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“Good evening, Cardinal Bertoli. Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”

“I trust it’s something important.”

“I’ll let the Holy Father explain.”

He was seated at his little writing desk, a stack of papers before him. He gave his sostituto no more than a cursory glance. “Please have a seat, Matteo. We need to talk.”

“About what, Holiness?”

“I said sit down.”

Bertoli drew away as though he were avoiding a blow. “I demand to know the meaning of this.”

“Trust me, you are in no position to make demands.”

Bertoli held his ground for a moment longer before settling into one of the overstuffed armchairs .

“Where were you this evening, Matteo?”

“I was at dinner.”

“With whom?”

“Nico Ambrosi.”

“Your investment adviser?”

“ Our investment adviser, Holiness.”

“The man who convinced you to pay four hundred million dollars for an office building in London?”

“I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“You will shortly. But tell me something, Matteo. Did anyone else join you and your friend Nico Ambrosi for dinner this evening?”

“It was just the two of us.”

“There wasn’t a third person at your table? A banker named Franco Tedeschi? He was the one who lent you the money to purchase the New Bond Street property.”

Bertoli recalibrated. “Signore Tedeschi joined us briefly, Holiness. But how did you possibly know that?”

Donati handed Bertoli a leather-bound document bearing the emblem of the Secretariat of State. “I assume you recognize this. After all, you were the one who prepared it.”

“It is this year’s first-quarter report on the secretariat’s investment portfolio.”

“Open the report to page one, please.”

Bertoli complied with the request, laboriously.

“Please remind me what it says, Matteo.”

“It states that the total value of the secretariat’s portfolio is three point eight billion euros.”

“And the cash reserves?”

“Slightly less than five hundred million.”

“Very impressive,” said Donati with mock admiration. “Now have a look at page twelve.”

Bertoli turned to the appropriate page. “It states that the income from our property in New Bond Street is more than sufficient to cover the cost of the debt service.”

“Is that an accurate statement?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that you and your investment adviser failed to make a number of payments?”

“We didn’t, Holiness.”

“You’re lying to me, Matteo. Not for the first time, I might add.”

Donati handed over a single sheet of paper. It was an email from Franco Tedeschi of SBL PrivatBank to Nico Ambrosi of Piedmont Global Capital. Bertoli scrutinized the document without expression.

“Where did you get this?”

“Never mind where I got it. Just answer my question.”

Bertoli considered his response. “Forgive me, Holiness. But I cannot explain the discrepancy.”

“The only possible explanation, Matteo, is that the quarterly report was fraudulent. And every other report you’ve given me since I became pope has been fraudulent as well.”

The cardinal was suddenly on his feet. “This is an outrage!”

“I couldn’t agree more. But please have a seat. We’re only just getting started.” Donati turned to Father Keegan. “Perhaps you should ask our friend to join us now.”

***

Gabriel entered the papal suite without waiting for a summons. Cardinal Bertoli regarded him contemptuously, then looked to Donati for an explanation.

“You remember our friend Gabriel, don’t you, Matteo? He was in the Sistina the night of the conclave. ”

“Yes, of course, Holiness. But why is he here?”

“I’m afraid I misled you this morning. You see, it wasn’t the Italian police who recovered the stolen painting. It was Gabriel. And Antonio Calvesi wasn’t behind the theft.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. But who could have done such a thing?”

It was Gabriel who answered. “You, Cardinal Bertoli.”

Bertoli emitted a dry Curial laugh. “You’ve obviously taken leave of your senses, Signore Allon.” Bertoli turned to Donati and added, “You both have.”

Donati, with a wave of his hand, instructed Gabriel to present the evidence of Bertoli’s guilt. He sat down opposite the cardinal and opened his laptop.

“The true valuation of the Secretariat of State’s investment portfolio is not three point eight billion euros, and you have nowhere near five hundred million in cash reserves.”

Bertoli lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and in a benedictory voice declared, “False.”

“A more accurate valuation,” Gabriel continued, “would be about two billion euros. But when you subtract the liabilities, namely, the money you owe SBL PrivatBank, it’s less than a billion.”

“Also false.”

“I can show you the statement that Nico Ambrosi sent you earlier this year. It paints an accurate picture of the secretariat’s investment portfolio, not the fiction you served up in your quarterly reports.

To make matters worse, SBL PrivatBank was calling in its loan for the New Bond Street building, and you had almost no cash on hand.

You needed money, and you needed it quickly.

Otherwise your mismanagement and embezzlement of Vatican funds would come to light.

You found a solution to your problems one afternoon during a visit to the conservation lab of the Vatican Museums.”

“I never saw that painting until this morning.”

“Antonio Calvesi was the one who showed it to you. He also told you about the hidden portrait and the suspicions of an apprentice conservator named Penelope Radcliff. You called your friend Giorgio Montefiore at the Uffizi, and Giorgio asked to see the painting. He told Antonio it wasn’t a Leonardo, but he told you that it probably was.

And you, in turn, informed Nico Ambrosi that you had discovered a way to repay your delinquent loan. ”

Bertoli feigned incredulity. “And how, Signore Allon, did I manage to steal the painting from the storerooms without anyone noticing?”

“With the help of your associates in the Camorra, of course. They’re quite good at stealing things.

They’re also good at killing people. You had the unhappy task this evening of informing the CFO of Camorra Incorporated that the painting he sold to a Russian oligarch for five hundred million dollars was undoubtedly a copy.

And then the CFO of Camorra Incorporated told you that a hacker had rerouted the money to Oschadbank in Kyiv.

Which means that you are once again on the hook for a loan you cannot possibly repay. ”

Bertoli offered Gabriel a wintry smile. “A highly entertaining story, Signore Allon. You have a vivid imagination.”

Gabriel tapped the keyboard of his laptop once.

Forgive me, Franco, but I’m afraid I don’t have four hundred million lying around at the moment...

Gabriel paused the recording. “Shall we listen to the rest of the conversation? It leaves little to the imagination.”

Donati came to the cardinal’s rescue—temporarily, at least. “That won’t be necessary. I think it is now abundantly clear to His Eminence that he isn’t going to be able to lie his way out of this mess. Isn’t that right, Matteo?”

“My conscience is clear, Holiness.”

“Do you have one? I’m not so sure.” Donati regarded Bertoli through the blue-gray smoke rising from the end of his cigarette. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t accompany me to Lampedusa and Palermo tomorrow.”

Bertoli absorbed this news without expression. “Is it your intention to dismiss me?”

“Two people are dead because of your actions, Matteo. What would you do if you were in my position?”

“I had nothing to do with that woman’s death. She would still be alive if she hadn’t...” His voice trailed off.

“Hadn’t what, Matteo? Make a clean breast of it, for God’s sake.

Confess your sins before it’s too late.” Receiving no reply, Donati said, “As for your future, I will withhold any decision pending a thorough outside audit of the investment portfolio. If, as expected, it uncovers misconduct on your part, I will have no choice but to take disciplinary action. In the meantime, you are to have no further contact with Nico Ambrosi or Franco Tedeschi.”

“But, Holiness, that’s not possible. We have—”

“None,” snapped Donati. “Is that clear?”

Bertoli rose to his feet, slowly this time. “You are making a grave mistake.”

“The mistake,” said Donati evenly, “was allowing you to oversee the Curia’s investments. For whatever reason, be it greed or incompetence, you’ve managed to get yourself and the Church into business with some of the very worst people in the world.”

“But you were the one who put me in the job—remember, Holiness? And you approved each and every one of my investments.”

“You’re not threatening a pope, are you, Matteo?”

“I am offering His Holiness sage advice. And he would be wise to heed it.”

“I should turn a blind eye to your conduct? Sweep it under the Curial rug?”

“What I am suggesting, Holiness, is that you give me time to put our financial house in order. Otherwise there will be a scandal that will do irreparable harm to the Holy Mother Church.”

“But it will be your scandal, Matteo. Not mine. And it will provide me with the leverage I need to finally institute real reform.”

“Turn over the tables of the money changers? Force the princes of the Church to give up their large apartments and live in squalid little rooms like this one? The Curia will rise up in rebellion against you. You will tear this Church to pieces and destroy your papacy in the process.”

“No, Matteo. I will save this Church from the likes of you before it’s too late. Now get out of my sight.”

Bertoli, in one final act of defiance, stood motionless for a long moment before finally leaving the papal suite. Donati, his hand shaking, crushed out his cigarette.

“My God, Gabriel, what have I done?”

“I believe you just declared war, Holiness.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But against whom?”