by Daniel Silva
Gabriel’s private Caravaggio dissolved, as though washed away by solvent. Donati was recounting Albanese’s explanation of having found, and then moved, the corpse.
“Frankly, it’s the one part of his story that’s plausible. My master was quite diminutive, and Albanese has the body of an ox.” Donati was silent for a moment. “Of course, there is at least one other explanation.”
“What’s that?”
“That His Holiness never made it to the chapel. That he died at his desk in the study while drinking his tea. It was gone when I came out of the bedroom. The tea, that is. Someone removed the cup and saucer while I was praying over Lucchesi’s body.”
“I don’t suppose it underwent a postmortem examination.”
“The Vicar of Christ—”
“Was it embalmed?”
“I’m afraid so. Wojtyla’s body turned quite gray while it was on display in the basilica. And then there was Pius XII.” Donati winced. “A disaster, that. Albanese said he didn’t want to take any chances. Or perhaps he was just covering his tracks. After all, if a body is embalmed, it would make it much harder to find any trace of poison.”
“You really need to stop watching those forensic shows on television, Luigi.”
“I don’t own a television.”
Gabriel allowed a moment to pass. “As I recall, there are no security cameras in the loggia outside the private apartments.”
“If there were cameras, the apartments wouldn’t be private, would they?”
“But there must have been a Swiss Guard on duty.”
“Always.”
“So he would have seen anyone entering the apartments?”
“Presumably.”
“Did you ask him?”
“I never had the chance.”
“Did you express your concerns to Lorenzo Vitale?”
“And what would Lorenzo have done? Investigate the death of a pope as a possible homicide?” Donati’s smile was charitable. “Given your experience at the Vatican, I’m surprised you would even ask a question like that. Besides, Albanese never would have allowed it. He had his story, and he was sticking to it. He found the Holy Father in the private chapel a few minutes after ten o’clock and carried him without assistance to the bedroom. There, in the presence of three of the Church’s most powerful cardinals, he set in motion the chain of events that led to a declaration that the throne of St. Peter was empty. All while I was having a late supper with a woman I once loved. If I challenge Albanese, he’ll destroy me. And Veronica, too.”
“What about a leak to a trusted reporter? There are several thousand camped out in St. Peter’s Square.”
“This matter is far too serious to be entrusted to a journalist. It needs to be handled by someone skillful and ruthless enough to find out what really happened. And quickly.”
“Someone like me?”
Donati made no reply.
“I’m on holiday,” protested Gabriel. “And I’m supposed to be back in Tel Aviv in a week.”
“Leaving you just enough time to find out who killed the Holy Father before the beginning of the conclave. For all intents and purposes, it’s already begun. Most of the men who will choose the next pope are holed up at the Casa Santa Marta.” The Domus Sanctae Marthae, or Casa Santa Marta, was the five-story clerical guesthouse at the southern edge of the city-state. “I can assure you those red-hatted princes aren’t talking about the sporting news over dinner each night. It is imperative we find out who was behind the murder of my master before they file into the Sistine Chapel and the doors are locked behind them.”
“With all due respect, Luigi, you have absolutely no proof Lucchesi was murdered.”
“I haven’t told you everything I know.”
“Now might be a good time.”
“The missing letter was addressed to you.” Donati paused. “Now ask me about the Swiss Guard who was on duty outside the papal apartments that night.”
“Where is he?”
“He left the Vatican a few hours after the Holy Father’s death. No one’s seen him since.”
8
RISTORANTE PIPERNO, ROME
GABRIEL WAS MOMENTARILY DISTRACTED BY the man who wandered into the campo as the waiters were clearing away the first course. He wore dark glasses and a hat and carried a nylon rucksack over one square shoulder. Gabriel reckoned he was of northern European stock, German or Austrian, perhaps a Scandinavian. He paused a few meters from their table as if to take his bearings—long enough for Gabriel to calculate the length of time it would take to draw the Beretta lodged against the small of his back. He drew his phone instead and snapped the man’s photograph as he was leaving the square.
“Let’s start with the letter.” Gabriel returned the phone to his breast pocket. “But why don’t we skip the part where you claim not to know why Lucchesi was writing it.”
“I don’t,” Donati insisted. “But if I were to guess, it concerned something he found in the Secret Archives.”
L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano, the Vatican Secret Archives, was the central repository for papal documents related to matters of both religion and state. Located near the Vatican Library in the Belvedere Palace, it contained an estimated fifty-three miles of shelf space, much of it in fortified underground bunkers. Among its many treasures was Decet Romanum Pontificem, Pope Leo X’s 1521 papal bull ordering the excommunication of a troublesome German priest and theologian named Martin Luther. It was also the final resting place of much of the Church’s dirtiest laundry. Early in Lucchesi’s papacy, Gabriel had worked with Donati and the Holy Father to release diplomatic and other documents related to Pope Pius XII’s conduct during World War II, when six million Jews were systematically murdered, often by Roman Catholics, with scarcely a word of protest from the Holy See.
“The Archives are regarded as the personal property of the papacy,” Donati continued. “Which means a pope is allowed to see anything he wants. The same is not true for his private secretary. In fact, I wasn’t always allowed to know the nature of the documents he was reviewing.”
“Where did he do his reading?”
“Sometimes the prefetto would bring documents to the papal apartments. But if they were too fragile or sensitive, the Holy Father would review them in a special room inside the Archives, with the prefetto standing just outside the door. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. His name is—”
“Cardinal Domenico Albanese.”
Donati nodded.
“So Albanese was aware of every document that passed through the Holy Father’s hands?”
“Not necessarily.” An unrepentant smoker, Donati removed a cigarette from an elegant gold case and tapped it against the cover before lighting it with a matching gold lighter. “As you might recall, His Holiness developed serious sleeping problems late in his papacy. He was always in bed at the same time each evening, about half past ten, but he rarely stayed there long. On occasion he was known to visit the Secret Archives for a bit of nocturnal reading.”
“How did he get documents in the middle of the night?”
“He had a secret source.” Donati’s eye was caught by something over Gabriel’s shoulder. “My God, is that—”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why doesn’t she join us?”
“She’s busy.”
“Watching your back?”
“And yours.” Gabriel asked about the missing Swiss Guard.
“His name is Niklaus Janson. He recently completed his required two-year term of service, but at my request he agreed to remain for an additional year.”
“You liked him?”
“I trusted him, which is far more important.”
“Were there any black marks on his record?”
“Two missed curfews.”
“When was the last violation?”
“A week before the Holy Father’s death. He claimed he was out with a friend and lost track of the time. Metzler gave him the traditional punishment.”
“What’s that?”
“Scrubbing the rust off breastplates or chopping up old uniforms on the execution block in the courtyard of the barracks. The Guards call it the Scheitstock.”
“When did you realize he was missing?”
“Two days after the Holy Father’s death, I noticed that Niklaus wasn’t one of the Guards chosen to stand watch over the body while it was on display in the basilica. I asked Alois Metzler why he had been excluded and was told, much to my surprise, that he was missing.”
“How did Metzler explain his absence?”
“He said Niklaus was grief-stricken over the death of His Holiness. Frankly, he didn’t seem terribly concerned. Neither did the camerlengo, for that matter.” Donati tapped his cigarette irritably against the rim of the ashtray. “After all, he had a globally televised funeral to plan.”
“What else do you know about Janson?”
“His comrades used to call him Saint Niklaus. He told me once that he briefly considered a vocation. He joined the Guard after completing his service in the Swiss Army. They still have compulsory service up there, you know.”
“Where’s he from?”
“A little village near Fribourg. It’s a Catholic canton. There’s a woman there, a girlfriend, perhaps his fiancée. Her name is Stefani Hoffmann. Metzler contacted her the day after the Holy Father’s death. As far as I can tell, that was the extent of his efforts to determine Niklaus’s whereabouts.” Donati paused. “Perhaps you might be more effective.”
“At what?”
“Finding Niklaus Janson, of course. I wouldn’t think it would be too difficult for a man in your position. Surely you have certain capabilities at your disposal.”
“I do. But I can’t use them to find a missing Swiss Guard.”
“Why ever not? Niklaus knows what happened that night. I’m sure of it.”
Gabriel was not yet convinced that anything at all had happened that night, other than that an old man with a weakened heart, a man whom Gabriel loved and admired, had died while praying in his private chapel. Still, he had to admit there were enough troubling circumstances to warrant further investigation, beginning with the whereabouts of Niklaus Janson. Gabriel would try to find him, if only to put Donati’s mind at ease. And his own mind, as well.
“Do you know the number for Janson’s mobile?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do they have a computer network over there in the Swiss Guard barracks, or are they still using parchment?”
“They went digital a couple of years ago.”
“Big mistake,” said Gabriel. “Parchment is much more secure.”
“Is it your intention to hack into the computer network of the Pontifical Swiss Guard?”
“With your blessing, of course.”
“I’ll withhold it, if you don’t mind.”
“How jesuitical of you.”
Donati smiled but said nothing.
“Go back to the Curia and keep your head down for a couple of days. I’ll contact you when I have something.”
“Actually, I was wondering whether you and Chiara might be free tonight.”
“We were planning to go back to Venice.”
“Is there any chance I can convince you to stay? I thought we might have dinner at a little place near the Villa Borghese.”
“Will anyone be joining us?”
“An old friend.”
“Yours or mine?”
“As a matter of fact, both.”
Gabriel hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Luigi. I haven’t seen her since—”
“She was the one who suggested it. I believe you remember the address. Drinks are at eight o’clock.”
9
CAFFÈ GRECO, ROME
WHAT DO YOU THINK?” ASKED Chiara.
“I definitely think I could get used to living here again.”
They were seated in the elegant front room of Caffè Greco. Beneath their small round table were several glossy shopping bags, the plunder of a costly late-afternoon excursion along the Via Condotti. They had traveled from Venice to Rome without a change of clothing. They both needed something appropriate to wear for dinner at Veronica Marchese’s palazzo.
“I was talking about—”
Gabriel gently cut her off. “I know what you were talking about.”
“Well?”
“All of it can be explained rather easily.”
Chiara was clearly unconvinced. “Let’s start with the phone call.”
“Let’s.”
“Why did Albanese wait so long to contact Donati?”
“Because the Holy Father’s death was Albanese’s moment in the spotlight, and he didn’t want Donati interfering or second-guessing his decisions.”
“His overinflated ego got the better of him?”
“Nearly everyone in a position of power suffers from one.”
“Everyone but you, of course.”
“That goes without saying.”
“But why did Albanese take it upon himself to move the body? And why did he close the curtains and the shutters in the study?”
“For the exact reasons he said he did.”
“And the teacup?”
Gabriel shrugged. “One of the household nuns probably took it.”
“Did they take the letter off Lucchesi’s desk, too?”
“The letter,” admitted Gabriel, “is harder to explain.”
“Almost as hard as the missing Swiss Guard.” A waiter arrived with two coffees and a creamy Roman fruit tart. Fork in hand, Chiara hesitated. “I’ve already gained at least five pounds on this trip.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She shot him an envious glance. “You haven’t gained an ounce. You never do.”
“I have the Tintoretto to thank for that.”
Chiara nudged the tart closer to Gabriel. “You eat it.”
“You’re the one who ordered it.”
Chiara dislodged a slice of strawberry from the bed of cream. “How long do you think it will take Unit 8200 to find Janson’s phone number?”
“Given the insecurity of the Vatican network, I’d say about five minutes flat. Once they get it, it won’t take them long to pinpoint his location.” Gabriel inched the tart closer to Chiara. “And then we can go back to Venice and resume our holiday.”
“What if the phone is powered off or lying on the bottom of the Tiber?” Chiara lowered her voice. “Or what if they’ve already killed him?”
“Janson?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And who are they?”
“The same men who murdered the pope.”
Gabriel frowned. “We’re not there yet, Chiara.”
“We passed there a long time ago, darling.” Chiara sliced off a piece of the tart and pierced it through the cream and crust. “I have to admit I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“What are you worried about?”
“An awkward pause in the conversation.”
“You know, Gabriel, you didn’t actually kill Carlo Marchese.”
“I didn’t exactly prevent him from falling over that barrier, either.”
“Perhaps Veronica won’t bring it up.”
“I certainly don’t intend to.”
Chiara smiled and looked around the room. “What do you suppose normal people do on holiday?”
“We are normal people, Chiara. We just have interesting friends.”
“With interesting problems.”
Gabriel plunged his fork into the tart. “That, too.”
THERE WAS AN OLD OFFICE safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the church of the Trinità dei Monti. Housekeeping hadn’t had time to stock the pantry. It was no matter; Gabriel wasn’t anticipating a long stay.
In the bedroom they unpacked the shopping bags. Gabriel had acquired his evening wardrobe swiftly, with a single stop at Giorgio Armani. Chiara had been
more discriminating in her conquest. A strapless black cocktail dress from Max Mara, a car-length coat from Burberry, a pair of stylish black pumps from Salvatore Ferragamo. Now Gabriel surprised her with a strand of pearls from Mikimoto.
Beaming, she asked, “What are these for?”
“You’re the wife of the director-general of the Israeli intelligence service and the mother of two young children. It’s the least I can do.”
“Have you forgotten about the apartment on the Grand Canal?” Chiara placed the strand of pearls around her neck. She looked radiant. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m the luckiest man in the world.” The cocktail dress was laid out on the bed. “Is that a negligee?”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Where do you intend to conceal your weapon?”
“I wasn’t planning to bring one.” She pushed him toward the door. “Go away.”
He went into the sitting room. From its tiny terrace he could see the Spanish Steps descending sedately toward the piazza and, in the distance, the floodlit dome of the basilica floating above the Vatican. All at once he heard a voice. It was the voice of Carlo Marchese.
What is this, Allon?
Judgment, Carlo.
His body had split open on impact, like a melon. What Gabriel remembered most, however, was the blood on Donati’s cassock. He wondered how the archbishop had explained Carlo’s death to Veronica. It promised to be an interesting evening.
He went inside. From the next room he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself as she dressed, one of those silly Italian pop songs she so adored. Better the sound of Chiara’s voice, he thought, than Carlo Marchese’s. As always, it filled him with a sense of contentment. His journey was nearing its end. Chiara and the children were his reward for somehow having survived. Still, Leah was never far from his thoughts. She was watching him now from the shadows at the corner of the room, burned and broken, her scarred hands clutching a lifeless child—Gabriel’s private pietà. Do you love this girl? Yes, he thought. He loved everything about her. The way she licked her finger when she turned the page of a magazine. The way she swung her handbag when she walked along the Via Condotti. The way she sang to herself when she thought no one was listening.
