Tiepolo had given Gabriela key to the church. Watched by the commander of the Art Squad, he engaged the alarm and locked the door. Together they walked to a bar a few doors down from Tintoretto’s old house. The papal funeral played on the television behind the counter.
“In case you were wondering,” said the general, “Archbishop Donati wanted you to attend.”
“Then why wasn’t I invited?”
“The camerlengo wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Albanese?”
The general nodded. “Apparently, he was never comfortable with the closeness of your relationship with Donati. Or with the Holy Father, for that matter.”
“It’s probably better I’m not there. I would have only been a distraction.”
The general frowned. “They should have seated you in a place of honor. After all, were it not for you, the Holy Father would have died in the terrorist attack on the Vatican.”
The barman, a skinny twentysomething in a black T-shirt, delivered two coffees. The general added sugar to his. The hand that stirred it was missing two fingers. He had lost them to a letter bomb when he was the commander of the Camorra-infestedNaples division of the carabinieri. The explosion had taken his right eye as well. The ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil, had left the general with a cold, unyielding gaze. Even Gabriel tended to avoid it. It was like staring into the eye of an all-seeing God.
At present, the eye was aimed toward the television, where the camera was panning slowly across a rogues’ gallery of politicians, monarchs, and assorted global celebrities. Eventually, it settled on Giuseppe Saviano.
“At least he didn’t wear his armband,” murmured the general.
“You’re not an admirer?”
“Saviano is a passionate defender of the Art Squad’s budget. As a result, we get on quite well.”
“Fascists love cultural patrimony.”
“He considers himself a populist, not a fascist.”
“That’s a relief.”
Ferrari’s brief smile had no influence over his prosthetic eye. “The rise of a man like Saviano was inevitable. Our people have lost faith with fanciful notions like liberal democracy, the European Union, and the Western alliance. And why not? Between globalization and automation, most young Italians can’t start a proper career. If they want a well-paying job, they have to go to Britain. And if they stay here...” The general glanced at the young man behind the bar. “They serve coffee to tourists.” He lowered his voice. “Or Israeli intelligence officers.”
“Saviano isn’t going to change any of that.”
“Probably not. But in the meantime, he projects strength and confidence.”
“How about competence?”
“As long as he keeps the immigrants out, his supporters don’t care if he can’t put two words together.”
“What if there’s a crisis? A real crisis. Not one that’s invented by a right-wing website.”
“Like what?”
“It could be another financial crisis that wipes out the banking system.” Gabriel paused. “Or something much worse.”
“What could be worse than my life’s savings going up in smoke?”
“How about a global pandemic? A novel strain of influenza for which we humans have no natural defense.”
“A plague?”
“Don’t laugh, Cesare. It’s only a matter of time.”
“And where will this plague of yours come from?”
“It will make the jump from animals to humans in a place where sanitary conditions leave something to be desired. A Chinese wet market, for example. It will start slowly, a cluster of local cases. But because we are so interconnected, it will spread around the globe like wildfire. Chinese tourists will bring it to Western Europe in the early stages of the outbreak, even before the virus has been identified. Within a few weeks, half of Italy’s population will be infected, perhaps more. What happens then, Cesare?”
