“Are you forgetting that many of those cardinals downstairs are now wealthy men because of me?”
“All the more reason you should keep a low profile until the conclave is over. I can only imagine what the likes of Francona and Kevin Brady are saying right now.”
“Francona and Brady are the least of our problems.”
The simple wooden armchair into which Albanese lowered himself groaned beneath his weight. “Is there any sign of the Janson boy?”
Richter shook his head.
“He was obviously distraught that night. It’s possible he took his own life.”
“We should be so lucky.”
“Surely you don’t mean that, Excellency. If Janson committed suicide, his soul would be in grave peril.”
“It already is.”
“As is mine,” said Albanese quietly.
Richter placed a hand on the camerlengo’s thick shoulder. “I granted you absolution for your actions, Domenico. Your soul is in a state of grace.”
“And yours, Excellency?”
Richter removed his hand. “I sleep well at night knowing that in a few days’ time, the Church will be in our control. I will allow no one to stand in our way. And that includes a pretty little peasant boy from Canton Fribourg.”
“Then I suggest you find him, Excellency. The sooner the better.”
Bishop Richter smiled coldly. “Is that the type of incisive and analytical thinking you intend to bring to the Secretariat of State?”
Albanese suffered the rebuke from his superior general in silence.
“Rest assured,” said Bishop Richter, “the Order is using all of its considerable resources to find Janson. Unfortunately, we are no longer the only ones looking for him. It appears Archbishop Donati has joined the search.”
“If we can’t find Janson, what hope does Donati have?”
“Donati has something much better than hope.”
“What’s that?”
Bishop Richter gazed at the dome of the basilica. “Gabriel Allon.”
11
Via Sardegna, Rome
The palazzo wasoften mistaken for an embassy or a government ministry, for it was surrounded by a formidable steel fence and watched over by an array of outward-aimed security cameras. A Baroque fountain splashed in the forecourt, but the two-thousand-year-old Roman statue of Pluto that had once adorned the entrance hall was absent. In its place stood Dr. Veronica Marchese, director of Italy’s National Etruscan Museum. She wore a stunning black pantsuit and a thick band of gold at her throat. Her dark hair was swept straight back and held in place by a clasp at the nape of her neck. A pair of cat’s-eye spectacles gave her a faintly academic air.
Smiling, she kissed Chiara on both cheeks. She offered Gabriel only her hand, guardedly. “Director Allon. I’m so pleasedyou were able to come. I’m only sorry we didn’t do this a long time ago.”
The ice broken, she led them along a gallery hung with Italian Old Master paintings, all of museum quality. The works were but a small portion of her late husband’s collection.
“As you can see, I’ve made a few changes since your last visit.”
“Spring cleaning?” asked Gabriel.
She laughed. “Something like that.”
The exquisite Greek and Roman statuary that once had lined the gallery was gone. Carlo Marchese’s business empire, nearly all of it illegitimate, had included a brisk international trade in looted antiquities. One of his main partners had been Hezbollah, which supplied Carlo with a steady stream of inventory from Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq. In return, Carlo filled Hezbollah’s coffers with hard currency, which it used to purchase weapons and fund terrorism. Gabriel had taken down the network. Then, after making a remarkable archaeological discovery one hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface of the Temple Mount, he had taken down Carlo.
