“Father Franco Benedetti?”
“It has a certain flair, don’t you think?”
“That’s because it’s a Jewish name.”
“So is Donati.”
Gabriel frowned at the photograph. “I look nothing like him.”
“Consider yourself lucky. But don’t worry, the Swiss Guards probably won’t even bother to check it.”
Gabriel did not disagree. While restoring Caravaggio’sDeposition of Christfor the Vatican Museums, he had been issued a pass that granted him access to the conservation labs. The Swiss Guard at St. Anne’s Gate had rarely given it more than a cursory glance before waving him onto the territory of the city-state. Most members of Rome’s large religious community seldom bothered to display their credentials. Annona, the name of the Vatican supermarket, worked like a secret password.
Gabriel held the clerical suit against his body.
“Stefani Hoffmann was right,” said Donati. “You really do look like a priest.”
“Let’s hope no one asks for my blessing.”
Donati waved his hand dismissively. “There’s nothing to it.”
Gabriel went into the bathroom and changed. When he emerged, Donati straightened the Roman collar.
“How do you feel?”
Gabriel slipped a Beretta into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. “Much better.”
Donati grabbed his briefcase on the way out the door and led Gabriel downstairs to the street. They walked to Bernini’s Colonnade, then turned to the right. The Piazza Papa Pio XII was jammed with satellite trucks and reporters, including a correspondent from French television who pressed Donati for a comment on the approaching conclave. She relented when the archbishop shot her a curial glare.
“Very impressive,” said Gabriel, sotto voce.
“I have something of a reputation.”
They passed beneath the Passetto, the elevated escape route last utilized by Pope Clement VII in 1527 during the Sack of Rome, and walked along the pink facade of the Swiss Guard barracks. A halberdier in a simple blue uniform stood watch at St. Anne’s Gate. Donati crossed the invisible border without slowing. Waving Father Benedetti’s pass, Gabriel did the same. Together they headed up the Via Sant’Anna toward the Apostolic Palace.
“Do you suppose that nice Swiss boy is watching us?”
“Like a hawk,” murmured Donati.
“How long before he tells Metzler you’re back in town?”
“If I had to guess, he already has.”
Cardinal Domenico Albanese, prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives and camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church, was sampling the global television coverage of the pending conclave when the power suddenly failed in his apartment above the Lapidary Gallery. It was not an altogether unusual occurrence. The Vatican received most of its electricity from Rome’s notoriously fickle grid. Consequently, the denizens of the Curia spent much of their time in the dark, which surely would not have come as a surprise to their critics.
Most curial cardinals scarcely noticed the periodic outages. Domenico Albanese, however, was the ruler of a climate-controlled empire of secrets, much of it underground. Electricity was necessary for the smooth administration of his realm. Because it was a Sunday, the Archives were officially closed, thus reducing the likelihood of a priceless Vatican treasure walking out the door. Still, Albanese preferred to err on the side of caution.
He lifted the receiver of the phone on his desk and dialed the Archives’ control room. There was no answer. In fact, there was no sound at all. Albanese rattled the switch. Only then did he realize there was no dial tone. It appeared the Vatican’s phone system was down as well.
He was still dressed in his nightclothes. Fortunately, he lived above the store. A private corridor overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard delivered him to the upper level of the Secret Archives. There was not a light burning anywhere. In the controlroom a pair of security guards sat staring at a wall of darkened video monitors. The entire network appeared frozen.
“Why haven’t you switched over to auxiliary power?” asked Albanese.
“It’s not functioning, Eminence.”
“Is there anyone inside the Archives?”
“Thesala di studioand the Index Rooms are empty. So is the Manuscript Depository.”
