Page 51

A t half past five the following morning, Gabriel slid into the back seat of a black sedan with SCV license plates.

He scanned the newspapers during the short drive across the river to the Vatican.

La Repubblica had published several hundred words about an execution-style murder in the working-class neighborhood of Ostiense.

The story did not include the victim’s name or place of employment.

Nor did it mention the presence of a prominent art conservator at the scene of the crime—the same art conservator, as it turned out, who had found the body of a young woman floating in the Venetian Lagoon, recovered a lost painting by Leonardo da Vinci, and set in motion a financial scandal that would soon plunge the Catholic Church into a state of open warfare.

His Holiness Luigi Donati was hoping to keep the scandal at bay long enough for him to complete a whirlwind visit to the Mediterranean islands of Lampedusa and Sicily.

It was Gabriel’s considered opinion that His Holiness would not get his wish.

The driver delivered Gabriel to St. Anne’s Gate.

The Swiss Guard standing watch there was expecting him, as was his commandant, Colonel Metzler.

He was partaking of a traditional Swiss breakfast in the mess, surrounded by several officers in dark suits.

They made a place for Gabriel at the table and fetched him coffee and something to eat.

“No tie?” asked Metzler over a spoonful of muesli.

“I didn’t pack one.”

Metzler shot a glance at one of his men, who abruptly left the mess in search of neckwear.

“What I need,” said Gabriel, “is a weapon. And not a halberd. They’re impossible to conceal.”

Metzler allowed himself a brief smile. He was on edge, and so were his men.

They always were when a pope was about to venture beyond the walls of the Vatican, especially a pope as divisive as Luigi Donati.

The Holy Father’s last-minute request to add Gabriel to his security detail didn’t help matters.

“You should know this place is swirling with rumors,” said Metzler. “And most of them involve you.”

“What have I done this time?”

“Evidently there was some sort of confrontation last evening between the Holy Father and the sostituto . It is said that you were present for this meeting.”

“Word travels fast around here.”

“Is it true that Cardinal Bertoli is on his way out?”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”

Metzler rose to his feet. “I know just the place.”

***

During the walk downstairs to the Swiss Guard’s indoor firing range, Gabriel told the commandant as much as he could about the scandal that was about to engulf the Vatican.

He implied that it was financial in nature and involved a pair of dubious Italian financiers who were connected to the Camorra.

Metzler had been at the Vatican long enough to realize what that meant.

“Blood is going to flow.”

“It already is.”

“When?”

“Last night in Ostiense.”

“The shooting in that café?”

Gabriel nodded. “The target was Ottavio Pozzi, the guard from the Vatican Museums who removed the painting from the storeroom. The killer was the fellow who carried it through St. Anne’s Gate.”

“Father Spada?”

“He was no priest, Alois. He’s a Camorra executioner. I saw his handiwork last night. And in Florence as well,” added Gabriel. “He’s not one for subtlety.”

“And now you’re afraid the Holy Father’s life might be in danger?”

“If it were up to me, His Holiness would develop a sudden case of malaria and cancel the trip.”

“That’s not going to happen. He has a stubborn streak, your friend. He’s also rather reckless when it comes to his security. He refuses to use the bulletproof popemobile, no matter where he is. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes a shot at him.”

“Which is why I want to be in his hip pocket today until he’s back inside the Vatican.”

“With all due respect, Gabriel, my men can handle it.”

“I know they can. But I’m rather good at this sort of thing myself.”

“And the other thing as well.” Metzler led Gabriel through the door of the firing range and removed a SIG Sauer P226 from the gun cabinet. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Metzler handed Gabriel a fully loaded magazine and then switched on the range lights.

“Is this really necessary?”

“It is if you’re going to carry a gun around my men.”

“I thought the range was closed in the morning because of the noise.”

“Papal dispensation.” Metzler ran a target ten meters down the range. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“What do you want me to do, Alois? Insert the bullets manually?”

Metzler increased the distance to twenty meters.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Run the damn thing to the end of the range.”

Metzler did as Gabriel asked.

“Where would you like me to shoot the poor chap?”

“Center mass.”

“What if he’s wearing body armor?”

“He’s made of recycled paper. Now get on with it already.”

Gabriel rammed the magazine into the butt and racked the slide. Then his arm swung up and fifteen rounds poured from the SIG Sauer in a steady stream. The result was a single large hole in the center of the target’s chest.

Metzler handed Gabriel a box of ammunition. “Do it again.”

Gabriel thumbed fifteen rounds into the magazine and charged the weapon. “Where would you like me to shoot him now?”

“Center mass.”

“Eyes open or eyes closed?”

Receiving no answer, Gabriel raised his arm a second time and fired fifteen shots in quick succession. Metzler reeled in the target. There was a single hole in the center of the target’s forehead.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to carry a spare magazine.”

“No,” replied Gabriel. “I’ve never really needed one. ”

***

The boarding of the motor coaches took place in the Piazza Papa Pio XII at the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. The first coach was reserved for the red-and-purple-sashed Curial traveling party and the plainclothes Swiss Guards and Polizia di Stato officers who provided close protection whenever the pope set foot in public.

A delegation of important Catholic VIPs filed onto the second coach, along with the Vaticanisti and a couple of minders from the Press Office.

Gabriel spotted a few familiar faces, including an impeccably sourced American from a respected Catholic news service.

His colleague from La Repubblica , who made a habit of exposing Vatican scandals, boarded the coach last. He did so with a phone to his ear and a hand over his mouth, never a good sign.

By seven thirty the coaches were on final approach to Fiumicino Airport.

Only then did His Holiness Luigi Donati emerge from the Casa Santa Marta, resplendent in his white cassock and a white overcoat, the large gold Anello Piscatorio on the third finger of his right hand.

A step behind was Father Mark Keegan, who was lugging a pair of heavy papal attaché cases.

A shuttle bus delivered them to the helipad, where they boarded a Boeing Grey Wolf on loan from the Italian Air Force.

Gabriel ducked into the passenger cabin a moment later, unobserved by any member of the Roman Curia, and settled into the seat next to the supreme pontiff.

“That tie doesn’t match your blazer,” observed His Holiness as the helicopter floated over the Vatican wall.

“I suppose you never have that problem.”

“No,” replied Donati. “But I have plenty of others.”

“Including the Vaticanisti . They no doubt noticed that Cardinal Bertoli wasn’t part of the Curial delegation this morning. It’s only a matter of time before one of them finds out about last night’s meeting.”

Donati sighed. “Have you any good news?”

“The Polizia di Stato just released the name and occupation of the man who was killed in Ostiense last night.”

“Was that fake priest really the gunman?”

“That is my suspicion, Holiness.”

Donati frowned. “Must you call me that?”

“I shall today, if you don’t mind.”

He squeezed Gabriel’s hand. “Don’t worry, mio amico . Everything will be fine.”

“I’d feel better if you used the bulletproof popemobile.”

“Too late for that,” said Donati, and closed his eyes.

“Say one for me too, Holiness.”

“If you must know,” replied Donati irritably, “I was only trying to get a few minutes of sleep.”