misleading stories about the threat posed by Muslim immigrants. Estermann’s cyber unit also possessed the ability to hack phones and crack computer networks, a capability that had produced mountains of invaluable compromising material.

At present, Estermann was pacing silently along the right side of the nave. Bishop Richter could see that something was troubling him. It was Jonas Wolf who explained. The previous evening, Archbishop Donati and Gabriel Allon had traveled to Canton Fribourg, where they had met with Stefani Hoffmann.

“I thought she told you she didn’t know anything.”

“I had the distinct impression she wasn’t telling the truth,” answered Estermann.

“Was the Janson boy in possession of the letter when he was killed?”

“Our friends in the Polizia di Stato say not. Which means it’s probably in the hands of Archbishop Donati.”

Bishop Richter exhaled heavily. “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?”

“I would advise against it,” said Estermann. “Donati’s death would undoubtedly delay the start of the conclave.”

“Then perhaps we should kill his friend instead.”

Estermann stopped pacing. “Easier said than done.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back in Rome.”

“Doing what?”

“We’re good, Bishop Richter. But not that good.”

“May I offer you a piece of advice?”

“Of course, Excellency.”

“Get better. And quickly.”

22

ROME

THE MAIN ENTRANCE OF THE Vatican Secret Archives was located on the northern side of the Belvedere Courtyard. Only accredited historians and researchers were granted access, and only after a thorough vetting, presided over by none other than the prefetto, Cardinal Domenico Albanese. Visitors were not permitted to venture beyond the sala di studio, a reading room furnished with two long rows of ancient wooden desks, recently upgraded with electrical outlets for laptop computers. With rare exceptions, only members of the staff went down to the Manuscript Depository, which was reached via a cramped lift in the Index Room. Even Donati had never been there. Try as he might, he could fathom no set of circumstances, no reasonable-sounding cover story, that would allow him to wander the Depository unaccompanied, let alone with the director-general of Israel’s secret intelligence service at his side.

It was for that reason Gabriel and Donati went straight to the Israeli Embassy after their return to Rome. There they descended to a secure communications room known as the Holy of Holies, where Gabriel conducted a conference call with Uzi Navot and Yuval Gershon, the director of Unit 8200. Navot was appalled by the operation Gabriel had in mind. Gershon, however, could not believe his good fortune. Having cracked the data network of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, he was now being asked to seize control of the power supply and security system of the Vatican Secret Archives. For a cyberwarrior, it was a dream assignment.

“Can it be done?” asked Gabriel.

“You’re joking, right?”

“How long will it take?”

“Forty-eight hours, to be on the safe side.”

“I can give you twenty-four. But twelve would be better.”

It was dusk when Gabriel and Donati finally slipped from the Israeli compound in the back of an embassy car. After dropping Donati at the Jesuit Curia, the driver took Gabriel to the safe flat near the top of the Spanish Steps. Exhausted, he crawled into the unmade bed and plunged into a dreamless sleep. His phone woke him at seven the next morning. It was Yuval Gershon.

“I’d feel better if we did a few dry runs, but we’re ready when you are.”

Gabriel showered and dressed, then walked through the cold Roman morning to the Borgo Santo Spirito. Donati met him at the entrance of the Jesuit Curia and escorted him upstairs to his rooms.

It was half past eight.

“YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY BE SERIOUS.”

“Would you prefer to dress as a nun?”

Gabriel looked at the clothing laid out on the bed: a clerical suit, a black shirt with a Roman collar. He had utilized many disguises during his long career, but never had he concealed himself beneath the mantle of a priest.

“Who am I supposed to be?”

Donati handed him a Vatican pass.

“Father Franco Benedetti?”

“It has a certain flair, don’t you think?”

“That’s because it’s a Jewish name.”

“So is Donati.”

Gabriel frowned at the photograph. “I look nothing like him.”

“Consider yourself lucky. But don’t worry, the Swiss Guards probably won’t even bother to check it.”

Gabriel did not disagree. While restoring Caravaggio’s Deposition of Christ for the Vatican Museums, he had been issued a pass that granted him access to the conservation labs. The Swiss Guard at St. Anne’s Gate had rarely given it more than a cursory glance before waving him onto the territory of the city-state. Most members of Rome’s large religious community seldom bothered to display their credentials. Annona, the name of the Vatican supermarket, worked like a secret password.

Gabriel held the clerical suit against his body.

“Stefani Hoffmann was right,” said Donati. “You really do look like a priest.”

“Let’s hope no one asks for my blessing.”

Donati waved his hand dismissively. “There’s nothing to it.”

Gabriel went into the bathroom and changed. When he emerged, Donati straightened the Roman collar.

“How do you feel?”

Gabriel slipped a Beretta into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. “Much better.”

Donati grabbed his briefcase on the way out the door and led Gabriel downstairs to the street. They walked to Bernini’s Colonnade, then turned to the right. The Piazza Papa Pio XII was jammed with satellite trucks and reporters, including a correspondent from French television who pressed Donati for a comment on the approaching conclave. She relented when the archbishop shot her a curial glare.