But at least Donati had never been bored. And with the exception of the six weeks he had spent in the Gemelli Clinic recovering from a bullet wound, he had never been powerless. At present, however, he was both. When combined with his aforementioned lack of forbearance, it was a lethal combination.

His old friend Gabriel Allon was to blame. In the three days since he had left Rome, Donati had heard from him only once, at 5:20 that morning. “I have everything you need,” Gabriel had promised. Unfortunately, he neglected to tell Donati what it was he had discovered. Only that it was a twelve on the Bishop Richter scale—a rather clever pun, Donati had to admit—and that there was an additional complication involving someone close to the previous pope. A complication that could not be discussed over the phone.

For the subsequent eleven hours, Donati had heard not so much as a ping from his old friend. Hence, he had passed a thoroughly unpleasant day behind the walls of the Jesuit Curia. The news from Germany, while shocking, at least provided a distraction. Donati watched it with a few of his colleagues on the television in the common room. The German police had prevented a truck bombing targeting Cologne Cathedral. The purported terrorists were not from the Islamic State but a shadowy neo-Nazi organization with links to the far-right politician Axel Brünner. One member of the cell, an Austrian national, had been arrested, as had Brünner himself. At four thirty Germany’s interior minister announced that two other men implicated in the scandal had been found dead at an estate in the Obersalzberg. Both had been killed by the same handgun in what appeared to be a case of murder-suicide. The murder victim was a former German intelligence officer named Andreas Estermann. The suicide was the reclusive billionaire Jonas Wolf.

“Dear God,” whispered Donati.

Just then, his Nokia shivered with an incoming call. He tapped answer and raised the device to his ear.

“Sorry,” said Gabriel. “The traffic in this town is a nightmare.”

“Have you seen the news from Germany?”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Is that what you meant by tying up one or two loose ends?”

“You know what they say about idle hands.”

“Please tell me you—”

“I didn’t pull the trigger, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Donati sighed. “Where are you?”

“Waiting for you to let me in.”

GABRIEL STOOD IN THE ENTRANCE, framed by the doorway. The last three days had been unkind to his appearance. Truth be told, he looked like something the cat had dragged in. Donati led him upstairs to his rooms and chained the door. He checked the time. It was 4:39.

“You mentioned something about a twelve on the Bishop Richter scale. Perhaps you can be a bit more specific.”

Gabriel delivered his briefing while peering through the blinds into the street. It was swift but thorough and only lightly redacted. It detailed the Order’s plan to erase Islam from Western Europe, the circumstances surrounding the murder of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, and the macabre room in which Jonas Wolf, the son of a Nazi war criminal, burned the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate. Central to the Order’s sweeping political ambitions was control of the papacy. Forty-two cardinal-electors had accepted money in exchange for their votes at the conclave. Another eighteen were secret members of the Order who planned to cast their ballots for Bishop Richter’s proxy supreme pontiff: Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the archbishop of Vienna.

“And the best part is that I have it all on video.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. “Is that specific enough for you?”

“That’s only sixty votes. They need seventy-eight to secure the papacy.”

“They’re counting on momentum to carry Emmerich over the top.”

“Do you know the names of all forty-two cardinals?”

“I can list them alphabetically if you like. I also know how much each was paid and where the money was deposited.” Gabriel released the blind and turned. “And I’m afraid it only gets worse.”

He tapped the touchscreen of his phone. A moment later it emitted the sound of two men speaking German.

He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.

Two million and one …

He paused the recording.

“Bishop Richter and Jonas Wolf, I presume?”

Gabriel nodded.

“What are the two million reasons why I shouldn’t tell the conclave what I know about the Order’s plot?”

“It’s the amount of money Wolf and Richter put in your account at the Vatican Bank.”

“They want to make it appear as though I’m as corrupt as they are?”

“Obviously.”

“And the one?”

“I’m still working on that.”

Donati’s eyes flashed with anger. “And to think they wasted two million dollars on such an obvious ploy.”

“Perhaps you can put it to good use.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Donati dialed Angelo Francona, dean of the College of Cardinals. There was no answer.

He checked the time again. It was 4:45.

“I suppose you should give me the names.”

“Azevedo of Tegucigalpa,” said Gabriel. “One million. Bank of Panama.”

“Next?”

“Ballantine of Philadelphia. One million. Vatican Bank.”

“Next?”

AT THAT SAME MOMENT, Cardinal Angelo Francona was standing like a sentinel near the reception desk of the Casa Santa Marta. Resting on the white marble floor at his feet was a large aluminum case filled with several dozen mobile phones, tablets, and notebook computers, all carefully labeled with the owners’ names. For security reasons, the switchboard of the clerical guesthouse remained operative, but the phones, televisions, and radios had been removed from its 128 rooms and suites. Francona’s telefonino was in the pocket of his cassock, silenced but still functioning. He planned to switch it off the instant the last cardinal walked through the door. At that point, the men who would select the next supreme Roman pontiff would effectively be cut off from the outside world.

At present, 112 of the 116 voting-eligible cardinals were safely beneath the Casa Santa Marta’s roof. Several were milling about the lobby, including Navarro and Gaubert, the two leading contenders to succeed Lucchesi. At last check, Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese was upstairs in his suite. A migraine. Or so he claimed.

Francona felt a pre-conclave headache coming on as well. Only once before had he taken part in the election of a pope. It was the conclave that had shocked the Catholic world by choosing a diminutive, little-known patriarch from Venice to succeed Wojtyla the Great. Francona had been among the group of liberals who had tipped the conclave in Lucchesi’s favor. Regrettably, Lucchesi’s papacy would be remembered for the terrorist attack on the basilica and the sexual abuse scandal that had left the Church on the brink of moral and financial collapse.

Therefore, the conclave that would commence the following afternoon had to be utterly above reproach. Already a cloud was hanging over it. It had been placed there by the murder of that poor Swiss Guard in Florence. There was more to the story, Francona was sure of it. His task now was to preside over a scandal-free conclave, one that would produce a pontiff who could heal the Church’s wounds, unite its factions, and lead it into the future. He wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible. Secretly, he feared it was spinning out of control and that anything could happen.