The Order Read online

  “Her,” said Gabriel. “And the child.”

  “Are you sure? They need a great deal of work.”

  Gabriel smiled sadly, his eyes on the canvas. “It’s the least I can do for them.”

  HE REMAINED IN THE CHURCH until two o’clock, longer than he had intended. That evening he and Chiara left the children with their grandparents and dined alone in a restaurant on the other side of the Grand Canal in San Polo. The next day, Thursday, he took the children on a gondola ride in the morning and worked on the Tintoretto from midday until five, when Tiepolo locked the church’s doors for the night.

  Chiara decided to prepare dinner at the apartment. Afterward, Gabriel supervised the nightly running battle known as bath time before retreating to the shelter of the chuppah to deal with a minor crisis at home. It was nearly one by the time he crawled into bed. Chiara was reading a novel, oblivious to the television, which was muted. On the screen was a live shot of St. Peter’s Basilica. Gabriel raised the volume and learned that an old friend had died.

  3

  CANNAREGIO, VENICE

  LATER THAT MORNING THE BODY of His Holiness Pope Paul VII was moved to the Sala Clementina on the second floor of the Apostolic Palace. It remained there until early the following afternoon, when it was transferred in solemn procession to St. Peter’s Basilica for two days of public viewing. Four Swiss Guards stood watch around the dead pontiff, halberds at the ready. The Vatican press corps made much of the fact that Archbishop Luigi Donati, the Holy Father’s closest aide and confidant, rarely left his master’s side.

  Church tradition dictated that the funeral and burial of the pope occur four to six days after his death. Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese announced that it would take place the following Tuesday and that the conclave would convene ten days after that. The vaticanisti were predicting a hard-fought and divisive contest between reformers and conservatives. The smart money was on Cardinal José Maria Navarro, who had used his position as the Church’s doctrinal gatekeeper to build a power base within the College of Cardinals that rivaled even the dead pope’s.

  In Venice, where Pietro Lucchesi had reigned as patriarch, the mayor declared three days of mourning. The bells of the city were silent, and a moderately attended prayer service was held in St. Mark’s Basilica. Otherwise, life went on as normal. A minor acqua alta flooded a portion of Santa Croce; a colossal cruise ship plowed into a wharf on the Giudecca Canal. In the bars where locals gathered for coffee or a glass of brandy against the autumn chill, one rarely heard the dead pontiff’s name. Cynical by nature, few Venetians bothered to attend Mass on a regular basis, and fewer still lived their lives in accordance with the teachings of the men from the Vatican. The churches of Venice, the most beautiful in all of Christendom, were places where foreign tourists went to gawk at Renaissance art.

  Gabriel, however, followed the events in Rome with more than a passing interest. On the morning of the pope’s funeral, he arrived at the church early and worked without interruption until twelve fifteen, when he heard the hollow echo of footfalls in the nave. He raised his magnifying visor and cautiously parted the tarpaulin shroud that covered his platform. General Cesare Ferrari, commander of the carabinieri’s Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, better known as the Art Squad, returned his gaze without expression.

  Uninvited, the general stepped behind the shroud and contemplated the enormous canvas, which was awash in the searing white light of two halogen lamps. “One of his better ones, don’t you think?”

  “He was under enormous pressure to prove himself. Veronese had been publicly recognized as the successor of Titian and the finest painter in Venice. Poor Tintoretto was no longer receiving the sort of commissions he once did.”

  “This was his parish church.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “He lived around the corner on the Fondamenta di Mori.” The general swept aside the tarpaulin and went into the nave. “There used to be a Bellini in this church. Madonna with Child. It was stolen in 1993. The Art Squad has been looking for it ever since.” He peered at Gabriel over his shoulder. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

  Gabriel smiled. Shortly before becoming chief of the Office, he had recovered the most sought-after stolen painting in the world, Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. He had made certain that the Art Squad received all the credit. It was for that reason, among others, that General Ferrari had agreed to provide round-the-clock security for Gabriel and his family during their Venetian holiday.

  “You’re supposed to be relaxing,” said the general.

  Gabriel lowered his magnifying visor. “I am.”

  “Any problems?”

  “For inexplicable reasons, I’m having a bit of trouble recreating the color of this woman’s garment.”

  “I was referring to your security.”

  “It seems my return to Venice has gone unnoticed.”

  “Not entirely.” The general glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to take a break for lunch?”

  “I never eat lunch when I’m working.”

  “Yes, I know.” The general switched off the halogen lamps. “I remember.”

  TIEPOLO HAD GIVEN GABRIEL A key to the church. Watched by the commander of the Art Squad, he engaged the alarm and locked the door. Together they walked to a bar a few doors down from Tintoretto’s old house. The papal funeral played on the television behind the counter.

  “In case you were wondering,” said the general, “Archbishop Donati wanted you to attend.”

  “Then why wasn’t I invited?”

  “The camerlengo wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Albanese?”

  The general nodded. “Apparently, he was never comfortable with the closeness of your relationship with Donati. Or with the Holy Father, for that matter.”

  “It’s probably better I’m not there. I would have only been a distraction.”

  The general frowned. “They should have seated you in a place of honor. After all, were it not for you, the Holy Father would have died in the terrorist attack on the Vatican.”

  The barman, a skinny twentysomething in a black T-shirt, delivered two coffees. The general added sugar to his. The hand that stirred it was missing two fingers. He had lost them to a letter bomb when he was the commander of the Camorra-infested Naples division of the carabinieri. The explosion had taken his right eye as well. The ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil, had left the general with a cold, unyielding gaze. Even Gabriel tended to avoid it. It was like staring into the eye of an all-seeing God.

  At present, the eye was aimed toward the television, where the camera was panning slowly across a rogues’ gallery of politicians, monarchs, and assorted global celebrities. Eventually, it settled on Giuseppe Saviano.

  “At least he didn’t wear his armband,” murmured the general.

  “You’re not an admirer?”

  “Saviano is a passionate defender of the Art Squad’s budget. As a result, we get on quite well.”

  “Fascists love cultural patrimony.”

  “He considers himself a populist, not a fascist.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Ferrari’s brief smile had no influence over his prosthetic eye. “The rise of a man like Saviano was inevitable. Our people have lost faith with fanciful notions like liberal democracy, the European Union, and the Western alliance. And why not? Between globalization and automation, most young Italians can’t start a proper career. If they want a well-paying job, they have to go to Britain. And if they stay here …” The general glanced at the young man behind the bar. “They serve coffee to tourists.” He lowered his voice. “Or Israeli intelligence officers.”

  “Saviano isn’t going to change any of that.”

  “Probably not. But in the meantime, he projects strength and confidence.”

  “How about competence?”

  “As long as he keeps the immigrants out, his supporters don
’t care if he can’t put two words together.”

  “What if there’s a crisis? A real crisis. Not one that’s invented by a right-wing website.”

  “Like what?”

  “It could be another financial crisis that wipes out the banking system.” Gabriel paused. “Or something much worse.”

  “What could be worse than my life’s savings going up in smoke?”

  “How about a global pandemic? A novel strain of influenza for which we humans have no natural defense.”

  “A plague?”

  “Don’t laugh, Cesare. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “And where will this plague of yours come from?”

  “It will make the jump from animals to humans in a place where sanitary conditions leave something to be desired. A Chinese wet market, for example. It will start slowly, a cluster of local cases. But because we are so interconnected, it will spread around the globe like wildfire. Chinese tourists will bring it to Western Europe in the early stages of the outbreak, even before the virus has been identified. Within a few weeks, half of Italy’s population will be infected, perhaps more. What happens then, Cesare?”

  “You tell me.”

  “The entire country will have to be quarantined to prevent further spread. Hospitals will be so overwhelmed they’ll be forced to turn away everyone but the youngest and the healthiest. Hundreds will die every day, perhaps thousands. The military will have to resort to mass cremation to prevent further spread. It will be—”

  “A holocaust.”

  Gabriel nodded slowly. “And how do you suppose an incompetent subliterate like Saviano will react under those conditions? Will he listen to medical experts, or will he think he knows better? Will he tell his people the truth, or will he promise that a vaccine and lifesaving treatments are just around the corner?”

  “He’ll blame the Chinese and the immigrants and emerge stronger than ever.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel seriously. “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”

  “Anyone with half a brain knows we’re long overdue for something on the scale of the Great Influenza of 1918. I’ve told my prime minister that of all the threats facing Israel, a pandemic is by far the worst.”

  “I’m thankful that my only responsibility is to find stolen paintings.” The general watched as the television camera panned across a sea of red vestments. “There sits the next pontiff.”

  “They say it’s going to be Cardinal Navarro.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Do you have any insight?”

  General Ferrari answered as though addressing a roomful of reporters. “The carabinieri make no effort to monitor the papal succession process. Nor do the other agencies of Italian security and intelligence.”

  “Spare me.”

  The general laughed quietly. “And what about you?”

  “The identity of the next pope is of no concern to the State of Israel.”

  “It is now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll let him explain.” General Ferrari nodded toward the television, where the camera had found Archbishop Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII. “He was wondering whether you might have a spare moment or two to speak to him.”

  “Why didn’t he just call me?”

  “It’s not something he wanted to discuss on the phone.”

  “Did he tell you what it was?”

  The general shook his head. “Only that it was a matter of the utmost importance. He was hoping you were free for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “Rome.”

  Gabriel made no reply.

  “It’s an hour away by plane. You’ll be back in Venice in time for dinner.”

  “Will I?”

  “Judging by the archbishop’s tone of voice, I rather doubt it. He’s expecting you at one o’clock at Piperno. He says you’re familiar with it.”

  “It rings a distant bell.”

  “He’d like you to come alone. And don’t worry about your wife and children. I’ll take very good care of them during your absence.”

  “Absence?” It was not the word Gabriel would have chosen to describe a daylong excursion to the Eternal City.

  The general was staring at the television again. “Look at those princes of the Church, all robed in red.”

  “The color symbolizes the blood of Christ.”

  Ferrari’s good eye blinked with surprise. “How on earth did you know that?”

  “I’ve spent the better part of my life restoring Christian art. It’s safe to assume I know more about the history and teachings of the Church than most Catholics.”

  “Including me.” The general’s gaze returned to the screen. “Who do you suppose it will be?”

  “They say Navarro is already ordering new furniture for the appartamento.”

  “Yes,” said the general, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s what they say.”

  4

  MURANO, VENICE

  PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE JOKING.”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Do you know how much time and effort it took to arrange this trip? I had to meet with the prime minister, for heaven’s sake.”

  “And for that,” said Gabriel solemnly, “I am deeply and eternally sorry.”

  They were seated at the back of a small restaurant in Murano. Gabriel had waited until they had finished their entrées before telling Chiara of his plans to travel to Rome in the morning. Admittedly, his motives were selfish. The restaurant, which specialized in fish, was among his favorites in Venice.

  “It’s just one day, Chiara.”

  “Even you don’t believe that.”

  “No, but it was worth a try.”

  Chiara raised a wineglass toward her lips. The last of her pinot grigio burned with the pale fire of reflected candlelight. “Why weren’t you invited to the funeral?”

  “Apparently, Cardinal Albanese couldn’t find a spare seat for me in the whole of St. Peter’s Square.”

  “He was the one who found the body, wasn’t he?”

  “In the private chapel,” said Gabriel.

  “Do you really think it happened that way?”

  “Are you suggesting the Vatican Press Office might have issued an inaccurate bollettino?”

  “You and Luigi collaborated on quite a few misleading statements over the years.”

  “But our motives were always pure.”

  Chiara placed her wineglass on the bone-white tablecloth and rotated it slowly. “Why do you suppose he wants to see you?”

  “It can’t be good.”

  “What did General Ferrari say?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “How unlike him.”

  “He might have mentioned that it had something to do with the selection of the next supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.”

  The wineglass went still. “The conclave?”

  “He didn’t go into specifics.”

  Gabriel nudged his phone to life and checked the time. He had been forced at long last to part company with his beloved BlackBerry Key2. His new device was an Israeli-made Solaris, customized to his unique specifications. Larger and heavier than a typical smartphone, it had been built to withstand remote attack from the world’s most sophisticated hackers, including the American NSA and Israel’s Unit 8200. All of Gabriel’s senior officers carried one, as did Chiara. It was her second. Raphael had tossed her first Solaris from the terrace of their apartment in Jerusalem. For all its inviolability, the device had not been designed to survive a fall of three floors and a collision with a limestone walkway.

  “It’s late,” he said. “We should rescue your parents.”

  “We don’t have to rush. They love having the children around. If it were up to them, we would never leave Venice.”

  “King Saul Boulevard might notice my absence.”

  “The prime minister, too.” She was silent
for a moment. “I must admit, I’m not looking forward to going home. I’ve enjoyed having you to myself.”

  “I only have two years left on my term.”

  “Two years and one month. But who’s counting?”

  “Has it been terrible?”

  She made a face. “I never wanted to play the role of the complaining wife. You know the type, don’t you, Gabriel? They’re so annoying, those women.”

  “We always knew it would be difficult.”

  “Yes,” she said vaguely.

  “If you need help …”

  “Help?”

  “An extra pair of hands around the house.”

  She frowned. “I can manage quite well on my own, thank you. I just miss you, that’s all.”

  “Two years will go by in the blink of an eye.”

  “And you promise you won’t let them talk you into a second term?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Her face brightened. “So how do you plan to spend your retirement?”

  “You make it sound as though I should start looking for an assisted-living facility.”

  “You are getting on in years, darling.” She patted the back of his hand. It didn’t make him feel any younger. “Well?” she asked.

  “I plan to devote my final years on this earth to making you happy.”

  “So you’ll do anything I want?”

  He regarded her carefully. “Within reason, of course.”

  She cast her eyes downward and picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth. “I had coffee with Francesco yesterday.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  “I asked him not to.”

  “That explains it. And what did you talk about?”

  “The future.”

  “What does he have in mind?”

  “A partnership.”

  “Francesco and me?”

  Chiara made no reply.

  “You?”

  She nodded. “He wants me to come to work for him. And when he retires in a few years …”