Page 105 of The Order

“We do.” Metzler pointed out a pile of uncollected rubbish. “Look at this place, Allon. Rome is a mess.”

“But the food is incredible.”

“I prefer Swiss food. There’s nothing better than a perfect raclette.”

“Melted Emmentaler on boiled potatoes? That’s your idea of cuisine?”

Metzler made a right turn onto the Viale delle Belle Arti. “Have you ever noticed that every time you come near the Vatican, something goes wrong?”

“I was supposed to be on vacation.”

“Do you remember the papal visit to Jerusalem?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“The Holy Father really loved you, Allon. Not many people can say they were loved by a pope.”

The Villa Giulia appeared on their right. Metzler turned into the small staff car park. Veronica’s briefcase was lying on the paving stones. Her flashy Mercedes convertible was gone.

“He must have been waiting for her when she came out,” said Metzler. “The question is, where did he take her?”

Gabriel’s phone vibrated with an incoming message. It was from Yuval Gershon. “Not far, actually.”

He retrieved Veronica’s bag and climbed back into the car.

“Which way?” asked Metzler.

Gabriel pointed to the right. Metzler turned onto the boulevard and put his foot to the floor.

“Is it true what they say about her and Donati?” he asked.

“They’re old friends. That’s all.”

“Priests aren’t allowed to have friends who look like Veronica Marchese. They’re trouble.”

“So is Father Graf.”

“Do you really think he’ll kill her?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Not if I kill him first.”

52

Casa Santa Marta

The Chapel of Santa Marta was squeezed into a tiny triangular plot of land between the southern flank of the guesthouse and the Vatican’s khaki-colored outer wall. It was bright and modern and rather ordinary, with a polished floor that always reminded Donati of a backgammon board. Never before had he seen it so crowded. Though he could not be certain, it appeared that all 116 of the cardinal-electors were present. Each of the varnished wooden chairs had been claimed, leaving several other princes of the Church, including the cardinal camerlengo, a late arrival, no choice but to huddle like stranded airline passengers at the back.

Dean Francona had taken to the pulpit. From a single sheet of paper he was reading a series of announcements—housekeeping matters, issues related to security, the schedule for the shuttlebuses between the Casa and the Sistina. The microphone was switched off. His voice was thin, his hands were shaking. Donati’s were shaking, too.

I’m going to kill her. Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain...

Was it real or a ruse? Was she still alive or already dead? Had he made the biggest mistake of his life by walking into this den of vipers and leaving her to her fate? Or did he make that mistake a long time ago, when he returned to the Church instead of marrying her? It was not too late, he thought. There was still time to abandon this sinking ship and run away with her. There would be a scandal, of course. His name would be dragged through the mud. They would have no choice but to go into seclusion. A Caribbean island, perhaps. Or a little villa in the hills near Perugia. Schubert’s piano sonatas, a few paperbacks scattered on the bare tile floor, Veronica wearing nothing but his old Georgetown sweatshirt. For a few glorious months, she was entirely his.

Francona’s voice dragged Donati from the past to the present. As yet, he had failed to explain Donati’s presence in the Casa Santa Marta on the eve of the conclave. It was clear, however, that Francona’s audience was thinking of nothing else. Forty-two of them had accepted the Order’s money in exchange for their votes. It was a crime against a conclave, the sacred passing of the keys of St. Peter from one pope to the next. For now, at least, it was still a crime in progress.

Slowly, Excellency. With a great deal of pain...

They were not all hopelessly corrupt, thought Donati. In fact, many were good and decent men of prayer and reflection who were more than capable of leading the Church into the future. Cardinal Navarro, the favorite, would make a fine pope.So would Gaubert or Duarte, the archbishop of Manila, though Donati was not convinced the Church was ready for an Asian pope.