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T he four-car motorcade arrived at the Pantheon, the ancient pagan temple turned Roman Catholic basilica, at the stroke of eight o’clock.

Three of the vehicles were unmarked sedans, and the fourth was a Mercedes saloon model with opaque curtains drawn over the rear windows.

As Gabriel approached the car, the rear passenger-side door opened to reveal a darkly handsome man dressed in chinos and a plaid sport jacket.

“Don’t just stand there,” said Luigi Donati. “Get in.”

Gabriel slid into the back seat, and the motorcade shot forward. “Did you run out of clean cassocks, Holiness?”

“I have twelve, if you must know. But it’s rather hard to go unnoticed when one is draped head-to-toe in white.”

“You don’t say.”

“It is a verifiable fact. We can look it up, if you like.”

“You’re one of the most recognizable public figures in the world, Luigi, regardless of how you’re dressed.”

“I beg to differ. In the words of the theologian Erasmus of Rotterdam, vestis virum facit .”

“Clothes make the man?”

“Absolutely.”

The secret papal motorcade turned onto the Via del Tritone. The pedestrians filing along the pavements paid it no heed. They were Romans, after all.

“Where are we going?” asked Gabriel.

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Private residence?”

“Public restaurant.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Wait until you taste the trippa alla Romana . Your life will never be the same.”

It was a traditional Roman dish of entrails stewed in tomatoes and aromatics. “I’d sooner eat my shoe than the digestive organs of a bovine,” said Gabriel.

“But you’re quite fond of fegato alla Veneziana , if I remember correctly.”

“Calf’s liver is different, Holiness.”

“I shall rule on the matter in my next encyclical.” Donati peered round the edge of the curtain covering his window. “This is my diocese, you know.”

“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 not far from the train station. They arrived there to find the neon sign extinguished and the window shades tightly drawn. The placard on the door read chiuso .

“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.”

“A noble endeavor on the Church’s part, Luigi. But Father Spada doesn’t work for Caritas. In fact, I doubt he’s an actual priest.”

“He certainly looked like a priest.”

“ Vestis virum facit ,” said Gabriel, and told Donati the rest of the story.

***

His Holiness took up a fork and spoon and laid siege to his spaghetti carbonara. “But why didn’t the security guard simply remove the painting from the museum himself?”

“The public entrance on the Viale Vaticano is sealed tight after the museum closes. The painting had to be given to someone who could carry it past the Swiss Guard at St. Anne’s Gate.”

“Someone wearing the clerical suit and Roman collar of a Catholic priest?”

Gabriel nodded. “And carrying a nylon satchel large enough to hold a walnut panel measuring seventy-eight by fifty-six centimeters.”

“That would explain the framed photograph he presented to me. A group of Caritas workers feeding weary refugees.”

“How clever of him.” Gabriel sampled his tagliatelle with mushrooms. “But how was he able to get in the same room with you in the first place?”

“If I recall correctly, the visit was arranged by someone at Caritas headquarters here in Rome.”

“Was anyone else present?”

“Father Keegan, of course. And Bertoli was there as well.”

“Bertoli?”

“Cardinal Matteo Bertoli is the Substitute for General Affairs of the Secretariat of State.”

“The sostituto ?”

Donati nodded. “He’s essentially the chief of staff of the Roman Catholic Church. He manages the Curia, handles the flow of all papal documents, and oversees the operations of our diplomatic nuncios abroad. He even maintains control of the Fisherman’s Ring when I’m not wearing it.”

“How does he feel about the current pope?”

“My master was the one who appointed Bertoli, with my blessing, of course. I have no doubt that he’s more doctrinally conservative than I am. But he has been loyal to a fault, and the machinery of the Curia is functioning smoothly.”

“With the exception of security around the Holy Father,” said Gabriel.

“Father Spada was never a threat to me. In fact, he was quite charming.”

“Most thieves are.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Donati.

“How long were you with him?”

“Less than five minutes. We exchanged a few words. Then Father Keegan showed him out.”

“He somehow managed to remain behind the walls until the power failure.”

“It probably didn’t hurt that he was dressed as a priest.”

“Or that he’s an extremely competent professional criminal,” added Gabriel.

“Mafia?”

“Camorra.”

“The worst of the worst,” remarked Donati. “But how did they know about the painting’s existence?”

“Obviously someone told them.”

“Any suspects?”

“Your private secretary seems to think I should march Antonio Calvesi down to the Castel Sant’Angelo and attach him to the rack.”

“Do you think he’s behind it?”

“Antonio is not without faults,” said Gabriel. “But he’s no thief.”

“Who else knew?”

“Besides Penelope Radcliff? Everyone in the conservation lab, I suppose. And then, of course, there’s the esteemed Giorgio Montefiore from the Uffizi.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“He once remarked favorably on one of my restorations. But, no, I have never had the pleasure.”

“He has an ego the size of St. Peter’s.” Donati lowered his voice. “Or so I’m told.”

“Told by whom?”

“A friend of mine who knows him well. She once attended a party at Montefiore’s villa in Florence. He lives like a Medici, does our Giorgio. And he owes it all to his claim of being the world’s foremost Leonardist.”

“Do you think he would agree to see your friend on short notice?”

“I don’t see why not. But I’d keep your name out of it. Giorgio might get suspicious.”

Gabriel inserted his fork into the tagliatelle and twirled. “Not bad, Holiness.”

“I’m a Jesuit,” said Donati. “I’m conspiratorial by nature.”