Donati was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Gabriel gazed straight ahead, toward the small golden cross, the instrument of Roman brutality, atop the baldachin. The emperor Constantine claimed to have seen it in the sky above the Milvian Bridge, and he had made it the symbol of the new faith. For the Jews of medieval Europe, however, the cross had been something to fear. It had been emblazoned in red on the tunics of the Crusaders who massacred Gabriel’s ancestors in the Rhineland on their way to Jerusalem. And it had hung round the necks of many of the murderers who fed millions into the flames at Treblinka, Sobibor, Chelmno, Belzec, Majdanek, and Birkenau, actions for which they received not a single word of rebuke from their spiritual leader in Rome.

His blood shall be on us and our children …

After accepting the young priest’s absolution, Donati crossed the nave and knelt at Gabriel’s side, head bowed in prayer. Eventually, he made the sign of the cross and, rising from his knees, sat down on the pew.

“I said one for you as well. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“It’s good to know you still have a sense of humor.”

“Trust me, it’s hanging by a thread.” Donati looked at the two folk singers. “What is that song they’re playing?”

“You’re asking me?”

Donati laughed quietly.

“You know,” said Gabriel, “I’m supposed to be on holiday with my wife and children.”

“You can always take a holiday.”

“I can’t, actually.”

Donati made no reply.

“There is a relatively easy way out of this,” said Gabriel. “Be the second source for Ricci’s article. Tell him everything. Let it blow up in the press. There’s no way the Order will go forward under those circumstances.”

“You underestimate Bishop Richter.” Donati cast his eyes around the nave. “And what about this? How will these young people feel about their Church then?”

“Better a temporary scandal than His Holiness Pope Emmerich.”

“Perhaps. But it would deprive us of a valuable opportunity to make sure the next pope finishes the job my master started.” Donati gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “You don’t really believe that nonsense about the Holy Spirit choosing the pope, do you?”

“I don’t even know what the Holy Spirit is.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not alone.”

“Do you have a candidate in mind?” asked Gabriel.

“My master and I gave red hats to several men who would make fine popes. All I need is access to the cardinal-electors before they enter the Sistine Chapel to cast their first vote.”

“On Friday afternoon?”

Donati shook his head. “Friday is too late. It would have to be Thursday evening at the latest. That’s when the cardinals are locked into the Casa Santa Marta.”

“Won’t they be sequestered?”

“In theory. But in reality, it’s rather porous. That said, there’s no guarantee the dean of the Sacred College will allow me to speak to them. Not unless I have ironclad, undeniable proof of the Order’s conspiracy.” Donati patted Gabriel’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t think that would be too difficult for a man in your position.”

“That’s exactly what you said about Niklaus Janson.”

“Is it?” Donati smiled. “I’d also like you to bring me proof that the Order murdered my master. And the book, of course. We mustn’t forget the Gospel of Pilate.”

Gabriel stared at the golden cross atop the baldachin. “Don’t worry, Excellency. We haven’t.”

33

ISRAELI EMBASSY, ROME

GABRIEL DROPPED DONATI AT THE Jesuit Curia, then headed to the Israeli Embassy. Downstairs, he locked the first page of the Gospel of Pilate in an Office safe and rang Yuval Gershon of Unit 8200 on a secure phone in the Holy of Holies. It was past midnight in Tel Aviv. Gershon was in bed.

“What now?” he asked warily.

“A German conglomerate called the Wolf Group.”

“Anyone specific?”

“Herr Wolf.”

“How deep?”

“Proctological.”

Gershon exhaled into the mouthpiece of his phone. “And I thought it was going to be something unreasonable.”

“I’ll get to the unreasonable request in a minute.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

Gabriel recited several keywords and names. One of the names was his own. Another was the name of the Roman military officer who had served as the prefect of Judea from approximately 26 C.E. to December of 36.

“The Pontius Pilate?” asked Gershon.

“How many Pontius Pilates do you know, Yuval?”

“I assume this has something to do with our visit to the Secret Archives.”

Gabriel indicated it did. He also insinuated that while inside the Archives, he had been given the first page of a rather interesting document.

“By whom?”

“A priest named Father Joshua.”

“That’s strange.”

“Why?”

“Because you and Archbishop Donati were the only ones in the Manuscript Depository.”

“We spoke to him.”

“If you say so. What else?”

“The Institute for Works of Religion, better known as the Vatican Bank. I just e-mailed you a list of names. I want to know whether any of them received large payments lately.”

“Define large.”

“Six figures or more.”

“How many names are we talking about?”

“One hundred and sixteen.”

Gershon swore softly. “Are you forgetting that I have pictures of you dressed as a priest?”

“I’ll make it up to you, Yuval.”

“Who are these guys?”

“The cardinals who will elect the next pope.”

Gabriel killed the connection and dialed Yossi Gavish, the chief of the Office’s analytical division. Born in Golder’s Green, educated at Oxford, he still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced British accent.

“Father Gabriel, I presume?”

“Check your in-box, my son.”

A moment passed. “It’s lovely, boss. But who is he?”

“He’s a lay member of something called the Order of St. Helena, but I have a feeling he might be one of us. Show it around the building, and send it to Berlin Station.”

“Why Berlin?”

“He speaks German with a Bavarian accent.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Gabriel hung up the phone and placed one more call. Chiara answered, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Somewhere safe.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have to find something first.”

“Is it good?”

“Do you remember when Eli and I found the ruins of Solomon’s Temple?”

“How could I forget?”

“This might be better.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”