The maître d’ insistedon sending over a bottle of complimentary wine. It was something special, he promised, a fine white from a small producer in Abruzzo. He was certain His Excellency would find it more than satisfactory. Donati, with considerable ceremony, declared it divine. Then, when they were alone again, he described for Gabriel the final hours of the papacy of Pope Paul VII. The Holy Father and his private secretary had shared a meal—a last supper, said Donati gravely—in the dining room of the papal apartments. Donati had taken only a bit of consommé. Afterward, the two men had adjourned to the study, where Donati, at the Holy Father’s request, had opened the curtains and the shutters of the window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. It was the penultimate act ofservice he would perform for his master, at least while His Holiness was still alive.
“And the final act?” asked Gabriel.
“I laid out the Holy Father’s nightly dose of medication.”
“What was he taking?”
Donati recited the names of three prescription drugs, all for the treatment of a failing heart.
“You managed to conceal it quite well,” said Gabriel.
“We’re rather good at that around here.”
“I seem to recall a brief stay in the Gemelli Clinic a few months ago for a severe chest cold.”
“It was a heart attack. His second.”
“Who knew?”
“Dottore Gallo, of course. And Cardinal Gaubert, the secretary of state.”
“Why so much secrecy?”
“Because if the rest of the Curia had known about Lucchesi’s physical decline, his papacy would have been effectively over. He had much work to do in the time he had left.”
“What sort of work?”
“He was considering calling a third Vatican council to address the many profound issues facing the Church. The conservative wing is still coming to terms with Vatican II, which was completed more than a half century ago. A third council would have been divisive, to put it mildly.”
“What happened after you gave Lucchesi his medicine?”
“I went downstairs, where my car and driver were waiting. It was nine o’clock, give or take a few minutes.”
“Where did you go?”
Donati reached for his wineglass. “You know, you really should try some of this. It’s quite good.”
The arrival of the antipastigranted Donati a second reprieve. While plucking the first leaf from the fried Roman artichoke, he asked with contrived carelessness, “You remember Veronica Marchese, don’t you?”
“Luigi...”
“What?”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
Dr. Veronica Marchese was the director of the Museo Nazionale Etrusco and Italy’s foremost authority on Etruscan civilization and antiquities. During the 1980s, while working on an archaeological dig near the Umbrian village of Monte Cucco, she fell in love with a fallen priest, a Jesuit, a fervent advocate of liberation theology, who had lost his faith while serving as a missionary in the Morazán Province of El Salvador. The affair ended abruptly when the fallen priest returned to the Church to serve as the private secretary to the Patriarch of Venice. Heartbroken, Veronica married Carlo Marchese, a wealthy Roman businessman from a noble family with close ties to the Vatican. Marchese had died after falling from the viewing gallery atop the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. Gabriel had been standing next to Carlo when he toppled over the protective barrier. Two hundred feet below, Donati had prayed over his broken body.
“How long has this been going on?” asked Gabriel.
“I’ve always loved that song,” replied Donati archly.
“Answer the question.”
“Nothing isgoing on. But I’ve been having dinner with her on a regular basis for a year or so.”
