“I have it on the highest authority he intends to do just that.”
“Do they know what’s coming?”
“If they don’t by now, they will in a few minutes.”
“A poor Church? The end of Vatican Incorporated? If he isn’t careful, the entire enterprise could come crashing down.”
A few paces beyond the Vatican Bank was a rear entrance to the Apostolic Palace. Because the Holy Father no longer dwelled there, security inside was not what it once was. Gabriel and Veronica walked unchallenged across the San Damaso Courtyard and out the Bronze Doors, into St. Peter’s Square. The crowd was nearly as large as the one that had greeted Donati on the night of his election. Gabriel dialed Rossetti’s number but the call failed to connect. The thirty thousand or so mobile phones packed into the square had soaked up all the available cellular service.
Gabriel took Veronica by the hand, and they waded into the densely packed mass of humanity. After five minutes of determined effort they reached the Maderno Fountain. The upper floors of the Apostolic Palace were visible above Bernini’s Colonnade. The window of the papal study, the last on the uppermost floor, was closed tight.
Veronica stood on the tips of her toes. “Do you really think he’ll be able to see us when we’re surrounded by all these people?”
“I’m sure he will.”
She laughed at herself. “It’s rather pathetic, don’t you think?”
“Being madly in love with someone you can’t possibly have?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s the greatest love story never told.”
“Like Romeo and Juliet?”
“Better.”
“But shouldn’t I be the one on the balcony?”
“Too cliché.”
“How does it end, this story? Does the girl get the boy?”
“No, Veronica. I’m afraid not.”
“So terribly tragic. But what happens to her?”
“She falls in love with someone else before it’s too late.”
“Talk about cliché. Besides, the girl can never love another. In the end, the boy will die surrounded by red-robed princes, and the girl will die alone.” She checked the time. “The window is usually open by now.”
“He must be running late.”
Veronica frowned. “Donati time.”
***
Previous popes had only to rise from their desk and walk two or three paces to reach the window on the eastern corner of the Apostolic Palace. His Holiness Luigi Donati, however, had to first make his way to the palace from his lesser quarters in the Casa Santa Marta. Typically he walked there with Father Keegan, which gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. On that morning, however, he made the short journey in an all-electric motorcar, for it was true he was running late.
The car delivered them to the San Damaso Courtyard, and an ornate elevator bore them slowly to the third floor. To the left were the offices of the Secretariat of State. The twenty rooms of theappartamento pontificiowere to the right.
A Swiss Guard opened the door, and Donati followed Father Keegan inside. As usual, he found the sheer size of the place overwhelming, but he had always been fond of the private study. The window and the shades had been thrown open to the glorious Roman morning—and to the sustained roar of the immense crowd gathered in the square below. Father Keegan placed the prepared text on the plexiglass lectern, then gave Donati a serious look.
“I would advise His Holiness to deliver the address as written.”
“And what if the Holy Spirit compels me to take a detour or two?”
“Resist.”
