“At the Vatican? You can’t be serious, Luigi.”
“Point taken,” he replied. “In fact, I have fond memories of the morning we made a rather startling discovery in the Secret Archives. You were wearing an ill-fitting clerical suit, as I recall. I’m afraid the name on your Vatican ID badge escapes me.”
“I believe it was Father Benedetti. And I never breathed a word to anyone about what we found that day.”
“Or what really happened to my predecessor.” Donati was silent for a moment. “If you must know, it’s the real reason why I live here rather than the Apostolic Palace. As far as I’m concerned, theappartamentowill always be Lucchesi’s home.”
“You needn’t punish yourself for what happened, Luigi. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? If I had been there that night...” Donati changed the subject. “In case you were wondering, the last thing I need before my first trip to America as pope is a messy scandal.”
“There won’t be one if I can help it.”
“Where do you intend to start?”
“I was thinking about paying a visit to my old friends in the conservation lab.”
“Father Keegan will escort you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Holiness. I believe I remember the way.”
“A very small club, indeed,” said Donati, and showed Gabriel to the door.
***
He slipped past the Swiss Guard standing outside the Casa Santa Marta and made his way around the back of the Basilica to a small courtyard at the foot of a rather ordinary-looking structure with walls the color of dun. The door, as was frequently the case, was unlocked and unattended. Inside, he scaled a flight of narrow stairs to the Sala Regia, the glorious antechamber of the Sistine Chapel.
During his last visit to the Sistina, it had been occupied by 116 cardinal-electors, and white smoke was pouring from the chimney, much to the delight of the enormous crowd waiting anxiously in St.Peter’s Square. Now the chapel was filled with tourists, necks craned, eyes on Michelangelo’s ceiling frescoes. Gabriel briefly joined a group of Latin American pilgrims gathered beneathTheCreation of Adam, then set off along a treasure-laden loggia overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard. When he finally reached the Picture Gallery, he spent a few minutes communing with the paintings in Room XII, three of which he had restored, before making his way downstairs to the conservation lab.
This time the door he encountered was locked tight. The numerical passcode he entered into the keypad was no longer valid, so he laid a thumb on the intercom button. He recognized the voice that answered. It belonged to Donatella Ricci, an Early Renaissance expert who whispered soothingly to the paintings in her care.
“Who goes there?” she demanded to know.
“It’s me, Donatella.”
“Me who?”
“Gabriel.”
“The only Gabriel I know never bothers to knock on a door, even if the door happens to be locked.” A buzzer sounded and the dead bolt opened with a thud. “Welcome home.”
He went inside the laboratory, and the door locked automatically behind him. He found Donatella perched atop a tall stool, palette in one hand, brush in the other. Secured to her studio easel was Bellini’sLament over the Dead Christ. Gabriel felt an unwelcome tug of professional envy.
“How dare you touch my Bellini,” he murmured.
“It’s not yours, Gabriel. It belongs to me now.” Donatella swiveled round on her stool and regarded him through a pair of magnifying visors. “Is that really you?”
“Who else would it be?”
“A rather delicious-looking Italian gentleman of a certain age who resides in an enormous palazzo in Venice with one of the world’s most beautiful women.”
“Only that last part is true.”
“The lovely Chiara hasn’t thrown you out yet?”
“I’m hanging by a thread.” Gabriel plucked the brush from Donatella’s hand. “May I?”
“Absolutely not.”
