“That would explain why they call you the Bishop of Rome.”
Donati gave him a withering sidelong look. “Something bothering you?”
“As an occasional consultant to the Vatican on matters related to papal security, I can say with confidence that this is a terrible idea.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve slipped out of the Vatican in civilian dress. And yet no one seems to have noticed, mainly because I never travel in my official car.”
“What about your security detail?”
“It’s a smaller version of my usual team. The two men in the front seat are plainclothes Swiss Guards. The officers in the escort cars are Polizia di Stato. Rest assured, I am very well protected.”
The restaurant, Osteria Lucrezia, was located on a quiet street notfar from the train station. They arrived there to find the neon sign extinguished and the window shades tightly drawn. The placard on the door readchiuso.
“Too bad,” said Gabriel. “I suppose we have no choice but to return to the Vatican.”
“The restaurant is closed for a small private party.”
“How many guests will be in attendance?”
“Just two.”
Donati stepped from the car and, surrounded by his security detail, walked calmly into the restaurant. Gabriel followed a moment later. The dining room he entered was small and cramped, not unlike Vini da Arturo in Venice. The Bishop of Rome, in his sport jacket and chinos, was chatting amiably with the proprietor and the chef. There was no bowing or scraping or pressing of lips to a proffered ring, just three Italian men exchanging pleasantries. The rest of the staff, it seemed, had been given the night off.
Donati introduced his dinner companion without divulging his name or occupation, and they sat down at a table covered in white paper. The proprietor removed the cork from a bottle of the house white and poured two glasses. Donati, with a glance, instructed the members of his security detail to make themselves scarce. The Polizia di Stato officers withdrew to the exterior of the restaurant. A Swiss Guard stood just inside the door.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
“Famished,” replied Gabriel.
“Busy day?”
“Quite.”
“Is it going to spoil my appetite?”
“Probably.”
“In that case, let’s have some antipasti first.”
The onslaught commenced with a plate of fried Roman artichokes and zucchini flowers, followed by an assortment of crostini and cured meats. Then came the vegetables drenched in olive oil and the balls of fresh mozzarella. During the brief lull before the pasta course, Gabriel placed the composite sketch on the table. Donati, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, regarded it with interest.
“I have a feeling I’ve seen this man before.”
“Could it have been the evening of the recent power outage?”
Donati looked up. “Yes, that’s it. His name was Father Spada, as I recall.”
“Don’t tell me you actually met him.”
“Briefly.”
“Where?”
“In my apartment at the Casa.”
“And the purpose of this meeting?”
“Father Spada works for Caritas Internationalis at a migrant house in Mali. Caritas provides aid and comfort to the migrants before they embark on their journey across the Sahara toward Europe.”
