“Was it?” asked Gabriel.

Donati sipped his wine thoughtfully before answering. “The Church remained silent the last time the extreme right seized power in Italy and Germany. In fact, powerful elements within the Curia supported the rise of fascism and National Socialism. They saw Mussolini and Hitler as a bulwark against bolshevism, which was openly hostile to Catholicism. The Holy Father and I resolved that this time we would not make the same mistake.”

“And now,” said Veronica Marchese, “the Holy Father is dead, and a Swiss Guard is missing.” She looked at Gabriel. “Luigi tells me you’ve agreed to find him.”

Gabriel frowned at Donati, who was suddenly brushing lint from the front of his spotless cassock.

“Did I speak out of turn?” asked Veronica.

“No. The archbishop did.”

“Don’t be angry with him. Life in the gilded cage of the Apostolic Palace can be very isolating. The archbishop often seeks my advice on temporal matters. As you know, I’m rather well connected in Roman political and social circles. A woman in my position hears all sorts of things.”

“Such as?”

“Rumors,” she replied.

“What kind of rumors?”

“About a handsome young Swiss Guard who was spotted at a gay nightclub with a curial priest. When I told the archbishop, he warned me that unproven allegations can do irreparable harm to a person’s reputation, and advised me not to traffic in them.”

“The archbishop would know,” remarked Gabriel. “But one wonders why he didn’t mention any of this at lunch this afternoon.”

“Perhaps he didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Or perhaps he thought it would make me reluctant to help him if I thought I was going to get involved in a Vatican sex scandal.”

Gabriel’s phone pulsed against his heart. It was a message from King Saul Boulevard.

“Something wrong?” asked Donati.

“It appears as though Janson’s file was deleted from the Swiss Guard’s computer network a few hours after the Holy Father’s death.” Gabriel exchanged a glance with Chiara, who was suppressing a smile. “My colleagues at Unit 8200 are now searching the system’s backup.”

“Will they find anything?”

“Computer files are a bit like sin, Excellency.”

“How so?”

“They can be absolved, but they never really go away.”

THEY HAD DINNER ON THE palazzo’s magnificent rooftop terrace, beneath gas heaters that burned the chill from the night air. It was a traditional Roman meal, spinach ravioli topped with butter and sage, followed by roasted veal and fresh vegetables. The conversation flowed as easily as the three bottles of vintage Brunello that Veronica unearthed from Carlo’s cellar. Donati seemed perfectly at ease in his black clerical armor, with Veronica at his right hand and the lights of Rome glowing softly behind him. It might have been broken and filthy and hopelessly corrupt, but viewed from Veronica Marchese’s terrace, with the air clear and crisp and scented with the aroma of cooking, Gabriel thought it was the most beautiful city in the world.

Carlo’s name was never spoken over dinner, and there was no hint of the violence and scandal that bound them. Donati speculated on the outcome of the conclave but avoided the subject of Lucchesi’s death. Mainly, he seemed to hang on Veronica’s every word. The affection between them was painfully obvious. Donati was walking along the edge of an Alpine crevasse. For now, at least, God was watching over him.

Only Gabriel’s phone served as a reminder of why they had gathered that night. Shortly after ten o’clock it shivered with an update from Tel Aviv. The cybersleuths at Unit 8200 had retrieved Niklaus Janson’s original application to join the Swiss Guard. The next update came at half past ten, when the Unit found his complete service file. It was written in Swiss German, the official language of the Guard. It contained a reference to the two missed curfews, but there was nothing about a sexual relationship with a curial priest.

“What about his phone number? It has to be there. The guards are always on call.”

“Patience, Excellency.”

The wait for the next message was only ten minutes. “They found an old contact file, one that included an entry for Lance Corporal Niklaus Janson. It has a phone number and two e-mail addresses, a Vatican account and a personal account at Gmail.”

“What now?” asked Donati.

“We find out where the phone is and whether Niklaus Janson is still in possession of it.”

“And then?”

“We call him.”

12

ROME—FLORENCE

DONATI WAS AWAKENED BY THE tolling of church bells. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Daylight rimmed the edges of the tightly drawn shade. He had overslept. He placed a hand to his brow. His head was heavy with Carlo Marchese’s wine. His heart was heavy, too. He didn’t dare dwell on the reason why.

He sat up and eased his feet to the cold parquet floor. It took a moment for the room to come into focus. A writing desk piled with books and papers, a simple wardrobe, a wooden prie-dieu. Above it, faintly visible in the gloom, was the crucifix, heavy and oaken, given to him by his master a few days after the conclave. It had hung in Donati’s apartment in the Apostolic Palace. Now it hung here, in his room at the Jesuit Curia. How different it was from Veronica’s lavish palazzo. It was the room of a poor man, he thought. The room of a priest.

The prie-dieu beckoned. Rising, Donati pulled on his dressing gown and crossed the room. He opened his breviary to the appropriate page and on his knees recited the first words of lauds, the morning prayer.

God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me …

Behind him on his bedside table his phone purred. Ignoring it, he read that morning’s selection of psalms and hymns, along with a brief passage from Revelation.

And I saw another angel ascending from the rising of the sun …

Only when Donati had repeated the final line of the closing prayer did he rise and retrieve the phone. The message that awaited him was composed in colloquial Italian. The wording was ambiguous and full of misdirection and double meaning. Nevertheless, the instructions were clear. Had Donati not known better, he would have assumed the author was a creature of the Roman Curia. He was not.

And I saw another angel ascending from the rising of the sun …

Donati tossed the phone onto his unmade bed and quickly shaved and showered. Wrapped in a towel, he opened the doors of his wardrobe. Hanging from the rod were several cassocks and clerical suits, along with his choir dress. His civilian wardrobe was limited to a single sport jacket with elbow patches, two pairs of tan chinos, two white dress shirts, two crewneck pullovers, and a pair of suede loafers.

He dressed in one of the outfits and packed the spare in his overnight bag. Next he added a change of undergarments, toiletries, a stole, an alb, a cincture, and his traveling Mass kit. The mobile phone he slipped into his jacket pocket.

The corridor outside his rooms was empty. He heard the faint tinkle of glass and cutlery and earthenware emanating from the communal dining hall and, from the chapel, sonorous male voices at prayer. Unnoticed by his Jesuit brethren, he hurried downstairs and went into the autumn morning.