Francona’s voice dragged Donati from the past to the present. As yet, he had failed to explain Donati’s presence in the Casa Santa Marta on the eve of the conclave. It was clear, however, that Francona’s audience was thinking of nothing else. Forty-two of them had accepted the Order’s money in exchange for their votes. It was a crime against a conclave, the sacred passing of the keys of St. Peter from one pope to the next. For now, at least, it was still a crime in progress.

Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain …

They were not all hopelessly corrupt, thought Donati. In fact, many were good and decent men of prayer and reflection who were more than capable of leading the Church into the future. Cardinal Navarro, the favorite, would make a fine pope. So would Gaubert or Duarte, the archbishop of Manila, though Donati was not convinced the Church was ready for an Asian pope.

It was, however, ready for an American. Kevin Brady of Los Angeles was the obvious choice. Youngish and telegenic, he was a fluent Spanish speaker with an Irishman’s gift of the gab. He’d made mistakes with a couple of abusive priests, but for the most part he had emerged from the scandal cleaner than most. The worst thing Donati could do was tip his hand. It would be the kiss of death. He intended to bestow that on Cardinal Franz von Emmerich of Vienna.

Francona folded his paper in half, twice, as though it were a conclave ballot. Donati realized he still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to these men assembled before him, these high priests of the Church. Admittedly, homilies were not his strong suit. He was a man of action rather than words, a priest of the streets and the barrios, a missionary.

A fighter of lost causes …

Francona noisily dislodged something from his throat. “And now a final piece of business. Archbishop Donati has requested permission to address you on a matter of the utmost urgency. After careful consideration, I have agreed—”

It was Domenico Albanese who objected, loudly. “Dean Francona, this is most unusual. As camerlengo, I must protest.”

“The decision to let Archbishop Donati speak is entirely mine. Having said that, you are under no obligation to stay. If you intend to leave, please do so now. That goes for all of you.”

No one moved, including Albanese. “Does this not constitute outside interference in the conclave, Dean Francona?”

“The conclave does not begin until tomorrow afternoon. As for the question of interference, you would know better than I, Eminence.”

Albanese seethed but said nothing more. Francona stepped away from the pulpit and with a nod invited Donati to take his place. He walked slowly toward the first row of chairs instead and stood directly in front of Cardinal Kevin Brady.

“Good evening, my brothers in Christ.”

Not one voice returned his greeting.

53

VILLA BORGHESE

IN THE DARK, LONELY MONTHS after Luigi Donati’s return to the priesthood, Veronica Marchese dreamed often of handsome young men dressed entirely in black. Occasionally, they came as lovers, but more often than not they subjected her to all manner of physical and emotional torment. Never once, though, did one lead her through the Borghese Gardens at the point of a gun. Father Markus Graf had exceeded all expectations.

She was in desperate need of a cigarette. Hers were in the handbag she had dropped in the car park of the museum, along with her phone, wallet, laptop computer, and nearly everything else one needed to survive in modern society. It was no matter; she would soon be dead. She supposed there were worse places to die than the Borghese Gardens. She only wished the priest walking next to her was Luigi Donati and not this neo-Nazi in clerical garb from the Order of St. Helena.

He was quite handsome, though. She would grant him that. Most priests from the Order were. She could only imagine how he had looked when he was a boy of thirteen or fourteen. According to the rumors, Bishop Richter used to invite novitiates to his rooms for private instruction. Somehow it had never come out. Even by Church standards, the Order was good at keeping secrets.

She walked on through the darkness. The umbrella pines lining the dusty footpath swayed in the cold evening wind. The gardens closed at sunset. There was not another living soul in sight.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

“They’re forbidden.”

“And what about having sex with Swiss Guards in the Apostolic Palace? Is that forbidden, too?” Veronica glanced over her shoulder. “You weren’t terribly discreet, Father Graf. I told the archbishop about you and Janson, but he didn’t believe me.”

“He would have been wise to listen to you.”

“How did you kill him?”

“I shot him on a bridge in Florence. Three times. One for the Father, one for the Son, and the last for the Holy Spirit. Your boyfriend saw it all. He was with Allon and his wife. She’s even more beautiful than you are.”

“I was talking about the Holy Father.”

“His Holiness died of a heart attack while his private secretary was in bed with his mistress.”

“We’re not lovers.”

“How do you spend your evenings? Reading scripture? Or do you save that until the archbishop has had his fill?”

Veronica could scarcely believe such words had come from the mouth of an ordained priest. She decided to return the favor.

“And how do you spend your evenings, Father Graf? Does he still send for you? Or does he prefer—”

The blow to the back of her head was preceded by no warning and delivered with the butt of the pistol. The pain was otherworldly. It blinded her. With the tip of her finger she probed her scalp. It was warm and wet.

“I guess I touched a nerve.”

“Keep talking. It will make it easier for me to kill you.”

“If there was a God, he would let loose a plague upon the world that would kill only members of the Order of St. Helena.”

“Your husband was one of us. Did you know that?”

“No. But it doesn’t surprise me. Carlo always was a bit of a fascist. In retrospect, it was his most endearing trait.”

They had arrived in the Piazza di Siena. Built in the late eighteenth century, it was named for the hometown of the Borghese clan. Veronica, on those rare occasions when she was inspired to take exercise, sometimes jogged a lap or two around the dusty oval before coming to her senses and lighting a cigarette. Like most Italians, she did not believe in the health benefits of regular physical exertion. Her daily routine generally consisted of a pleasant stroll to Doney for a cappuccino and a cornetto.

With a prod of the gun barrel, Father Graf directed her into the center of the esplanade. The cypress trees lining the perimeter were silhouettes. The stars were incandescent. Yes, she thought again. There were worse places to die than the Piazza di Siena in the Borghese Gardens. If only it were Luigi. If only …

Father Graf’s phone tolled like an iron bell. The screen illuminated his face as he read the message.

“Have I been granted a reprieve?”

Wordlessly, he slipped the phone into his coat pocket.

Veronica lifted her gaze to the heavens. “I believe I’m having a vision.”

“What do you see?”

“A man dressed in white.”

“Who is he?”

“The one whom God has chosen to save that Church of yours.”