“Very impressive,” said Gabriel, sotto voce.

“I have something of a reputation.”

They passed beneath the Passetto, the elevated escape route last utilized by Pope Clement VII in 1527 during the Sack of Rome, and walked along the pink facade of the Swiss Guard barracks. A halberdier in a simple blue uniform stood watch at St. Anne’s Gate. Donati crossed the invisible border without slowing. Waving Father Benedetti’s pass, Gabriel did the same. Together they headed up the Via Sant’Anna toward the Apostolic Palace.

“Do you suppose that nice Swiss boy is watching us?”

“Like a hawk,” murmured Donati.

“How long before he tells Metzler you’re back in town?”

“If I had to guess, he already has.”

CARDINAL DOMENICO ALBANESE, PREFECT OF the Vatican Secret Archives and camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church, was sampling the global television coverage of the pending conclave when the power suddenly failed in his apartment above the Lapidary Gallery. It was not an altogether unusual occurrence. The Vatican received most of its electricity from Rome’s notoriously fickle grid. Consequently, the denizens of the Curia spent much of their time in the dark, which surely would not have come as a surprise to their critics.

Most curial cardinals scarcely noticed the periodic outages. Domenico Albanese, however, was the ruler of a climate-controlled empire of secrets, much of it underground. Electricity was necessary for the smooth administration of his realm. Because it was a Sunday, the Archives were officially closed, thus reducing the likelihood of a priceless Vatican treasure walking out the door. Still, Albanese preferred to err on the side of caution.

He lifted the receiver of the phone on his desk and dialed the Archives’ control room. There was no answer. In fact, there was no sound at all. Albanese rattled the switch. Only then did he realize there was no dial tone. It appeared the Vatican’s phone system was down as well.

He was still dressed in his nightclothes. Fortunately, he lived above the store. A private corridor overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard delivered him to the upper level of the Secret Archives. There was not a light burning anywhere. In the control room a pair of security guards sat staring at a wall of darkened video monitors. The entire network appeared frozen.

“Why haven’t you switched over to auxiliary power?” asked Albanese.

“It’s not functioning, Eminence.”

“Is there anyone inside the Archives?”

“The sala di studio and the Index Rooms are empty. So is the Manuscript Depository.”

“Go downstairs and have a look, just to be sure.”

“Right away, Eminence.”

Satisfied his kingdom was safe from danger, Albanese returned to his apartment and drew his morning bath, unaware of the two men walking along the Via Sant’Anna, past the entrance of the Vatican Bank. One of the men had a gun concealed beneath his ill-fitting clerical suit and an unusually large mobile phone pressed to his ear. Highly secure, it was connected to an operations room in north Tel Aviv, where a team of the world’s most formidable hackers awaited his next command. Needless to say, Albanese’s realm was far from secure. Indeed, at that moment, it was in mortal peril.

BEFORE REACHING THE ENTRANCE TO the Belvedere Courtyard, Gabriel and Donati turned to the right and wound their way through the business quarter of Vatican City to a seldom-used service door at the base of the antiquity-filled Chiaramonti Museum. It was adjacent to a complex of industrial air conditioners that controlled the climate in the Manuscript Depository, which lay several meters beneath their feet.

Gabriel stared directly into the lens of the security camera. “Can you see me?”

“Nice outfit,” said Yuval Gershon.

“Just open the door.”

The deadbolt thumped. Donati pulled the latch and led Gabriel into a small foyer. Directly before them was a second door and another security camera. Gabriel gave the signal, and Yuval Gershon opened the door remotely.

Beyond it was a stairwell. Four flights down, Gabriel and Donati arrived at another door. It was the first level of the Manuscript Depository. Four additional flights brought them to the second level and yet another door. A buzzer groaned, a deadbolt snapped. Donati seized the latch, and together they went inside.

23

VATICAN SECRET ARCHIVES

THE DARKNESS WAS IMPENETRABLE. GABRIEL switched on his phone’s unusually bright flashlight and was somewhat disappointed by what he saw. At first glance, the Manuscript Depository looked like the underground level of an ordinary university library. There were even trolleys piled with books. He illuminated the spine of one of the volumes. It was a collection of wartime diplomatic documents and cables from the Secretariat of State.

“Next time,” promised Donati.

An empty aisle stretched before them, lined on both sides with gunmetal-gray shelves. Gabriel and Donati followed it to an intersection and turned to the right. After about thirty meters, a woven wire mesh storage enclosure blocked their path.

Gabriel played the beam of his flashlight around the interior. The books resting on the metal shelves were very old. Some were the size of a typical monograph. Others were smaller and covered in cracked leather. None looked as though they had been produced by anything other than a human hand.

“I think we’ve come to the right place.”

They were now at the westernmost edge of the Depository, directly beneath the Cortile della Pigna. Donati led Gabriel past a row of enclosures to an unmarked metal door, pale green, watched over by a security camera. There was no sign or placard to indicate the sort of material stored in the chamber behind it. The professional-grade locks looked newly installed. There was one for the deadbolt and a second for the latch. Both appeared to be five-pin mechanisms.

Gabriel handed his phone to Donati. Then he drew a thin metal tool from the pocket of his borrowed clerical suit and inserted it into the mechanism for the deadbolt.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” asked Donati.

“I can’t pick this lock if you don’t stop talking.”

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on how many more questions you intend to ask.”

Donati aimed the beam of the flashlight at the lock. Gabriel worked the tool gently inside the mechanism, testing for resistance, listening for the drop of a pin.

“Don’t bother,” said a voice calmly. “You won’t find what you’re looking for.”

Gabriel turned. In the darkness he could see nothing. Donati aimed the phone’s flashlight into the void. It illuminated a man in a cassock. No, thought Gabriel. Not a cassock. A robe.

The man moved forward, soundlessly, on sandaled feet. He was identical to Gabriel in height and build, about five eight, no more than a hundred and sixty pounds. His hair was black and curly, his skin was dark. He had an ancient face, like an icon come to life.

He took another step forward. His left hand was heavily bandaged. So was his right. It was clutching a manila envelope.

“Who are you?” asked Donati.

His face registered no change in expression. “You don’t know me? I’m Father Joshua, Excellency.”

He spoke fluent Italian, the language of the Vatican, but it was obviously not his native tongue. His name seemed to mean nothing to Donati.