“Too bad,” he added with a glance at Gabriel. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

Ricci cleared a couple of chairs and immediately dug a crumpled pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his jacket. Donati in turn produced his elegant gold cigarette case. There followed the familiar rituals of the tobacco addicted—the stroke of a lighter, the offer of a flame, a moment or two of small talk. Ricci expressed his condolences over the death of Lucchesi. Donati asked about Ricci’s mother, who had been unwell.

“The letter from the Holy Father meant the world to her, Excellency.”

“It didn’t stop you from writing a rather nasty piece about how much money the Vatican was spending renovating the apartments of certain curial cardinals.”

“Did I make any mistakes?”

“Not one.”

The conversation turned to the coming conclave. Ricci mined Donati for a nugget of gold, something he might reveal to his American audience later that evening. It didn’t need to be earth-shattering, he said. A juicy piece of curial gossip would suffice. Donati failed to oblige him. He claimed he had been too busy putting his affairs in order to give much thought to the selection of Lucchesi’s successor. At this, Ricci smiled. It was the smile of a reporter who knew something.

“Is that why you went to Florence last Thursday to find the missing Swiss Guard?”

Donati didn’t bother with a denial. “How did you know?”

“The Polizia have pictures of you on the Ponte Vecchio.” Ricci looked at Gabriel. “You, too.”

“Why haven’t they tried to contact me?” asked Donati.

“The Vatican asked them not to. And for some reason, the Polizia agreed to keep you out of it.”

Donati stabbed out his cigarette. “What else do you know?”

“I know that you were having dinner with Veronica Marchese the night the Holy Father died.”

“Wherever did you hear a thing like that?”

“Come on, Archbishop Donati. You know I can’t divulge—”

“Where?” asked Donati evenly.

“A source close to the camerlengo.”

“That means it came directly from Albanese.”

The reporter said nothing, all but confirming Donati’s suspicions. “Why haven’t you reported the story?” he asked.

“I’ve written it, but I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I push the button.”

“Respond to what exactly?”

“Why were you having dinner with the wife of a dead mobster the night the Holy Father died? And why were you standing a few meters from Niklaus Janson when he was assassinated on the Ponte Vecchio?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Alessandro.”

“Then let me help you, Excellency.”

Cautiously, Donati asked, “How?”

“Tell me what really happened that night in the Apostolic Palace, and I’ll make sure no one ever finds out where you were.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“An old man died in his bed,” said Donati after a moment. “That’s all that happened.”

“Lucchesi was murdered. And you know it. That’s why you came here tonight.”

Donati was slow in rising. “You should be aware of the fact that you’re being used.”

“I’m a reporter, I’m used to it.”

Donati beckoned Gabriel with a nod.

“Before you leave,” said Ricci, “there’s one more thing you need to know. A couple of hours ago, I told a global television audience that I thought Cardinal José Maria Navarro would be the next supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“A daring choice on your part.”

“I was being untruthful, Excellency.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t the first time.” Donati immediately regretted his words. “Forgive me, Alessandro. It’s been a long day. Don’t bother to get up. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me the name of the next pope, Excellency?”

“You can’t possibly—”

“It’s Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the archbishop of Vienna.”

Donati frowned. “Emmerich? He’s not on anyone’s list.”

“He’s on the only list that matters.”

“Whose is that?”

“The one in Bishop Hans Richter’s pocket.”

“He’s planning to steal the papacy? Is that what you’re saying?”

Ricci nodded.

“How?”

“With money, Excellency. How else? Money makes the world go round. The Order of St. Helena, too.”

31

VIA DELLA PAGLIA, TRASTEVERE

ALESSANDRO RICCI BEGAN BY REMINDING Donati that during the final year of the Wojtyla papacy, he had published a bestselling book on the Order of St. Helena that, the state of his apartment notwithstanding, had made him a wealthy man. Not hedge-fund wealthy, he hastened to add, but enough money to look after his mother and a brother who had never worked a day in his life. The Pole had not liked the book. Neither had Bishop Hans Richter, who had agreed to be interviewed for the project. It was the last time he would ever submit to questioning by a journalist.

Donati granted himself the luxury of a smile at Bishop Richter’s expense. “You were rather unkind to him.”

“You read it?”

Donati deliberately removed another cigarette from his case. “Go on.”

The book, explained Ricci, shone a harsh light on the Order’s close relationship with Hitler and the Nazis during World War II. It also explored the Order’s finances. It was not always so wealthy. Indeed, during the depression of the 1930s, the Order’s founder, Father Ulrich Schiller, was forced to wander Europe, hat in hand, seeking donations from wealthy patrons. But as the continent drifted toward war, Father Schiller developed a far more lucrative method of filling his coffers. He extorted cash and valuables from wealthy Jews in exchange for promises of protection.

“One of Father Schiller’s victims lived here in Trastevere. He owned several factories up north. In exchange for false baptismal records for himself and his family, he gave the Order several hundred thousand lire in cash, along with numerous Italian Old Master paintings and a collection of rare books.”

“Do you happen to remember his name?” asked Gabriel.

“Why do you ask?” replied Ricci, displaying the sharp ear of a seasoned journalist.

“I’m just curious, that’s all. Stories about art intrigue me.”

“It’s all in my book.”

“You wouldn’t have a copy lying around, would you?”

Ricci inclined his head toward a wall of books. “It’s called The Order.”

“Catchy.” Gabriel wandered over to the shelves and craned his neck sideways.

“Second shelf, near the end.”

Gabriel took down the book and reclaimed his seat.

“Chapter four,” said Ricci. “Or maybe it’s five.”

“Which is it?”

“Five. Definitely five.”