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M ost evenings Ottavio Pozzi stopped at Caffè Roma, a popular neighborhood bar on the Via Casati, for a doppio before boarding the first of two Metro trains that took him from Ostiense to the Vatican.

It was on one such evening, not long after the Feast of the Assumption, that he made the acquaintance of the man who referred to himself only as Signore Bianchi.

He insisted on paying for Pozzi’s coffee.

Then he suggested they have a word in private.

“Describe him,” said Luca Rossetti, a pen hovering over his open detective’s notebook.

“Forty or so, nice jacket, gold watch. Not the sort of man you would ever want to cross.”

“Italian?”

“Sure.”

“Roman?”

“If he was, he wasn’t born here.”

“He had an accent?”

Pozzi nodded. “It was like yours, Capitano.”

Rossetti had been raised in Naples, in the working-class neighborhood of Secondigliano. He spoke Italian with a distinct Neapolitan accent.

“How did Signore Bianchi know about Sandro?” he asked.

“He said the information had come from one of his associates.”

“Associates?”

“He didn’t go into detail. But he made it clear that these associates could get to Sandro inside Regina Coeli if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

“And you, of course, went straight to your boss and told him everything.”

“If I had done that, they would have killed my brother. And then they would have killed me. Or maybe they would have killed Giada or one of the children. What would you have done if you were in my position?”

Rossetti turned to a fresh page in his notebook without answering. “And how, exactly, did Signore Bianchi suggest that you steal the painting and smuggle it out of the museum without anyone noticing?”

“He said there would be a power failure that would disable the museum’s security system.”

“Did he give you the time and date of this promised power failure?”

“Not then.”

“When, Ottavio?”

“He met me at Caffè Roma two weeks later. He said the power failure would happen the next night.”

“Where were you when the lights went out?”

“The Picture Gallery. Room Twelve.”

“Why Room Twelve?” asked Gabriel.

“That’s where the Caravaggio hangs. The Deposition is my favorite painting. I pray there often.”

“You were having second thoughts?”

Pozzi nodded.

“Why didn’t you listen to your conscience?” asked Rossetti.

“My brother.”

“And when the power failed?”

The darkness in Room XII was so complete, said Pozzi, that he could scarcely see his hand in front of his face.

He immediately raised the control room on his radio and was instructed to commence a museum-wide search for evidence of a break-in.

He checked the main public entrance, knowing full well it was secure, then headed downstairs to the storage rooms. Because the cameras and motion detectors were disabled, his four colleagues were unaware of his whereabouts.

“How did you open the door?” asked Rossetti.

“The locks have a battery backup. All I had to do was enter the proper emergency override code. The painting was exactly where Signore Bianchi told me it would be.”

“Rack twenty-seven?” asked Gabriel.

Pozzi nodded.

“How did you get it out of the Vatican?”

“I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“The priest.”

“What priest?” asked Gabriel.

“I don’t know his name.”

“Where did you give it to him?”

“The doorway that leads to the staff car park. He placed the painting in a nylon case and carried it out of the Vatican.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“It was quite dark. I really didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Surely you must remember something about him.”

“His hair was black.”

“How did he wear it?”

“Neatly combed.”

Gabriel drew a pen from his pocket and pulled a sheet of paper from Pozzi’s Vatican personnel file. His method was rudimentary, a simple oval bisected by faint horizontal lines for the eyes and mouth.

“On what side did he part his hair, Ottavio? The left or the right?”

“The left, I believe.”

“Did he wear a beard?”

“No.”

“And what about his cheekbones?” asked Gabriel. “Were they rounded or angular?”

***

Naturally ambidextrous, Gabriel worked with his left hand, with upward cross-hatching pen strokes.

The finished sketch depicted a man of perhaps thirty-five with deeply set eyes, broad cheekbones, a straight nose, and a wide mouth.

Gabriel dressed his subject in a clerical suit and a Roman collar, then showed his handiwork to Ottavio Pozzi, the penniless museum security guard who had unwittingly stolen a lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.

“That’s him, Signore. That’s the man.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Not a word. He just handed me a slip of paper and walked away.”

“The location of the money?”

Pozzi nodded. “It was in a luggage storage place near the Termini station.”

“A hundred thousand?”

“A quarter million.”

“Where is it now?”

The museum guard glanced at his wife, then said, “Hidden under our bed.”

“How much is left?”

“All of it. We didn’t spend a single euro.”

A careful count of the newly minted banknotes, conducted by Luca Rossetti at the kitchen table, confirmed that to be the case.

Some twenty minutes later the money was in the trunk of Rossetti’s unmarked Alfa Romeo, bound for central Rome.

Ottavio Pozzi, however, was still in his apartment.

In a few hours’ time he would stop at Caffè Roma for a doppio , then board the first of two Metro trains that would deliver him to the Vatican Museums.

“I’d feel better if he were locked inside Regina Coeli with his brother,” said Rossetti.

“So would I,” replied Gabriel. “But if we arrest him, it will alert Signore Bianchi and his associates in Naples that we’re on to them.”

“You noticed that too?”

“Rather hard to miss.”

“It seems we’re dealing with the Camorra.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Lucky us.”

“It would explain how Signore Bianchi knew about Sandro. The Camorra has the prison system wired.”

“But it wouldn’t explain how Father Bagman managed to get inside the Vatican.”

“How do you suppose he did it?”

“Either he scaled the walls,” said Gabriel, “or someone let him in. I’m betting it was the latter.”

***

It took Rossetti nearly an hour to battle his way through the rush-hour traffic to St. Anne’s Gate.

A halberdier in a simple blue night uniform stood on the Vatican side of the frontier, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back.

To his immediate right was the main entrance to the Swiss Guard barracks.

In the reception area, a duty officer sat ramrod-straight behind a half-moon desk.

Before him was a bank of closed-circuit video monitors.

On the wall behind him were a crucifix and the flags of Switzerland’s twenty-six cantons.

“Where’s your boss?” asked Gabriel.

“In his office.”

“I need a word.”

“Do you remember the way?”

“First door after the suit of armor.”

The duty officer smiled and reached for his phone. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

Gabriel made his way along a narrow corridor to an internal courtyard where two fresh-faced halberdiers were hacking old dress uniforms to pieces with heavy axes, the Guard’s most common form of punishment.

The building on the opposite side of the court was dull brown in color and contained the comfortable living quarters of senior officers, including Commandant Alois Metzler. His office was on the ground floor.

Gabriel removed the sketch from his attaché case and laid it on Metzler’s desk.

“Who is he?” asked the commandant.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

Metzler picked up the sketch and examined it at length. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize him.”

“I have a feeling that at least one of your men might.”

“Why?”

“Because our priestly friend walked out of the Vatican a few weeks ago with a painting under his arm. ”

Metzler looked up from the sketch. “I assume this has something to do with the English woman.”

Gabriel nodded.

“When was the theft?”

“The night of the power failure.”

“It happened around eleven, if memory serves.”

“Eleven twenty-seven,” said Gabriel. “Leaving our priestly friend plenty of time to slip out of the Vatican before the gates closed at midnight. But someone had to have cleared him into the Vatican earlier that evening.”

“He could have come through the Arch of Bells, the Bronze Doors, or St. Anne’s Gate.”

“Can you find out which halberdiers were working that night?”

Metzler consulted the old duty rosters on his computer, then placed a series of terse phone calls.

Three youthful Swiss Guards were soon standing at attention in his office.

One wore a dress uniform, one wore a simple blue night uniform, and the third, having been roused from sleep, was clad in jeans and a Swiss Army fleece pullover.

Metzler held up the sketch. “Did any of you see this man leave the Vatican the night of the power outage?”

“I did, Colonel Metzler.”

It was the halberdier in the colorful dress uniform. He had been stationed at St. Anne’s Gate.

“Was he carrying anything?”

“A large nylon satchel.”

“You didn’t think it odd?”

“No, Colonel Metzler. I did not.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Not a word.”

Metzler gritted his teeth. “And who was the idiot who allowed him to enter the Vatican?”

“It was me,” said the halberdier dressed in jeans and a fleece. He had been working that night at the Arch of Bells.

“Do you remember the time?”

“Around eight thirty.”

“You spoke to him, I hope.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“What was his name?”

“Father Spada.”

“First name?”

“Giuseppe.”

“Did he have a Vatican identification?”

“No, Colonel.”

“Who cleared him into the Vatican?”

“It was Father Keegan.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

With a wave of his hand, Metzler sent the three halberdiers filing out of his office. Then he looked at Gabriel and said, “A rather unexpected development.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Gabriel drew his phone and dialed the Holy Father’s private secretary. “We have a problem.”

“The Pantheon,” said Father Keegan. “Eight o’clock.”