The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,57

bid to save his career. It wasn’t his personal money, of course. It was donated by the parishioners of his archdiocese.”

“Who’s your source?” asked Donati. “And don’t try to hide behind some gallant front of journalistic integrity.”

“Let’s just say that my source has firsthand knowledge of Richter’s scheming.”

“He was offered a payment?”

Ricci nodded.

“Did he show you any proof?”

“The offer was made verbally.”

“Which explains why you haven’t gone to print.”

“Print? You’re dating yourself, Excellency.”

“I work for the oldest institution on the planet.” Donati crushed out his cigarette as though he were vowing never to smoke again. “And now you think I’m going to tell you everything I know so you can write your story and throw the conclave into turmoil?”

“If I don’t report what I know, Bishop Richter and his friend Jonas Wolf will be in control of the Church. Is that what you want?”

“Are you even a practicing Catholic?”

“I haven’t been to Mass in twenty years.”

“Then please spare me the sanctimony.” Donati reached for his cigarette case but stopped. “Give me until Thursday night.”

“It won’t hold that long. I have to publish by tomorrow at the latest.”

“If you do, you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your career.”

Ricci glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to the Vatican for my appearance on CNN. Are you sure you don’t have anything for me?”

“The Holy Spirit will determine the identity of the next Roman pontiff.”

“Hardly.” Ricci turned to Gabriel, who had yet to look up from the book. “Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Allon?”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I believe I have.” He held up the book. “Is there any chance I can keep this?”

“I’m afraid it’s my last copy. But it’s still in print.”

“Lucky you.” Gabriel returned the book to Ricci. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a bestseller again.”

32

TRASTEVERE, ROME

FOR A LONG TIME AFTER leaving Alessandro Ricci’s apartment, Gabriel and Donati wandered the streets of Trastevere—Regio XIV, as Pilate would have known it—seemingly without direction or destination. Donati’s mood was as black as his cassock. This was the Luigi Donati, thought Gabriel, who had made so many enemies inside the Roman Curia. The pope’s ruthless son of a bitch, a hard man in black with a whip and a chair. But he was also a man of enormous faith who, like Gabriel, was cursed with an unyielding sense of right and wrong. He was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Nor did he often turn the other cheek. In fact, given the opportunity, he usually preferred to return the favor.

A rectangular piazza opened before them. On one side was a gelateria. On the other was the church of Santa Maria della Scala. Despite the lateness of the hour, the doors were open. Several young Romans, men and women in their twenties, were sitting on the steps, smiling, laughing. They seemed to temporarily lift Donati’s spirits.

“There’s something I need to do.”

They entered the church. The nave was ablaze with candlelight and filled with perhaps a hundred more young Catholics, most of whom were engaged in animated discussions. Two folk singers were strumming guitars at the foot of the altar, and in the side aisles a half-dozen priests were sitting on folding chairs, offering spiritual guidance and hearing confessions.

Donati surveyed the scene with obvious approval. “It’s a program Lucchesi and I created a few years ago. Once or twice a week, we open one of the historic churches and offer young people a place to spend an hour or two free from the distractions of the outside world. As you can see, there aren’t a lot of rules. Light a candle, say a prayer, find a new friend. Someone who’s interested in more than posting pictures of themselves on social media. That said, we don’t discourage them from sharing their experiences online if the spirit moves them.” He lowered his voice. “Even the Church has to adapt.”

“It’s extraordinary.”

“We’re not quite as dead as our critics like to think. This is my Church in action. This is the Church of the future.” Donati gestured toward an empty pew. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”

“Where are you going?”

“When I lost Lucchesi, I lost my confessor.”

Donati went to the side aisle and sat down before a startled young priest. Once the initial awkwardness of the encounter faded, the young priest adopted a serious expression as he listened to the former papal private secretary unburdening his soul. Gabriel could only wonder what transgressions his old friend might have