“Yes. And you were right. Janson was involved with Father Graf.”

“Maybe next time you’ll listen.”

“Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll see you this evening?”

“I’m afraid I have plans.”

“Be careful, Archbishop Donati.”

“And you as well, Signora Marchese.”

As part of her campaign to drive up attendance at the museum, Veronica had extended its hours. The Museo Nazionale Etrusco was now open until eight p.m. But at five o’clock on a cold and dreary Thursday in December, its exhibition rooms were as silent as tombs. The administrative and curatorial staffs had left for the night, as had Veronica’s secretary. She had only Maurizio Pollini for company—Schubert’s Piano Sonata in C Minor, the sublime second movement. She and Luigi used to listen to it over and over again at the villa near Perugia.

At five fifteen she packed her bag and pulled on her overcoat. She was meeting a friend for a drink on the Via Veneto. A girlfriend. The only kind of friend she had these days. Afterward, they were having dinner at an out-of-the-way osteria, the kind of place known only to Romans. They served cacio e pepe in the bowl in which it was prepared. Veronica intended to eat every delectable strand, then clean the inside of the bowl with a piece of crusty bread. If only Luigi were sitting at the opposite side of the table.

Downstairs, she paused in front of the Euphronios krater. The museum’s star attraction, it was widely regarded as one of the most beautiful pieces of art ever created. Gabriel, she remembered, had thought otherwise.

You don’t care for Greek vases?

I don’t believe I said that.

It was no wonder Luigi liked him so much. They shared the same fatalistic sense of humor.

She bade the security guards a pleasant evening and, declining their offer of an escort, went into the chill evening. Her car was parked a few meters from the entrance in her reserved space, a flashy Mercedes convertible, metallic gray. One day she would manage to convince Luigi to actually get into it. She would drive him against his will to a little villa in the hills near Perugia. They would share a bottle of wine and listen to Schubert. Or perhaps Mendelssohn’s Piano Trio no. 1 in D Minor. The key of repressed passion … It was lying just beneath the surface, dormant but not extinct, the terrible craving. A touch of her hand was all it would take. They would be young again. The same plan, thirty years delayed. Luigi would leave the priesthood, they would marry. But no children. Veronica was far too old, and she didn’t want to share him with anyone. There would be a scandal, of course. Her name would be dragged through the mud. They would have no choice but to go into seclusion. A Caribbean island, perhaps. Thanks to Carlo, money was not an issue.

It was unbecoming, Veronica reminded herself as she unlocked the Mercedes with the remote. Still, there was no harm in merely thinking about it. Unless, of course, she became so distracted that she failed to notice the man walking toward her car. He was in his mid-thirties, with neat blond hair. Veronica relaxed when she saw the white square of a Roman collar beneath his chin.

“Signora Marchese?”

“Yes?” she replied automatically.

He drew a gun from beneath his coat and smiled beautifully. It was no wonder Niklaus Janson had fallen for him.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want you to drop your bag and your keys.”

Veronica hesitated, then allowed the key and the bag to fall from her hand.

“Very good.” Father Graf’s smile vanished. “Now get in the car.”

50

ST. PETER’S SQUARE

COLONEL ALOIS METZLER, COMMANDANT OF the Pontifical Swiss Guard, was waiting at the foot of the Egyptian obelisk when Gabriel and Donati arrived in St. Peter’s Square. Having sprinted the length of the Borgo Santo Spirito, both were gasping for breath. Metzler, however, looked as though he were posing for his official portrait. He had brought along two plainclothes killers for protection. Having worked with the Swiss Guard on numerous occasions, including during a papal visit to Jerusalem, Gabriel knew that each man was carrying a Sig Sauer 226 9mm pistol. For that matter, so was Metzler.

He directed his hooded gaze toward Gabriel and smiled. “What happened, Father Allon? Did you renounce your vows?” He posed his next question to Donati. “Do you know what happened after you and your friend pulled that stunt at the Archives?”

“I suspect Albanese was a bit miffed.”

“He told me that I would be relieved of duty once the conclave was over.”

“The camerlengo doesn’t have the authority to dismiss the commandant of the Swiss Guard. Only the secretary of state can do that. With the approval of the Holy Father, of course.”

“The cardinal implied that he was going to be the next secretary of state. He seemed quite confident, actually.”

“And did he tell you who was going to be the next pope as well?” Receiving no answer, Donati pointed toward the Arch of Bells. “Please, Colonel Metzler. Cardinal Francona is waiting for me.”

“I’m sorry, Excellency. But I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

“Why not?”

“Because Cardinal Albanese warned me that you would try to get into the restricted areas of the city-state tonight. He said heads would roll if you managed to get through. Or words to that effect.”

“Ask yourself two questions, Colonel Metzler. How did he know I would be coming? And what is he so afraid of?”

Metzler exhaled heavily. “What time is Cardinal Francona expecting you?”

“Four minutes from now.”

“Then you have two minutes to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

LIKE ALL THE CARDINAL-ELECTORS WHO entered the Casa Santa Marta that evening, Domenico Albanese had surrendered his phone to the dean of the Sacred College. He was not, however, without a mobile device. He had concealed one in his suite earlier that week. It was a cheap disposable model. A burner, he thought wickedly.

He was clutching the phone in his left hand. With his right he was parting the gauzy curtain in the sitting room window. As fortune would have it, it overlooked the small piazza at the front of the guesthouse, where Cardinal Angelo Francona was pacing the paving stones. Clearly, the dean was expecting someone. Someone, thought Albanese, who was no doubt trying to talk his way past the Swiss Guards at the Arch of Bells.

At 5:25 Francona checked his phone and then started toward the entrance of the guesthouse. He stopped suddenly when one of the Swiss Guards pointed toward the three men running across the piazza. One of the men was the sentry’s commanding officer, Colonel Alois Metzler. He was accompanied by Gabriel Allon and Archbishop Luigi Donati.

Albanese released the curtain and dialed.

“Well?” asked Bishop Richter.

“He made it through.”

The connection went dead. Instantly, two firm knocks shook Albanese’s room. Startled, he slipped the phone into his pocket before opening the door. Standing in the corridor was Archbishop Thomas Kerrigan of Boston, the vice dean of the College of Cardinals.

“Is something wrong, Eminence?”

“The dean requests your presence in the chapel.”

“For what reason?”