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T he video of Gabriel’s encounter with the crucifix-wielding pilgrim in Lampedusa was by half past ten the following morning an Internet sensation.

Nevertheless, when he checked out of the Hassler, the girl at reception handed him a copy of his bill with a vacant smile and wished him a pleasant day.

He left his bag with the porter and headed across the Piazza di Spagna to Caffè Greco.

Veronica Marchese and Luca Rossetti were drinking coffee at a table in the front room.

Gabriel ordered a cappuccino at the counter and joined them.

Rossetti pointed to the photograph splashed across the front page of La Repubblica . “The fellow on the Holy Father’s right reminds me of someone I know.”

“He’s a plainclothes Swiss Guard who happens to look a bit like me.”

“The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Not if you look closely.”

Veronica did just that. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Luca. But since when does the Swiss Guard hire men of your age?”

“And what age is that, Dottoressa Marchese?”

“Bronze.”

“She would know,” said Rossetti. “After all, she’s a rather prominent archaeologist.”

A waiter delivered Gabriel’s cappuccino. “Are the two of you quite finished?”

“Actually,” answered Rossetti, “we were wondering what provoked you to assault an innocent pilgrim.”

“I thought the pilgrim was about to plunge a knife into the pontiff.”

“No other trouble?”

“None at all. It was an unforgettable day.”

“So why are we going to the Angelus?”

“Because His Holiness insisted I come, and I wanted some company.”

“You’re not going to assault anyone, are you?”

“To be determined.”

Rossetti rubbed his jaw. “I’m lucky you didn’t kill me.”

Gabriel smiled. “Double or nothing?”

***

Veronica devoured a cream-filled cornetto while walking between Gabriel and Luca Rossetti through the cold shadows of the Via dei Condotti.

She spoke of the Holy Father’s controversial homily in Palermo as though he were merely the spiritual leader of a billion Catholics and not someone she had once planned to marry.

Rossetti appeared to have no sense she was dissembling.

She had been hiding her true feelings about Luigi Donati for more than thirty years. She was rather good at it by now.

It became apparent when they reached the Via della Conciliazione that this would be no ordinary Sunday Angelus.

Thousands of faithful were streaming westward toward the Vatican, and thousands more were queued at the magnetometers at the edge of St. Peter’s Square.

Veronica pointed out the unusually large number of television crews, their cameras trained on the distant window where the rock star pope would soon appear.

“I’ve never seen anything like this at a Sunday Angelus. It’s as if they’re expecting the Second Coming.”

“He’s made the papacy relevant again,” replied Gabriel.

“The global street priest? A Church on the barricades?”

“I saw it with my own eyes yesterday in Lampedusa.”

“Lucky you.” Veronica looked at the long lines stretching from the magnetometers. “Is there any chance we can use the VIP entrance?”

Gabriel turned to Luca Rossetti and said, “We’ll meet you in the square.”

Rossetti displayed his Carabinieri badge to a Vatican gendarme, then swung a leg over the barrier and disappeared into the crowd.

Gabriel and Veronica headed to St. Anne’s Gate.

The halberdier waved them over the border with a crisp salute, and Gabriel slipped into the Swiss Guard barracks.

The duty officer at the reception desk practically leapt to his feet.

“Good morning, Herr Allon.”

“My friend and I are planning to attend the Angelus. Do you mind if we take the shortcut through the palace?”

“Not a problem. I’ll let the sentries know you’re coming.”

Gabriel stepped outside and collected Veronica. She clung to his arm as they headed up the Via Sant’Anna, two sinners in the city of saints.

“Was it my imagination,” asked Gabriel, “or were you just flirting with that handsome young halberdier?”

“I was merely helping to relieve the terrible boredom of his job. They work those poor boys like slaves. ”

“I have a feeling my friend Luca Rossetti has fallen hopelessly under your spell.”

“I know he has. But I made it clear to Luca that I was in love with someone else.” She slowed to a stop outside the entrance of the Vatican Bank.

Because it was a Sunday, it was tightly shuttered.

“It’s the belly of the beast, this so-called Institute for Religious Works.

The root of all the scandals and corruption. Luigi needs to raze it and start over.”

“I have it on the highest authority he intends to do just that.”

“Do they know what’s coming?”

“If they don’t by now, they will in a few minutes.”

“A poor Church? The end of Vatican Incorporated? If he isn’t careful, the entire enterprise could come crashing down.”

A few paces beyond the Vatican Bank was a rear entrance to the Apostolic Palace.

Because the Holy Father no longer dwelled there, security inside was not what it once was.

Gabriel and Veronica walked unchallenged across the San Damaso Courtyard and out the Bronze Doors, into St. Peter’s Square.

The crowd was nearly as large as the one that had greeted Donati on the night of his election.

Gabriel dialed Rossetti’s number but the call failed to connect.

The thirty thousand or so mobile phones packed into the square had soaked up all the available cellular service.

Gabriel took Veronica by the hand, and they waded into the densely packed mass of humanity.

After five minutes of determined effort they reached the Maderno Fountain.

The upper floors of the Apostolic Palace were visible above Bernini’s Colonnade.

The window of the papal study, the last on the uppermost floor, was closed tight.

Veronica stood on the tips of her toes. “Do you really think he’ll be able to see us when we’re surrounded by all these people? ”

“I’m sure he will.”

She laughed at herself. “It’s rather pathetic, don’t you think?”

“Being madly in love with someone you can’t possibly have?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s the greatest love story never told.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet?”

“Better.”

“But shouldn’t I be the one on the balcony?”

“Too cliché.”

“How does it end, this story? Does the girl get the boy?”

“No, Veronica. I’m afraid not.”

“So terribly tragic. But what happens to her?”

“She falls in love with someone else before it’s too late.”

“Talk about cliché. Besides, the girl can never love another. In the end, the boy will die surrounded by red-robed princes, and the girl will die alone.” She checked the time. “The window is usually open by now.”

“He must be running late.”

Veronica frowned. “Donati time.”

***

Previous popes had only to rise from their desk and walk two or three paces to reach the window on the eastern corner of the Apostolic Palace.

His Holiness Luigi Donati, however, had to first make his way to the palace from his lesser quarters in the Casa Santa Marta.

Typically he walked there with Father Keegan, which gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.

On that morning, however, he made the short journey in an all-electric motorcar, for it was true he was running late.

The car delivered them to the San Damaso Courtyard, and an ornate elevator bore them slowly to the third floor. To the left were the offices of the Secretariat of State. The twenty rooms of the appartamento pontificio were to the right.

A Swiss Guard opened the door, and Donati followed Father Keegan inside.

As usual, he found the sheer size of the place overwhelming, but he had always been fond of the private study.

The window and the shades had been thrown open to the glorious Roman morning—and to the sustained roar of the immense crowd gathered in the square below.

Father Keegan placed the prepared text on the plexiglass lectern, then gave Donati a serious look.

“I would advise His Holiness to deliver the address as written.”

“And what if the Holy Spirit compels me to take a detour or two?”

“Resist.”

“Defy the will of the Holy Spirit? Is that really your counsel, Father Keegan?” Receiving no answer, Donati checked his old Hamilton wristwatch. “Shall we?”

“Yes, Holiness. It’s time.”

Donati waited ten additional seconds, then stepped in front of the open window.

It was pandemonium.

***

He stood there for a long moment, his arms extended over the rapturous throng in the square, seemingly unaware of the fact that someone was shooting at him.

So deafening were the cheers that Gabriel only noticed the gunfire when he spotted the wound in the palace facade about a meter to Donati’s right.

The next shot splintered the open shutter, and the third struck Donati in the center of his chest, directly above his silver pectoral cross.

Gabriel was unaware of precisely what happened next because he was knocked to the paving stones of the square by a tsunami of panicked faithful.

When he found his footing again, he realized that Veronica was no longer at his side.

He spotted her a few seconds later. She was desperately trying to pry a weapon from the grasp of a slender figure wearing a black clerical suit and raincoat.

Then there was another gunshot, and she collapsed as though a trapdoor had opened beneath her.

The slender figure in a clerical suit and raincoat then leveled his gun toward Gabriel, and an instant later he heard two more shots.

It would take him a moment to realize that both shots had been fired by Luca Rossetti and that he was not in fact dead.

He fought his way through the fleeing crowd to the spot where Veronica lay next to the assassin in a pool of shared blood.

“Please hold me,” she said before losing consciousness. “The girl doesn’t want to die alone.”