“His Holiness refused to tell me.”
Gabriel was not sure the archbishop was being entirely truthful. “I assume the letter was written in longhand?”
“The Vicar of Christ doesn’t use a word processor.”
“To whom was it addressed?”
“An old friend.”
Donati then described the scene he encountered when Cardinal Albanese led him into the papal bedroom. Gabriel pictured the tableau as though it were rendered in oil on canvas by the hand of Caravaggio. The body of a dead pontiff stretched upon the bed, watched over by a trio of senior prelates. At the right side of the canvas, scarcely visible in the shadows, were three trusted laymen: the pope’s personal physician, the chief of the Vatican’s small police force, and the commandant of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. Gabriel had never met Dr. Gallo, but he knew Lorenzo Vitale, and liked him. Alois Metzler was another story.
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’towna 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 afterten 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.
