“The carabinieri, of course.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me ask twice, Gabriel. I really hate playing the role of the complaining wife. They’re so annoying, those women.”

5

VENICE—ROME

NEXT MORNING THEY DROPPED THE children at the Zolli house after breakfast and hurried over to Santa Lucia in time to make the eight o’clock train to Rome. As the rolling plains of central Italy slid past their window, Gabriel read the newspapers and exchanged a few routine e-mails and texts with King Saul Boulevard. Chiara leafed through a thick stack of home design magazines and catalogs, licking the tip of her index finger with each turn of the page.

Occasionally, when the combination of shadows and light was favorable, Gabriel caught sight of their reflection in the glass. He had to admit, they were an attractive couple, he in his fashionable dark suit and white dress shirt, Chiara in her black leggings and leather jacket. Despite the pressure and long hours of his job—and his many injuries and brushes with death—Gabriel judged he had held up rather well. Yes, the lines around his jade-colored eyes were a bit deeper, but he was still trim as a cyclist, and he had retained all his hair. It was short and dark but very gray at the temples. It had changed color almost overnight, not long after the first assassination he carried out at the behest of the Office. The operation had taken place in the autumn of 1972, in the city where they would soon be arriving.

As they were approaching Florence, Chiara thrust a catalog beneath his nose and asked his opinion of the couch and coffee table displayed on the open page. His indifferent response earned him a glance of mild rebuke. It seemed Chiara had already begun scouring the real estate listings for their new home, adding still more evidence to support his theory that a return to Venice had been in the works for some time. For now, she had narrowed her search to two properties, one in Cannaregio and a second in San Polo, overlooking the Grand Canal. Both would substantially diminish the small fortune Gabriel had accumulated through his labors as a restorer, and both would require Chiara to commute to Tiepolo’s offices in San Marco. The San Polo apartment was much closer, a few stops by vaporetto. It was also twice the price.

“If we sell Narkiss Street …”

“We’re not selling it,” said Gabriel.

“The San Polo apartment has an incredible room with high ceilings where you can build a proper studio.”

“Which means I can supplement the starvation wages I’ll make working for you by taking private commissions.”

“Exactly.”

Gabriel’s phone pinged with the tone reserved for urgent messages from King Saul Boulevard.

Chiara watched uneasily as he read it. “Are we going home?”

“Not yet.”

“What is it?”

“A car bombing in the Potsdamer Platz in Berlin.”

“Casualties?”

“Probably. But there’s no confirmation yet.”

“Who did it?”

“The Islamic State is claiming responsibility.”

“Do they have the capability to carry out a bombing in Western Europe?”

“If you’d asked me that question yesterday, I would have told you no.”

Gabriel followed the updates from Berlin until the train pulled into Roma Termini. Outside, the sky was cerulean blue and cloudless. They walked through canyons of terra-cotta and sienna, keeping to the side streets and alleyways where watchers were easier to spot. While dawdling in the Piazza Navona, they agreed they were not being followed.

Ristorante Piperno was a short distance to the south, in a quiet campo near the Tiber. Chiara entered first and was shown by a dazzled white-jacketed waiter to a prized table near the window. Gabriel, who arrived three minutes later, sat outside in the warm autumnal sunlight. He could see Chiara’s thumbs working furiously over the keypad of her phone. He drew his own device from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and typed, Something wrong?

Chiara’s reply arrived a few seconds later. Your son just broke my mother’s favorite vase.

I’m sure it was the vase’s fault, not his.

Your lunch date is here.

Gabriel watched a worn-out Fiat sedan creeping hesitatingly over the cobbles of the tiny campo. It had ordinary Roman registration, not the special SCV plates reserved for cars from the Vatican. A tall, handsome cleric emerged from the backseat. His black cassock and simar were trimmed in amaranth red, the plumage of an archbishop. His arrival at Ristorante Piperno provoked only slightly less tumult than Chiara’s.

“Forgive me,” said Luigi Donati as he sat down opposite Gabriel. “I never should have agreed to speak to that reporter from Vanity Fair. I can’t go anywhere in Rome these days without being recognized.”

“Why did you do the interview?”

“She made it clear she was going to write the article with or without my cooperation.”

“And you fell for it?”

“She promised it would be a serious profile of the man who helped to guide the Church through troubled waters. It didn’t turn out as promised.”

“I assume you’re referring to the part about your physical appearance.”

“Don’t tell me you actually read it.”

“Every word.”

Donati frowned. “I must say, the Holy Father rather liked it. He thought it made the Church seem cool. His exact word, by the way. My rivals in the Curia didn’t agree.” He abruptly changed the subject. “I’m sorry about interrupting your holiday. I hope Chiara wasn’t angry.”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Have I ever misled you?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Donati smiled. It was an effort.

“How are you holding up?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m mourning the loss of my master and adjusting to my reduced circumstances and status loss.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Jesuit Curia. It’s just down the street from the Vatican on the Borgo Santo Spirito. My rooms aren’t as nice as my apartment in the Apostolic Palace, but they’re quite comfortable.”

“Have they found something for you to do?”

“I’m going to be teaching canon law at the Gregoriana. I’m also designing a course on the Church’s troubled history with the Jews.” He paused. “Perhaps someday I can convince you to deliver a guest lecture.”

“Can you imagine?”

“I can, actually. The relationship between our two faiths has never been better, and it is because of your personal friendship with Pietro Lucchesi.”

“I sent you a text the night he died,” said Gabriel.

“It meant the world to me.”

“Why didn’t you respond?”

“For the same reason I didn’t challenge Cardinal Albanese when he refused to allow you to attend the funeral. I needed your help on a sensitive matter, and I didn’t want to cast any unnecessary light on the closeness of our relationship.”

“And the sensitive matter?”

“It concerns the death of the Holy Father. There were certain … irregularities.”

“Beginning with the identity of the person who discovered the body.”