“An English murder mystery.” Stefani Hoffmann shook her head. “Can you imagine that?”
By the timeNiklaus left the Apostolic Palace, the Press Office had announced the Holy Father’s death. St. Peter’s Square was ablaze with the spectral light of the television crews, and in the cloisters and courtyards of the Vatican, nuns and priests were gathered in small groups, praying, weeping. Niklaus wasweeping, too. Alone in his room in the barracks, he changed into civilian clothing and tossed a few things into his duffel bag. He slipped out of the Vatican around five thirty that morning.
“Why did he go to Florence instead of coming home to Switzerland?”
“He was afraid they would find him.”
“The Guard?”
“The Order.”
“And you had no other contact other than the single phone call? No texts or e-mails?”
“Only the package. It arrived the day after I spoke to him.”
“What was it?”
“A dreadful devotional painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I can’t imagine why he would send me such a thing.”
“Was there anything else in the package?”
“Niklaus’s rosary.” She paused, then added, “And a letter.”
“A letter?”
She nodded.
“To whom was it addressed?”
“Me. Who else?”
“What did it say?”
“He apologized for joining the Order of St. Helena and breaking off our engagement. He said it was a terrible mistake. He said they were evil. Especially Bishop Richter.”
“May I read it?”
“No,” she said. “Some parts are too private.”
Donati let it go. For now. “Colonel Metzler told me he spoke to you.”
“He called me the day after the Holy Father died. He said Niklaus had left the barracks without authorization. He asked whether I’d spoken to him. I told him I hadn’t, which was true at the time.”
“Was Metzler the only person who contacted you?”
“No. I heard from someone else the next day.”
“Who?”
“Herr Bauer. The man from Vatican intelligence.”
There it was again, thought Donati.Vatican intelligence...
“Did Herr Bauer show you any identification?”
She shook her head.
“Did he say what division of Vatican intelligence he worked for?”
