“Not bad, Metzler.”
“I’m a Swiss citizen who works for the Vatican. Hiding the truth comes naturally to me.”
“Any word from Bishop Richter?”
“He left Rome last night on his private jet. Apparently, he’s holed up at the Order’s priory in Canton Zug.”
“What’s the mood like at the Casa Santa Marta?”
“If we get through the conclave without another dead body,” said Metzler before ringing off, “it will be a miracle.”
By then, it was nearly twelve thirty. Veronica’s flashy convertible was parked in the street outside the apartment building.Gabriel drove to her palazzo off the Via Veneto and waited downstairs while she showered and changed. When she reappeared, she was dressed in an elegant cream-colored pantsuit and a braided gold necklace.
“I was mistaken,” said Gabriel. “Everyone at the Jesuit Curia will definitely be gawking at you.”
She smiled. “We can’t arrive empty-handed.”
“Luigi asked us to bring some wine.”
Veronica disappeared into the kitchen and returned with four bottles of chilled pinot grigio. It was a five-minute drive to Roma Termini. They were waiting outside in the traffic circle when Chiara and the children spilled from the station.
“You’re right,” said Veronica. “You’re married to the perfect woman.”
“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “How lucky I am.”
57
Jesuit Curia, Rome
There were two large flat-panel televisions in the dining hall of the Jesuit Curia, one at either end of the room. Between them were a hundred or so priests in black cassocks and clerical suits, along with a group of students from the Pontifical Gregorian University. The male baritone din subsided briefly as a party of invited laity—two young children, two beautiful women, and the chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service—entered the room.
Donati had changed out of his choir dress and was once again wearing the Vatican equivalent of business attire. He was locked in what appeared to be a serious conversation with a silver-haired man whom Veronica identified as the superior general of the Society of Jesus.
“The Black Pope,” she added.
“That’s what they used to call Donati.”
“Only his enemies dared to call him that. Father Agular is the real Black Pope. He’s Venezuelan, a political scientist by training and something of a leftist. A writer from a conservative American magazine once labeled him a Marxist, which Father Agular took to be a compliment. He’s quite pro-Palestinian as well.”
“How much does he know about you and Donati?”
“Luigi’s file was purged of any reference to our affair after he became Lucchesi’s private secretary. As far as the Jesuits are concerned, it never happened.” Veronica nodded toward a table lined with soft drinks and bottles of red and white wine. “Would you mind? I’m not sure I can do this sober.”
Gabriel added Veronica’s four bottles of pinot grigio to the collection of wine. Then he poured three glasses from an open bottle of lukewarm Frascati while Chiara served the children pasta from the chafing dishes arranged along the neighboring buffet. They found an empty table near one of the televisions. The cardinal-electors had left the Casa Santa Marta and were gathered in the Pauline Chapel, the final stop before they entered the Sistina for the start of the conclave.
Veronica tentatively sipped her wine. “Is there anything worse than room-temperature Frascati?”
“I can think of a few things,” answered Gabriel.
Donati and a smiling Father Agular approached the table. Rising, Gabriel offered the leader of the Jesuits his hand before introducing Chiara and the children. “And this is our dear friend Veronica Marchese.” Gabriel’s tone was uncharacteristically bright. “Dottora Marchese is the director of the Museo Nazionale Etrusco.”
“An honor, Dottora.” Father Agular looked at Gabriel. “Ifollow events in the Middle East quite closely. I wonder if we might have a word before you leave.”
“Of course, Father Agular.”
The Jesuit contemplated the television. “Who do you think it will be?”
“They say it’s Navarro.”
