The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,100
the papers?”
“Not a peep.”
“How long will it remain a secret?”
“I suppose that depends on the identity of the next pope.”
The camera settled on Donati again. “Luscious Luigi,” said Veronica. “He hated that article in Vanity Fair, but it made him a star inside the Church.”
“You should have seen the waiters at Piperno.”
“How lucky you are, Gabriel. Just once I’d like to share a lunch with him in public on a perfect Roman afternoon.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Does he ever talk about me?”
“Incessantly.”
“Really? And what does he say?”
“That you are a good friend.”
“And do you believe that?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “I believe you are desperately in love with him.”
“Is it that obvious?” She smiled sadly. “And what about Luigi? How does he feel about me?”
“You would have to ask him.”
“Ask him what, exactly? Are you still in love with me, Archbishop? Will you renounce your vows and marry me before it’s too late?”
“You’ve never?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid of what his answer might be. If he says no, I’ll be heartbroken. And if he says yes …”
“You’ll feel like the worst person in the world.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“Except when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“You have a perfect marriage.”
“I’m married to a perfect woman. Don’t confuse the two.”
“And if you were in my position?”
“I’d tell Luigi how I felt. Sooner rather than later.”
“When?”
“How about later this afternoon?”
“At the Jesuit Curia? I can’t think of a place I’d rather not be. All those priests,” said Veronica. “And they’ll all be gawking at me.”
“Actually, I rather doubt that.”
She made a show of thought. “What does one wear to a conclave party?”
“White, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Veronica. “I believe you’re right.”
AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE Mass, the cardinal-electors filed out of the basilica and returned to the Casa Santa Marta for lunch. Alois Metzler rang Gabriel from the noisy lobby. Father Graf, he said, was on ice in a Rome morgue. He would remain there until the conclusion of the conclave, when his body would be discovered in the hills outside Rome, an apparent suicide. Veronica’s name would appear in none of the reports. Neither would Gabriel’s.
“Not bad, Metzler.”
“I’m a Swiss citizen who works for the Vatican. Hiding the truth comes naturally to me.”
“Any word from Bishop Richter?”
“He left Rome last night on his private jet. Apparently, he’s holed up at the Order’s priory in Canton Zug.”
“What’s the mood like at the Casa Santa Marta?”
“If we get through the conclave without another dead body,” said Metzler before ringing off, “it will be a miracle.”
By then, it was nearly twelve thirty. Veronica’s flashy convertible was parked in the street outside the apartment building. Gabriel drove to her palazzo off the Via Veneto and waited downstairs while she showered and changed. When she reappeared, she was dressed in an elegant cream-colored pantsuit and a braided gold necklace.
“I was mistaken,” said Gabriel. “Everyone at the Jesuit Curia will definitely be gawking at you.”
She smiled. “We can’t arrive empty-handed.”
“Luigi asked us to bring some wine.”
Veronica disappeared into the kitchen and returned with four bottles of chilled pinot grigio. It was a five-minute drive to Roma Termini. They were waiting outside in the traffic circle when Chiara and the children spilled from the station.
“You’re right,” said Veronica. “You’re married to the perfect woman.”
“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “How lucky I am.”
57
JESUIT CURIA, ROME
THERE WERE TWO LARGE FLAT-PANEL televisions in the dining hall of the Jesuit Curia, one at either end of the room. Between them were a hundred or so priests in black cassocks and clerical suits, along with a group of students from the Pontifical Gregorian University. The male baritone din subsided briefly as a party of invited laity—two young children, two beautiful women, and the chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service—entered the room.
Donati had changed out of his choir dress and was once again wearing the Vatican equivalent of business attire. He was locked in what appeared to be a serious conversation with a silver-haired man whom Veronica identified as the superior general of the Society of Jesus.
“The Black Pope,” she added.
“That’s what they used to call Donati.”
“Only his enemies dared to call him that. Father Agular is the real Black Pope. He’s Venezuelan, a political scientist by training and something of a leftist. A writer from a conservative American magazine once labeled him a Marxist, which Father Agular took to be a compliment. He’s quite pro-Palestinian as well.”
“How much does he know about you and Donati?”
“Luigi’s file was purged of any reference to our affair