“Close your eyes,” said Gabriel. “Let me listen to you sleep.”

GABRIEL SPENT THE NIGHT ON a cot inside the station and at half past seven the next morning rang General Cesare Ferrari. He informed the general that he needed to borrow the Art Squad’s formidable laboratory to test a document. He did not say what the document was or where he had found it.

“Why do you need our labs? Yours are the best in the world.”

“I don’t have time to send it to Israel.”

“What sort of tests are we talking about?”

“Analysis of the paper and ink. I’d also like you to establish the age.”

“It’s old, this document?”

“Several centuries,” said Gabriel.

“You’re sure it’s paper and not vellum?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I have a staff meeting at the palazzo at half past ten.” The palazzo was the Art Squad’s elegant cream-colored headquarters in the Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. “If, however, you were to wander into the back room of Caffè Greco at nine fifteen, you might find me enjoying a cappuccino and a cornetto. And by the way,” he said before ringing off, “I have something to show you as well.”

Gabriel arrived a few minutes early. General Ferrari had the back room to himself. From his old leather briefcase he removed a manila folder, and from the folder eight large photographs, which he arrayed on the table. The last depicted Gabriel removing the wallet from Niklaus Janson’s pocket.

“Since when does the commander of the Art Squad get to see surveillance photos from a murder investigation?”

“The chief of the Polizia wanted you to have a look at them. He was hoping you might be able to identify the assassin.”

The general laid another photograph on the table. A man in a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, right arm extended, a gun in his hand. A woman nearby had noticed the weapon and had opened her mouth to scream. Gabriel only wished he had seen it, too. Niklaus Janson might still be alive.

Gabriel examined the gunman’s clothing. “I don’t suppose you have one without the helmet.”

“I’m afraid not.” Ferrari returned the photographs to the manila folder. “Perhaps you should show me this document of yours.”

It was locked inside a stainless-steel attaché case. Gabriel removed it and handed it wordlessly across the table. The general scrutinized it through the protective plastic cover.

“The Gospel of Pilate?” He looked up at Gabriel. “Where did you get this?”

“The Vatican Secret Archives.”

“They gave it to you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Luigi and I broke into the Archives and took it.”

General Ferrari looked down at the document again. “I assume this has something to do with the Holy Father’s death.”

“Murder,” said Gabriel quietly.

General Ferrari’s expression remained unchanged.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised by the news, Cesare.”

“I assumed that Archbishop Donati was suspicious about the circumstances of the Holy Father’s death when he asked me to make contact with you in Venice.”

“Did he mention a missing Swiss Guard?”

“He might have. And a missing letter, too.” The general held the page aloft. “Is this the document Lucchesi wanted you to see?”

Gabriel nodded.

“In that case, there’s no need to test it. The Holy Father wouldn’t have tried to give it to you if it wasn’t genuine.”

“I’d feel better if I knew when it was written and where the paper and ink came from.”

The general raised it to the light of an overhead chandelier. “You’re right, it’s definitely paper.”

“How old could it be?”

“The first mills in Italy were established in Fabriano in the late thirteenth century, and during the fifteenth century paper gradually replaced vellum in bookbinding. There were mills in Florence, Treviso, Milan, Bologna, Parma, and your beloved Venice. We should be able to determine if this was produced in one of them. But it’s not something that can be done quickly.”

“How long will it take?”

“To do the job right … several weeks.”

“I’m going to need the results a bit sooner than that.”

The general sighed.

“If it wasn’t for you,” said Gabriel, “I’d still be in Venice with my family.”

“Me?” The general shook his head. “I was only the messenger. It was Pietro Lucchesi who summoned you.” He glanced at the manila folder. “Those photos are yours to keep. A small souvenir of your brief visit to our country. Don’t worry about the Polizia. I’ll think of something to say to them. I always do.”

With that, the general departed. Gabriel checked his phone and saw that he had received a text message from Christoph Bittel, his friend from the Swiss security service.

Call me as quickly as you can. It’s important.

Gabriel dialed.

Bittel answered instantly. “For God’s sake, what the hell took you so long?”

“Please tell me she’s all right.”

“Stefani Hoffmann? She’s fine. I’m calling about the man in that sketch of yours.”

“What about him?”

“It’s not something we should discuss on the phone. How quickly can you get to Zurich?”

34

SISTINE CHAPEL

FROM INSIDE THE SISTINE CHAPEL came the unholy clamor of hammering. Cardinal Domenico Albanese climbed the two shallow steps and entered. A newly installed wooden ramp sloped toward the opening in the transenna, the marble screen that divided the chapel in two. Beyond it stretched a temporary wooden floor covered in pale tan carpeting. Twelve long tables stood along the edges of the chapel, two rows of three on each side, covered in tan baize, with pleated skirts of magenta.

In the center of the space stood a small ornate table with thin curved legs. For now, the table was empty. But on Friday afternoon, when the cardinal-electors processed into the chapel to begin the conclave, there would be a Bible open to the first page of the Gospel of Matthew. Each cardinal, including Albanese, would lay his hand on the Gospel and swear an oath of secrecy. He would also swear not to conspire with “any group of people or individuals” who might wish to intervene in the election of the next Roman pontiff. To break such a sacred vow would be a grievous sin. A cardinal sin, thought Albanese.

The sound of hammering intruded on his reverie. The workmen were constructing a camera platform near the stoves. The first hour of the conclave—the opening procession, the singing of “Veni Creator Spiritus,” the swearing of the oath—would be televised. After that, the master of pontifical liturgical celebrations would announce “Extra omnes,” and the doors would be closed and locked from the outside.

Inside, a first ballot would be taken, if only to get a sense of the room. The Scrutineers and Revisers would perform their due diligence, checking and rechecking the count. If the preconclave hype was to be believed, Cardinal José Maria Navarro would emerge as the early front runner. The ballots would then be burned in the older of the two stoves. The second stove would simultaneously release a chemically enhanced plume of black smoke. And thus the faithful gathered in St. Peter’s Square—and the unfaithful poised over their laptops in the press center—would learn that the Church of Rome was still without a pontiff.