“Too late for that,” said Donati, and closed his eyes.
“Say one for me too, Holiness.”
“If you must know,” replied Donati irritably, “I was only trying to get a few minutes of sleep.”
52
Lampedusa
The supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church does not have an airplane of his own; he merely borrows one when needed from the Italian national carrier ITA Airways. His usual jetliner had a customized forward cabin with devotional pictures and a privacy door bearing the papal seal. But the short runway at Lampedusa Airport required the papal entourage to squeeze onto a smaller turboprop instead. The flight was designated AZ4000, the number reserved for the pope.
Ordinarily there were two rows of seats in the plane’s first-class cabin, but the airline had removed the first row in order to give Donati, the tallest man to ever occupy the papacy, more legroom. He spent most of the flight reworking the remarks he planned to deliver at the refugee center in Lampedusa. Gabriel and Father Keegan, seated on the opposite side of the aisle, monitored the fast-breaking news on the Internet. The story of Ottavio Pozzi’s brutal murder had spread beyond Italy. One of the London papers had made reference to the recent death of a young British art conservator in Venice. And then there was the still unsolved murder of the renowned Leonardo expert Giorgio Montefiore. Social media was ablaze with rumors and speculation, much of it generated by theVaticanisti, who were blasting away on their feeds from the back of the airplane.
Ninety minutes into the flight, the director of the Vatican PressOffice, a slick former television reporter from Madrid named Esteban Rodríguez, poked his head into the forward cabin and looked at Father Keegan.
“We’ve got big trouble.”
“Ottavio Pozzi?”
Rodríguez nodded. “We have to say something.”
“The Holy See is shocked and outraged by this unspeakable act of violence.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“Probably, Esteban. But now is not the time.”
“What about Cardinal Bertoli?”
Donati looked up from his remarks. “Tell theVaticanistithat His Eminence has a touch of the flu and regrettably was unable to make the trip.”
“Is that the truth, Holiness?”
“Of course not. But when has that ever mattered to the Press Office?”
“Might I raise another matter, Holiness?”
“Quickly.”
The director cast a nervous glance in Gabriel’s direction before speaking. “Several reporters recognized Signore Allon when we were boarding at Fiumicino. They were wondering why he is accompanying you.”
“Tell the reporters that they are mistaken.”
“But, Holiness . . .”
Donati ended the conversation with a languid wave of his hand, and Rodríguez headed aft to confront the lions. It took only twenty minutes for his words to find their way into print. They had little impact on the controversy swirling beneath the papal airplane. A dead museum guard, an absent Curial cardinal—surely there had to be a connection. It was now a race among theVaticanistito see who got the story first.
By then Gabriel could see the khaki-colored coastline of Tunisia outside his window. The seething cauldron of unrest known as Libya was straight ahead. Both countries served as embarkation points for desperate African migrants trying to make their way to Europe. More often than not, the Italian island of Lampedusa was their destination of choice.
The airport was located in the southeast corner of the island. They approached from the west, seemingly a few meters above the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. Father Keegan, a nervous flyer, made the sign of the cross as the plane thudded safely onto the runway. Gabriel privately seconded the motion. The bumpy three-hour flight had played havoc with his back.
Alois Metzler had provided him with a standard-issue Swiss Guard miniature radio with an earpiece and wrist mic. He switched it on and heard the crosstalk of the Polizia di Stato officers posted on the tarmac. A delegation of local dignitaries, both political and religious, waited in the blinding Mediterranean sunlight, and several thousand sign-waving faithful strained at the metal barricades. The anticipation was palpable. The rock star pope had arrived.
The plane rolled to a stop, and a pair of mobile stairways approached the front and rear doors. The security personnel filed off the aircraft first, followed by the Curial traveling party and the Vatican press corps. Then Alois Metzler entered the first-class cabin with two of his men.
“Ready when you are, Holiness.”
Donati rose to his feet and looked at Gabriel. “I think you’re going to enjoy this.”
