“He has invited Archbishop Donati to address the cardinal-electors.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

Kerrigan smiled. “You just were.”

DONATI FOLLOWED CARDINAL FRANCONA INTO the lobby. The first face he saw belonged to Kevin Brady of Los Angeles. Brady was a doctrinal soul mate. Still, he appeared stunned by Donati’s presence. They exchanged a terse nod, then Donati looked down at the marble floor.

Francona seized his arm. “Excellency! I can’t believe you brought that in here.”

Donati hadn’t realized his phone was ringing. He snatched it from the pocket of his cassock and checked the screen. The name on the caller ID shocked him.

Father Brunetti …

It was the pseudonym Donati had assigned to Veronica Marchese in his contacts. Under the rules of their relationship, she was forbidden to phone him. So why on earth was she calling now?

Donati tapped DECLINE.

Instantly, the phone rang again.

Father Brunetti …

“Turn it off, will you, Luigi?”

“Of course, Eminence.”

Donati placed his thumb on the power button but hesitated.

He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.

Two million and one …

Donati accepted the call. Calmly, he asked, “What have you done to her?”

“Nothing yet,” answered Father Markus Graf. “But if you don’t turn around and walk out of there, I’m going to kill her. Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain.”

DOMENICO ALBANESE WATCHED FROM ABOVE as Luigi Donati burst from the entrance of the Casa Santa Marta. His phone was in his hand, its screen aglow with the embers of Father Graf’s call. Frantic, he seized Allon by the shoulders, as though begging for help. Then he swiveled around and searched the upper windows of the guesthouse. He knows, thought Albanese. But what would he do? Would he save the woman he once loved? Or would he save the Church?

Fifteen seconds passed. Then Albanese had his answer.

He tapped the screen of the burner phone.

Bishop Richter answered instantly.

“I’m afraid it’s over, Excellency.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The call died.

Albanese concealed the phone in the writing desk and went into the corridor. Like Luigi Donati five floors below, he was organizing his thoughts, separating lies from truth. His Holiness bore the weight of the Church on his shoulders, he reminded himself. But in death he was light as a feather.

51

VIA DELLA CONCILIAZIONE

WHY DIDN’T YOU COME TO me in the beginning?” asked Alois Metzler.

“Would you have agreed to help us?”

“With a private investigation of the Holy Father’s death? Not a chance.”

Metzler was behind the wheel of an E-Class Mercedes with Vatican plates. He turned onto the Via della Conciliazione and raced toward the river, a rotating red light flashing on the roof.

“For the record,” said Gabriel, “I only agreed to find Niklaus Janson.”

“Were you the one who deleted his personnel file from our database?”

“No,” answered Gabriel. “It was Andreas Estermann who did that.”

“Estermann? The former Bf V officer?”

“You know him?”

“He tried to convince me to join the Order of St. Helena a few years ago.”

“You’re not alone. Frankly, I’m disappointed he didn’t ask me to join, too. By the way, he went to Canton Fribourg to see Stefani Hoffmann a few days after Niklaus disappeared.”

“Was Janson a member of the Order?”

“More like a plaything.”

Metzler drove dangerously fast across the Tiber. Gabriel checked his messages. Immediately after leaving the Casa Santa Marta, he had called Yuval Gershon at Unit 8200 and asked him to pinpoint the location of Father Graf’s phone. As yet, there had been no reply.

“Where do you want me to go?” asked Metzler.

“The National Etruscan Museum. It’s—”

“I know where it is, Allon. I live here, you know.”

“I thought you Helvetians hated to leave your tidy little Swiss Quarter in Vatican City.”

“We do.” Metzler pointed out a pile of uncollected rubbish. “Look at this place, Allon. Rome is a mess.”

“But the food is incredible.”

“I prefer Swiss food. There’s nothing better than a perfect raclette.”

“Melted Emmentaler on boiled potatoes? That’s your idea of cuisine?”

Metzler made a right turn onto the Viale delle Belle Arti. “Have you ever noticed that every time you come near the Vatican, something goes wrong?”

“I was supposed to be on vacation.”

“Do you remember the papal visit to Jerusalem?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“The Holy Father really loved you, Allon. Not many people can say they were loved by a pope.”

The Villa Giulia appeared on their right. Metzler turned into the small staff car park. Veronica’s briefcase was lying on the paving stones. Her flashy Mercedes convertible was gone.

“He must have been waiting for her when she came out,” said Metzler. “The question is, where did he take her?”

Gabriel’s phone vibrated with an incoming message. It was from Yuval Gershon. “Not far, actually.”

He retrieved Veronica’s bag and climbed back into the car.

“Which way?” asked Metzler.

Gabriel pointed to the right. Metzler turned onto the boulevard and put his foot to the floor.

“Is it true what they say about her and Donati?” he asked.

“They’re old friends. That’s all.”

“Priests aren’t allowed to have friends who look like Veronica Marchese. They’re trouble.”

“So is Father Graf.”

“Do you really think he’ll kill her?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Not if I kill him first.”

52

CASA SANTA MARTA

THE CHAPEL OF SANTA MARTA was squeezed into a tiny triangular plot of land between the southern flank of the guesthouse and the Vatican’s khaki-colored outer wall. It was bright and modern and rather ordinary, with a polished floor that always reminded Donati of a backgammon board. Never before had he seen it so crowded. Though he could not be certain, it appeared that all 116 of the cardinal-electors were present. Each of the varnished wooden chairs had been claimed, leaving several other princes of the Church, including the cardinal camerlengo, a late arrival, no choice but to huddle like stranded airline passengers at the back.

Dean Francona had taken to the pulpit. From a single sheet of paper he was reading a series of announcements—housekeeping matters, issues related to security, the schedule for the shuttle buses between the Casa and the Sistina. The microphone was switched off. His voice was thin, his hands were shaking. Donati’s were shaking, too.

I’m going to kill her. Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain …

Was it real or a ruse? Was she still alive or already dead? Had he made the biggest mistake of his life by walking into this den of vipers and leaving her to her fate? Or did he make that mistake a long time ago, when he returned to the Church instead of marrying her? It was not too late, he thought. There was still time to abandon this sinking ship and run away with her. There would be a scandal, of course. His name would be dragged through the mud. They would have no choice but to go into seclusion. A Caribbean island, perhaps. Or a little villa in the hills near Perugia. Schubert’s piano sonatas, a few paperbacks scattered on the bare tile floor, Veronica wearing nothing but his old Georgetown sweatshirt. For a few glorious months, she was entirely his.