The double glass doors of the guesthouse opened, and Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the doctrinaire archbishop of Vienna, flowed into the lobby as though propelled by a private conveyor belt. The suitcase he was towing was the size of a steamer trunk. At the reception desk, he collected a room key from the nuns and then reluctantly surrendered his iPhone to Francona.

“I don’t suppose I was lucky enough to be assigned to one of the suites.”

“I’m afraid not, Cardinal Emmerich.”

“In that case, I hope we reach a decision quickly.”

The Austrian made for the elevators. Alone again, Francona checked his phone and was surprised to see he had three missed calls. All were from the same person. There were no messages, which was not his typical style.

Francona hesitated, forefinger floating above the touchscreen. It was unorthodox, but strictly speaking it was not a violation of the rules governing the conduct of the conclave, as laid out in Universi Dominici Gregis.

Francona dithered for another precious minute before finally dialing the number and lifting the phone to his ear. A few seconds later he closed his eyes. It was spinning out of control, he thought. Anything could happen. Anything …

THE CONVERSATION LASTED THREE MINUTES and forty-seven seconds. Donati was selective in what he revealed. Indeed, he focused only on the immediate matter at hand, which was the plot by the reactionary Order of St. Helena to seize the papacy and drag Western Europe into the dark ages of its fascist past.

“Emmerich?” Francona was incredulous. “But you and Lucchesi were the ones who gave him his red hat.”

“In retrospect, a mistake.”

“How many cardinal-electors are involved?”

Donati answered.

“Dear God! Can you prove any of it?”

“Twelve of the cardinals asked the Order to deposit the money in the Vatican Bank.”

“You’ve been snooping through the accounts, have you?”

“The information was given to me.”

“By your Israeli friend?”

“Angelo, please! We haven’t time.”

Francona sounded suddenly short of breath.

“Are you all right, Eminence?”

“The news comes as quite a shock, that’s all.”

“I’m sure it does. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

There was a silence. At last, Francona said, “Give me the names of the cardinals. I’ll discuss it with them privately.”

“You are a good and decent man, Cardinal Francona.” Donati paused. “Too decent for something like this.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let me talk to the cardinals. All of them. At the same time.”

“The Casa Santa Marta is closed to everyone but the cardinal-electors and the staff.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to make an exception. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to seek a public forum.”

“The media? You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

Donati could practically hear Francona trying to steel himself. “Give me a few minutes to think it over. I’ll call you when I’ve made my decision.”

Which is when the connection went dead, at 4:52 p.m. It was ten minutes past five when Donati’s phone finally rang again.

“I’ve asked the cardinals to come to the chapel before dinner. Be sure to mind your manners. Remember, you’re not the private secretary anymore. You’ll be a titular archbishop in a roomful of red. They will be under no obligation to listen. In fact, I would expect a rather hostile reception.”

“When?”

“I’ll meet you in the Piazza Santa Marta at five twenty-five. If you are so much as a minute—”

“Wait!”

“What is it now, Luigi?”

“I no longer have a Vatican pass.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to find some other way of getting past the Swiss Guards at the Arch of Bells.”

Francona rang off without another word. Donati opened his contacts, scrolled to the letter M, and dialed. “Answer your phone,” he whispered. “Answer your damn phone.”

49

VILLA GIULIA, ROME

SINCE TAKING CONTROL OF ITALY’S Museo Nazionale Etrusco, Veronica Marchese had labored tirelessly to increase the museum’s flagging attendance numbers. In a city such as Rome, it was no easy task. The sweating, backpacked hordes who flocked to the Colosseo and the Fontana di Trevi rarely found their way to the Villa Giulia, the elegant sixteenth-century palazzo on the northern fringes of the Borghese Gardens that housed the world’s finest collection of Etruscan art and artifacts, including several notable pieces from the personal collection of the director’s late husband. Carlo had posthumously contributed to the museum in other ways. A small portion of his ill-gotten fortune had financed a redesign of the museum’s antiquated website. He had also paid for a costly global print advertising campaign and a splashy gala attended by numerous Italian sports and entertainment celebrities. The star of the evening, however, had been Archbishop Luigi Donati, the strikingly handsome papal private secretary and subject of a recent fawning profile in Vanity Fair magazine. Veronica had greeted him that night as though he were a stranger, and had pretended not to notice the impossibly pretty young women hanging on his every word.

If only they had seen the version of Luigi Donati who had wandered into an archaeological dig in Umbria one soft afternoon in the spring of 1992—the tall, bearded man in torn jeans, worn-out sandals, and a Georgetown University sweatshirt. He wore it often, the sweatshirt, for he owned little else, save for a collection of tattered paperbacks. They were piled on the bare floor next to the bed they shared in a little villa in the hills near Perugia. For a few glorious months, he was entirely hers. They forged a plan. He would leave the priesthood and become a civilian lawyer, a fighter of lost causes. They would marry, have many children. All that changed when he met Pietro Lucchesi. Heartbroken, Veronica gave herself to Carlo Marchese, and the tragedy was complete.

Carlo’s fall from the dome of St. Peter’s had allowed Veronica and Luigi to rekindle a small part of their relationship. Secretly, she had hoped that with Lucchesi’s passing, she might reclaim the rest. She realized now it had been nothing more than a silly fantasy, one that was entirely unbecoming for a woman of her age and station in life. Fate and circumstances had conspired to keep them apart. They were doomed to dine politely each Thursday evening, like characters in a Victorian novel. They would grow old, but not together. So lonely, she thought. So terribly sad and lonely. But it was the punishment she deserved for losing her heart to a priest. Luigi had sworn a vow long before he wandered into that dig in Monte Cucco. The other woman in his life was the Bride of Christ, the Roman Catholic Church.

They had spoken only once since the night they had dinner with Gabriel Allon and his wife, Chiara. The conversation had taken place that morning, as Veronica was driving to work. Luigi had spoken with his usual curial opacity. Even so, his words had shocked her. Pietro Lucchesi had been murdered in the papal apartments. The reactionary Order of St. Helena was behind it. They were planning to seize control of the Church at the next conclave.

“Were you in Florence when—”