Page 9

O rdinarily Gabriel entered the restricted quarters of the Vatican through St. Anne’s Gate or the Bronze Doors, the main entrance of the Apostolic Palace.

On that afternoon, however, he headed to the Arch of Bells, located on the southern flank of St. Peter’s Basilica, directly beneath the statues of the apostles Thaddeus and Matthew.

Two Swiss Guards in their Renaissance-era dress uniforms stood watch in the shadowed passageway, one bearing a two-meter-long halberd, the other with his hands clasped and his feet shoulder width apart at a precise sixty-degree angle.

Their bearing was more rigid than usual, doubtless because their commanding officer, Colonel Alois Metzler, was standing between them, dressed in a dark business suit and tie.

Colonel Metzler was the only officer in the four-hundred-year history of the Pontifical Swiss Guard to have fatally shot a Roman Catholic priest. He had committed this unthinkable act to spare Gabriel the indignity of having to pull the trigger himself.

Their greeting was businesslike and brief.

In the impenetrable Swiss German of those native to Canton Uri, Metzler asked Gabriel if he was carrying a firearm.

Gabriel, in the Berlin-accented Hochdeutsch of his mother, replied truthfully that he was not.

Metzler nevertheless laid a hand discreetly on the small of Gabriel’s back, just to make sure.

“What are you worried about, Alois? It’s not as if I haven’t carried a weapon around the Holy Father before. I’m practically an honorary member of the Swiss Guard.”

“Membership in the Guard is restricted to single Catholic males from Switzerland who have served in the Swiss Army and are of irreproachable character. You, Gabriel, meet none of those qualifications.”

“Does a fondness for fondue and Chasselas count for anything?”

Metzler treated Gabriel to a rare smile. “Let’s go. The private secretary is expecting you.”

They set off along the facade of the Basilica. Gabriel quickly adjusted the necktie he had purchased after leaving Penelope Radcliff’s apartment.

“Nervous?” asked Metzler.

“About what?”

“Seeing the Holy Father again.”

“Should I be?”

“He’s the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church and the Vicar of Christ.”

“He also happens to be my friend.”

“Not anymore.” They passed beneath a pair of archways near the Basilica’s left transept. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Is the Holy Father in any danger?”

Gabriel shook his head. “It’s a public relations problem.”

“What is it this time?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Alois. ”

“Why break with tradition?”

They turned to the left and headed across a small piazza toward the Casa Santa Marta, the Vatican’s five-story clerical guesthouse.

Another Swiss Guard stood watch outside the glass doorway, and Father Mark Keegan, the Holy Father’s private secretary, waited in the lobby.

Father Keegan was an Irishman from Philadelphia and, like his master, a member of the Society of Jesus.

He had the face of an altar boy and the eyes of someone who never lost at cards.

Gabriel knew the papal private secretary to be efficient, ruthless, and most of all humorless.

The priest’s inscrutable gaze settled briefly on the commandant of the Swiss Guard. “Thank you, Colonel Metzler. I’ll show Signore Allon out after his audience with the Holy Father.”

Metzler went into the sunlit piazza, and Gabriel followed Father Keegan to the lifts. An empty carriage awaited. The priest pressed the call button for the second floor, and the doors closed.

“This had better be important.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“I can give you ten minutes at most.”

“I’d consider rearranging the Holy Father’s schedule, if I were you.”

“It’s carved in stone.”

“If you say so, Father Keegan.”

The carriage doors opened to reveal a Swiss Guard in plain clothes standing in the foyer. Two more sentries in simple blue tunics flanked the doorway of Room 201. Father Keegan turned the latch without knocking and led Gabriel inside.

***

His first appearance on the balcony of St. Peter’s had electrified the world’s one billion Catholics, not least because he was the first non-cardinal to be elected pope since the fourteenth century.

Gabriel, in an unprecedented break with Canon Law and Church tradition, had been present in the Sistine Chapel when the dean of the College of Cardinals asked the new supreme pontiff to state the name by which he wished to be called.

His initial response, that he hadn’t a clue, had provoked good-spirited laughter among the men in red.

With his second, though, he sent a not-so-subtle signal to the princes of the Church that change was in the air.

He spent that first night of his papacy—and every night since—not in the spacious appartamento pontificio in the Apostolic Palace but in a two-room suite in the Casa Santa Marta.

The Vatican Press Office, after much deliberation and Curial consultation, had declared that it was seventy-five square meters.

But Gabriel, with his unfailing eye for linear dimensions, thought the actual number was closer to fifty.

An arrangement of velveteen-covered couches and chairs, too heavy for the cramped space, stood near the windows, which overlooked the Basilica.

The enormous Renaissance papal bed, the same bed upon which several previous popes had breathed their last, consumed most of the second room.

The dark wooden floors shone with fresh polish. The cream-colored walls were bare.

The Holy Father sat at the small desk, the receiver of a landline phone pressed to his ear.

He wore a simple white cassock and an unadorned silver pectoral cross rather than the ornate crosses of gold worn by popes down through the ages.

His shoes were ordinary leather oxfords—not the traditional red slippers—and the heavy gold Ring of the Fisherman was nowhere in sight.

Like his predecessor, he found it cumbersome and uncomfortable to wear.

At length he raised a forefinger to indicate he would be another moment longer. Father Keegan, in a stage whisper, explained the delay. “Cardinal Doyle.” Then, for Gabriel’s benefit, he added, “The archbishop of New York.”

“Yes, I know.”

“His Holiness is making his first visit to America next month.”

With an arid smile, Gabriel indicated he knew about the Holy Father’s travel plans as well.

The much-publicized itinerary for the trip included an Oval Office meeting with the American president and historic addresses to both the Congress and UN General Assembly.

American conservatives were apoplectic over the pontiff’s plans to visit communist Cuba as well, in no small part because His Holiness had recently issued a biting apostolic exhortation decrying what he called “the invisible tyranny” of capitalism and the market.

He had also condemned the global rise of far-right extremism, expressed support for the rights of migrants, and issued a clarion call for immediate action to combat climate change—positions that led one American conservative journalist to christen him “His Holiness Pope Che Guevara.” His decision to reside in two small rooms in the Casa Santa Marta was viewed by most traditionalists as an affront to the majesty of the papacy.

Gabriel’s objections to the Holy Father’s accommodations were more practical in nature.

He had been in the tiny papal apartment only two minutes and already the walls were closing in on him.

The Holy Father bade the American cardinal farewell, then replaced the receiver and exhaled heavily.

“That bad?” asked Father Keegan.

“His Eminence is concerned that I might not fully appreciate the depths of America’s current political divisions. He advised me to tread carefully during my remarks to Congress.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I made it clear that I intend to speak my mind in Washington.”

“I see,” said Father Keegan warily.

The Holy Father turned to Gabriel and said, “My private secretary is concerned that I needlessly antagonized the most powerful Roman Catholic prelate in the United States.”

“Did you?”

“Probably, yes.”

“In that case, perhaps Father Keegan should ring His Eminence and ask him to jot down a few ideas for your remarks. Nothing too detailed, mind you. Just broad-brush themes.”

“Humor him, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

The Holy Father nodded toward Father Keegan, who went wordlessly into the corridor, iPhone in hand. Gabriel, alone with the successor to St. Peter, cast his eyes deliberately around the confines of the modest sitting room.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said the Holy Father.

“I imagine you do.”

“It’s all the space I need.”

“It’s the size of a confessional.”

“Have you ever set foot in one?”

“Not lately.”

“If you would like to unburden yourself . . .”

“We’d be here all day. Besides, according to your private secretary, our time is limited.”

“Don’t worry about Father Keegan. Believe it or not, I have a little pull around here.”

The Holy Father rose from his chair and stretched his tall frame to its full, imposing height. The pious white cassock did nothing to diminish his striking Umbrian good looks. Even Hollywood never would have dared to cast him in the role of the supreme pontiff.

He extended a hand. “Don’t even think about kissing it.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” replied Gabriel, and grasped the proffered papal appendage.

The Holy Father, laughing, pulled him into a tight embrace. “I was beginning to think that you had forgotten about me.”

“Not for a minute.”

“Why haven’t you visited?”

“One doesn’t just visit the supreme pontiff, Holiness.”

“Whyever not? And please drop the Holiness nonsense. I insist that you address me by my real name.”

“Do you even remember it?”

“Luigi Donati,” he replied. “I was once a humble street priest, a missionary who preached the Gospels and built schools and hospitals for the wretched of the earth. And now, thanks to you, I am trapped in this gilded cage wearing a white cassock.”

“A cage, yes. But it could definitely use a touch of gold trim.”

“My sources in Venice tell me that you’re living in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal.”

“We live on one floor of the palazzo, Holiness.”

“Luigi,” said the Holy Father. “My name is Luigi Donati.”

“I’ll try, Holiness.”

“Try harder.” Donati indicated the ornate seating arrangement. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Is that allowed?”

“Not generally. But in your case, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

Donati dropped onto the couch and placed his feet on the coffee table. Gabriel, after a moment’s hesitation, lowered himself onto the edge of the throne-like chair opposite.

“There’s no need to clasp your hands in my presence, Gabriel. I’m not an object of veneration.” Donati frowned. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“You are beloved by people around the world, Luigi. Catholic and non-Catholic alike.”

“My enemies refer to me as the rock star pope. Needless to say, they don’t mean it as a compliment.”

“They’re envious.”

“But determined,” said Donati. “They handed me the papacy in a moment of crisis. And now they are doing everything in their power to make certain I stay in line. If I speak warmly about members of the gay and lesbian community, they scream heresy. If I suggest that divorced Catholics be allowed to receive the sacrament of the Eucharist, they accuse me of apostasy. And if I even dare mention the word women , well, it’s as if the heavens have fallen. ”

“You’re not actually thinking—”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” interjected Donati. “The Church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women. It is doctrinally off the table.”

“Rome has spoken, the case is closed?”

“Now and forever.”

“What about celibacy and married priests?”

“All I’ll say on the matter is that our current situation is unsustainable.

At last count there were more than fifty thousand parishes globally without a priest. Thousands more have a part-time priest or an immigrant priest whose command of the local language and culture is shaky at best. At the risk of sounding like His Holiness Pope Obvious, Catholicism cannot thrive without a dedicated, energetic clergy to preach the Gospels and administer the sacraments.

Something has to change. But if I push too far or move too quickly, the world’s oldest institution could tear itself to pieces. ”

“What’s a reformist supreme pontiff to do?”

“He moves cautiously and bides his time. After all, it is on his side. I’m quite young by historical standards, which means, barring a sudden health crisis, I’m likely to outlive the traditionalist dinosaurs who are currently standing in my way.”

“And in the meantime?”

“The reformist supreme pontiff plays the role of a pastoral pope, a global street priest who tends to the needs of the poor and the sick. And because he has made it clear that he wants the Roman Catholic Church to be poor as well, he leads by example.”

“By confining yourself to a cell measuring fifty square meters.”

“The Vatican Press Office says it’s seventy-five.”

“The Press Office misspoke.”

“Not for the first time,” said Donati.

“Or the last, I’m afraid.”

Donati frowned. “Why did you come to Rome, mio amico ?”

“I discovered the body of a young woman in the Venetian Lagoon.”

“And?”

Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “It seems my time has expired, Holiness.”

“Take all the time you need. But if you call me Holiness one more time, I’m going to lose my temper.”

“Forgive me, Luigi.”

“ Ego te absolvo ,” he replied. “Now start talking.”