“Two million euros.” Donati waited for the pandemonium to subside before continuing. “In case any of you are wondering, I am not a member of the Order of St. Helena. In fact, the Order and I were on different sides when I was a missionary in the Morazán Province of El Salvador. They sided with the junta and the death squads. I worked with the poor and dispossessed. Nor am I a voting-eligible cardinal. So the only explanation for the deposit in my account is that it was a pointless attempt to compromise me.”

“You compromised yourself,” said Albanese, “when you crawled into the bed of that whore!”

“Is that your phone I hear ringing, Albanese? You’d better answer it. I’m sure Bishop Richter is anxious to know what’s happening in this chapel.”

Albanese thundered a denial, which was drowned out by the tumult in the room. Most of the cardinals were now on their feet. Donati raised a placatory hand, to no effect. He had to shout to be heard.

“And to think how many poor people we could have clothed and fed with that money. Or how many children we might have vaccinated. Or how many schools we might have built. My God, I could have cared for my entire village for a year with that amount of money.”

“Then perhaps you should give it away,” suggested Albanese.

“Oh, I intend to. All of it.” Donati looked at Tardini, who was trembling with rage. “How about you, Eminence? Will you do the same?”

Tardini swore a Sicilian blood threat.

“And you, Colombo? Will you join our pledge drive to help the poor and the sick? I expect you will. In fact, I anticipate a banner year for Catholic charities. That’s because all of you are going to surrender the money you received from the Order. Every last penny. Otherwise, I will destroy each of you.” His gaze settled coldly on Albanese. “Slowly. With pain.”

“I was paid nothing.”

“But you were there that night. You were the one who found the Holy Father’s body.” Donati paused. “In the study.”

Cardinal Duarte appeared on the verge of tears. “Archbishop Donati, what are you saying?”

A silence descended over the room. It was like the silence, thought Donati, of the grotto beneath the altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, where Pietro Lucchesi’s body lay inside three coffins, a small puncture wound in his right thigh.

“What I am saying is that my master was taken from us too soon. There was much more work to be done. He was far from perfect, but he was a good and decent man of prayer and faith, a pastoral man, who did his best to lead the Church through turbulent times. And if you do not choose someone like him when you enter the conclave, someone who will excite Catholics in the first world and the third, someone who will lead the Church into the future rather than drag it into the past …” Donati lowered his voice. “I will destroy this temple. And when I am finished, not one stone will be left standing on another.”

“The devil is among us,” seethed Tardini.

“I don’t disagree with you, Eminence. But you and your friends in the Order were the ones who opened the door to him.”

“You are the one threatening to destroy the faith.”

“Not the faith, Eminence. Only the Church. Rest assured, I would rather see her in ruins than leave her in the grubby hands of the Order of St. Helena.”

“And then what?” asked Tardini. “What will we do when our Church is destroyed?”

“We’ll start over, Eminence. We’ll meet in homes and share simple meals of bread and wine. We’ll recite the Psalms and tell stories of Jesus’ teaching and his death and resurrection. We’ll build a new church. A church he would recognize.” Donati looked at Cardinal Francona. “Thank you, Dean. I believe I’ve said quite enough.”

55

VILLA BORGHESE

VERONICA’S CAR WAS PARKED HAPHAZARDLY against the barricade at the end of the access road. The passenger-side door was slightly ajar. The keys were lying on the floor. Gabriel slipped them into his pocket and then drew the Beretta.

“Is there really no other way?” asked Metzler.

“What did you have in mind? A gentlemanly negotiation?”

“He’s a priest.”

“He killed the Holy Father. If I were you—”

“I’m not like you, Allon. I’ll let my God be Father Graf’s judge.”

“He’s my God, too. But that’s probably a discussion for another time.” Gabriel looked down at his phone. Father Graf’s device was about two hundred meters to the east, in the center of the Piazza di Siena. “Stay here with the car. I won’t be but a minute.”

Gabriel set out through the shelter of the trees. After a few paces he came upon the Tudor facade of the Globe Theatre Roma, the reproduction of the legendary London playhouse where Shakespeare debuted many of his most beloved works. Surrounded by towering Roman umbrella pines, it looked sorely out of place, like an igloo in the Negev.

Adjacent to the theater was the Piazza di Siena. Gabriel could have painted it from memory, but in the darkness he could discern almost nothing. Somewhere out there were two people—a woman who was desperately in love with a priest, and a priest who had murdered a pope. And to think he was scarcely five hours removed from Jonas Wolf’s Hitlerian shop of horrors in the Obersalzberg. He was a normal person, he assured himself.

All at once he remembered the oval track. The track he had to cross to reach the center of the piazza. It was a provable fact that it was not possible for a man, even a man of his build and agility, to walk upon gravel without making a sound. Gabriel reckoned that was why Father Graf had brought her here. Perhaps a gentlemanly negotiation was called for, after all. It wouldn’t be difficult to establish contact. Gabriel had Graf’s phone number.

The instant messaging application on Gabriel’s Solaris allowed him to send texts anonymously. Carefully shielding his screen, he typed a brief message in colloquial Italian about dinner at La Carbonara in the Campo de’ Fiori. Then he tapped the send icon. A few seconds later, light flared like a match in the center of the piazza. It was surprisingly bright—bright enough for Gabriel to determine their alignment and orientation. Father Graf held the phone in his left hand, the hand nearest Gabriel. He and Veronica were facing one another. Like the needle of a compass, the priest was pointed true north.

Gabriel moved in the opposite direction along an asphalt footpath. Then he crept eastward through a stand of umbrella pines until he was approximately level with Veronica and Father Graf.

He sent the priest another anonymous text.

Helllloooooo …

Once again light flared in the center of the piazza. Only Gabriel’s position had changed. He was now directly behind Father Graf. They were separated by about thirty meters of grass and the dust-and-gravel oval track. The grass, Gabriel could cross with the silence of a house cat. The track, however, was a tripwire. It was too wide to traverse with a leap unless one were an Olympic-caliber athlete, which Gabriel most certainly was not. He was a man of advancing years who had recently fractured two vertebrae in his lower back.

He was still a damn good shot, though. Especially with a Beretta 92 FS. He only needed to illuminate the target with another text message. Then Father Markus Graf, murderer of a pope, would cease to exist. Perhaps he might find himself before a celestial tribunal where he would be sentenced for his crimes. If so, Gabriel hoped that God was in a foul mood when it was Father Graf’s turn in the dock.