Page 125 of An Inside Job

“I’d like to have a word with the barman.”

“The Polizia is in charge here, not us.”

“He had to have seen the killer’s face.”

“If he did, he won’t tell you.”

“There’s always a first time, Luca.”

“Or a last.”

Gabriel dug his phone from his pocket and retrieved a photograph of the sketch he had made with the help of Ottavio Pozzi. It was Father Spada, the priest who was not a priest. Rossetti plucked the phone from Gabriel’s grasp.

“Maybe I should handle it. You’re not an actual cop, you know.”

Rossetti walked over to the two Polizia di Stato officers, displayed his Carabinieri ID, and requested permission to show the witness a composite sketch of a suspect in another case. The witness gave the sketch only a passing glance, then shook his head. Rossetti asked the witness to have another look. He did so reluctantly and shook his head a second time.

Rossetti returned to Gabriel’s side and handed over the phone. “Did you see that?”

“He’s lying.”

“No doubt about it.”

Gabriel stared down at Pozzi’s body. “I suppose you’re obligated to tell your colleagues in the Polizia everything you know.”

“Everything,” agreed Rossetti. “But not right away.”

“How long can you wait?”

“I imagine we’ll wait until after Ambrosi and Tedeschi are in custody.” Rossetti put a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Gabriel followed Rossetti back to the Alfa Romeo. Veronica was leaning against the hood. In the flashing blue light, her face appeared deathly pale. She looked at Gabriel and said, “It might be wise if you went back to Venice in the morning.”

“Actually I think I’ll stay in Rome for another day or two.”

“Palermo is lovely this time of year.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “So is Lampedusa, I’m told.”

51

St. Anne’s Gate

At half past five the following morning, Gabriel slid into the back seat of a black sedan with SCV license plates. He scanned the newspapers during the short drive across the river to the Vatican.La Repubblicahad published several hundred words about an execution-style murder in the working-class neighborhood of Ostiense. The story did not include the victim’s name or place of employment. Nor did it mention the presence of a prominent art conservator at the scene of the crime—the same art conservator, as it turned out, who had found the body of a young woman floating in the Venetian Lagoon, recovered a lost painting by Leonardo da Vinci, and set in motion a financial scandal that would soon plunge the Catholic Church into a state of open warfare. His Holiness Luigi Donati was hoping to keep the scandal at bay long enough for him to complete a whirlwind visit to the Mediterranean islands of Lampedusa and Sicily. It was Gabriel’s considered opinion that His Holiness would not get his wish.

The driver delivered Gabriel to St. Anne’s Gate. The Swiss Guard standing watch there was expecting him, as was his commandant, Colonel Metzler. He was partaking of a traditional Swiss breakfast in the mess, surrounded by several officers in dark suits. They madea place for Gabriel at the table and fetched him coffee and something to eat.

“No tie?” asked Metzler over a spoonful of muesli.

“I didn’t pack one.”

Metzler shot a glance at one of his men, who abruptly left the mess in search of neckwear.

“What I need,” said Gabriel, “is a weapon. And not a halberd. They’re impossible to conceal.”

Metzler allowed himself a brief smile. He was on edge, and so were his men. They always were when a pope was about to venture beyond the walls of the Vatican, especially a pope as divisive as Luigi Donati. The Holy Father’s last-minute request to add Gabriel to his security detail didn’t help matters.

“You should know this place is swirling with rumors,” said Metzler. “And most of them involve you.”

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