Half an hour later, Santiago was taking the stairs out of the Ottaviano–San Pietro station two at a time, sprinting along Via Ottaviano, darting recklessly across streets and weaving through the morning traffic. In the distance, he could already see Piazza del Risorgimento with its trams—an immense relief, for he knew that just beyond the square rose the walls of the Vatican.

  At last, he reached the corridor of Porta Angelica, the access point. He hurried along the passageway, passing souvenir stalls and vendors selling religious trinkets, forcing his way through tourists, passersby, and clergy alike. The bells of St. Peter’s Basilica were already tolling the hour—and with it came the certainty that Mass had ended. A bad omen.

  He entered through the Porta Angelica checkpoint, presenting his Holy See passport, and rushed toward the Basilica, certain the Cardinal would still be there.

  When he reached the sacristy, the Cardinal was being assisted by an altar boy as he removed his liturgical vestments. He was in the process of taking off the chasuble when he was besieged by a cluster of Cardinals, led by Cardinal Vergolo, who had entered the papal sacristy moments before Santiago’s arrival—each bearing his own agenda.

  “I’ve already told you the Holy Father cannot see you,” Cardinal Wozny snapped irritably, his head momentarily trapped inside the chasuble held awkwardly by the altar boy.

  “And why not?” replied a Cardinal with a thick Irish accent. “I’ve been waiting for days. That child abuse case has cost me more parishioners—and therefore more alms—than Cromwell’s reforms ever did. I need donations, donations!”

  All the Cardinals began speaking at once.

  “He is ill, and that is final,” Wozny repeated over and over.

  The clamor only grew.

  “I’ve come all the way from Thailand—I need to see the Pope,” said an Asian Cardinal. “Same problem as Ireland!”

  “Even if you came from the moon, the answer would be the same,” Wozny replied, growing increasingly enraged. “The Pope is indisposed—” In his desperation, he turned and began swatting at the altar boy, who was proving far too clumsy to be of any help.

  Santiago entered and forced his way through the purple-robed crowd surrounding the Cardinal, positioning himself in front of him like a guard dog defending its master. He took hold of the chasuble and dismissed the altar boy, skillfully removing the garment himself.

  “Your Eminences,” the Camerlengo said calmly, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would leave your agendas with me. I will personally ensure your concerns are conveyed to the Holy Father, who is in delicate health and needs no further mortifications.”

  “But we haven’t seen him!” protested the defiant Cardinal Vergolo—a Chilean prelate and leader of the discontented faction.

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  “I understand,” Santiago replied evenly. “Thank you for your understanding. The Holy Father will respond in writing.”

  The Cardinals filed out and closed the door behind them. The Cardinal raised his middle finger in an obscene gesture.

  “That Vergolo!” he snarled. “Fernando Vergolo—always stirring rebellion.” He turned furiously toward the Camerlengo. “A fine hour you chose to arrive! Do I need to remind you of your starting time?”

  “I apologize, Your Eminence,” Santiago replied. “As I mentioned earlier, I fell asleep. I worked very late—and to make matters worse, the traffic was unbearable.”

  “I don’t want excuses!” the Cardinal barked. “Your shift starts at seven in the morning. Besides, you’re the one who insists on living outside the Vatican. There’s a room right next to mine prepared for you.”

  Santiago inhaled, bowed, and resumed helping remove the remaining vestments.

  “It’s becoming harder and harder to explain the situation to Vergolo’s pack,” the Cardinal continued complaining. “What do they expect me to say? That the Pope ran off and we don’t know where he is?”

  The Camerlengo nodded patiently as he placed the vestments into a wardrobe.

  “And meanwhile Merkel demands that I find Lazlo,” the Cardinal went on bitterly. “But how? If only we knew where the Cumaean Sibyl was—she could locate him with her arts… but even that is beyond us!”

  “We searched for her, Your Eminence, but she vanished,” Santiago replied. “Still, there is always the option of letting him die.”

  “Letting him die?” the Cardinal asked, confused.

  “No,” Santiago hurried to clarify. “I mean staging it. The Pope falls gravely ill and dies suddenly, like John Paul I. We call a conclave and elect a new, compliant Pope.”

  “Brilliant,” the Cardinal said. “There’s just one problem—Merkel has made it clear that he wants Lazlo. Which brings us back to the beginning.”

  He approached his desk and collapsed heavily into a baroque chair.

  “Fill my coffee cup. Two sugars,” he ordered.

  Santiago nodded, went to a nearby coffee maker, filled the cup, added two sugar cubes from a bowl, and brought it to the Cardinal. Wozny took it delicately and sipped.

  “DAMN IT, THIS COFFEE IS BOILING!” he shouted, flinging the cup. It landed on the carpet, spilling the coffee everywhere. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  The Camerlengo fetched towels and knelt to retrieve the cup, which had been cushioned by the carpet but lay empty, its contents soaked into the fibers. Patiently, Santiago began blotting the stain—one the nuns would later have to remove.

  He prepared another coffee, carefully decanting it until it reached a tolerable temperature. Once satisfied, he brought it to the Cardinal, who took a cautious sip and accepted it.

  “Where am I supposed to find Lazlo?” the Cardinal muttered at last. “We can’t go to the police. We can’t put his face on a milk carton. We have mercenaries searching airports, ports, highways—north, south, east, west, up, down—and he’s simply vanished. And Merkel keeps demanding answers!”

  The Camerlengo folded the alb, smoothed it with his hand, creased it neatly, and placed it in a dresser drawer.

  “Your Eminence, perhaps if you explained your reasons to the prince—” Santiago began.

  “It’s difficult,” the Cardinal snapped. “That bitch Lilith keeps poisoning his mind, turning him against me. Oh, but she will listen now—she will!”

  “Your Eminence, Lilith has many valid reasons to resent you,” Santiago said carefully. “Considering how poorly you’ve treated her. If I may say so—you’ve been arrogant and misogynistic toward her.”

  “Nobody is perfect,” the Cardinal retorted.

  “But perhaps it is better to have her as an ally rather than an enemy,” Santiago suggested prudently.

  “Don’t contradict me,” the Cardinal said, rising to his feet. “I want to speak with her. Now she will listen.”

  The Camerlengo sighed and obediently followed the crimson-robed prelate toward the offices of state.