by Daniel Silva
“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—”
“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?”
“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.”
“Melt
ed 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.