The Order
Daniel Silva
THE ORDER
Daniel Silva
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
First published in the United States of America by Harper, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Daniel Silva 2020
Cover design by Milan Bozic © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photograph © Nigel Cox
Daniel Silva asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008280819
Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008280826
Version: 2020-06-18
Dedication
As always, for my wife, Jamie, and my children, Lily and Nicholas
Epigraph
When Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing, but rather that a riot was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to that yourselves.” And all the people answered, “His blood shall be on us and our children!”
—MATTHEW 27:24–25
Every misfortune that subsequently befell the Jews—from the destruction of Jerusalem to Auschwitz—carried an echo of that invented blood pact from the trial.
—ANN WROE, PONTIUS PILATE
You have to be willingly ignorant of the past not to know where all this leads.
—PAUL KRUGMAN, THE NEW YORK TIMES
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Vatican City
Foreword
Part One: Interregnum
Chapter 1: Rome
Chapter 2: Jerusalem—Venice
Chapter 3: Cannaregio, Venice
Chapter 4: Murano, Venice
Chapter 5: Venice—Rome
Chapter 6: Ristorante Piperno, Rome
Chapter 7: Ristorante Piperno, Rome
Chapter 8: Ristorante Piperno, Rome
Chapter 9: Caffè Greco, Rome
Chapter 10: Casa Santa Marta
Chapter 11: Via Sardegna, Rome
Chapter 12: Rome—Florence
Chapter 13: Florence
Chapter 14: Ponte Vecchio, Florence
Chapter 15: Venice—Fribourg, Swizterland
Chapter 16: Café Du Gothard, Fribourg
Chapter 17: Rechthalten, Switzerland
Chapter 18: Rechthalten, Switzerland
Chapter 19: Les Armures, Geneva
Chapter 20: Les Armures, Geneva
Chapter 21: Rome—Obersalzberg, Bavaria
Chapter 22: Rome
Chapter 23: Vatican Secret Archives
Part Two: Ecce Homo
Chapter 24: Jesuit Curia, Rome
Chapter 25: Jesuit Curia, Rome
Chapter 26: Rome—Assisi
Chapter 27: Abbey of St. Peter, Assisi
Chapter 28: Abbey of St. Peter, Assisi
Chapter 29: Abbey of St. Peter, Assisi
Chapter 30: Via Della Paglia, Rome
Chapter 31: Via Della Paglia, Trastevere
Chapter 32: Trastevere, Rome
Chapter 33: Israeli Embassy, Rome
Chapter 34: Sistine Chapel
Chapter 35: Zurich
Chapter 36: Munich
Chapter 37: Munich
Chapter 38: Munich
Chapter 39: Beethovenplatz, Munich
Chapter 40: Munich
Chapter 41: Munich
Chapter 42: Munich
Chapter 43: Cologne, Germany
Chapter 44: Bavaria, Germany
Chapter 45: Obersalzberg, Bavaria
Chapter 46: Obersalzberg, Bavaria
Chapter 47: Obersalzberg, Bavaria
Part Three: Extra Omnes
Chapter 48: Jesuit Curia, Rome
Chapter 49: Villa Giulia, Rome
Chapter 50: St. Peter’s Square
Chapter 51: Via Della Conciliazione
Chapter 52: Casa Santa Marta
Chapter 53: Villa Borghese
Chapter 54: Casa Santa Marta
Chapter 55: Villa Borghese
Chapter 56: Via Gregoriana, Rome
Chapter 57: Jesuit Curia, Rome
Chapter 58: Sistine Chapel
Chapter 59: Jesuit Curia, Rome
Chapter 60: Sistine Chapel
Part Four: Habemus Papam
Chapter 61: Cannaregio, Venice
Chapter 62: Piazza San Marco
Chapter 63: Venice—Assisi
Chapter 64: Abbey of St. Peter, Assisi
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Daniel Silva
About the Publisher
VATICAN CITY
FOREWORD
HIS HOLINESS POPE PAUL VII was introduced in The Confessor, the third book of the Gabriel Allon series. Subsequently, he appeared in The Messenger and The Fallen Angel. Born Pietro Lucchesi, he is the former Patriarch of Venice and the direct successor of Pope John Paul II. In my fictitious version of the Vatican, the papacies of Joseph Ratzinger and Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the supreme pontiffs Benedict XVI and Francis, did not occur.
PART ONE
INTERREGNUM
1
ROME
THE CALL ARRIVED AT 11:42 p.m. Luigi Donati hesitated before answering. The number displayed on the screen of his telefonino belonged to Albanese. There was only one reason why he would ring at such an hour.
“Where are you, Excellency?”
“Outside the walls.”
“Ah, yes. It’s a Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Better not to say too much on the phone. One never knows who might be listening.”
The night into which Donati stepped was damp and cold. He was dressed in a black clerical suit and Roman collar, not the fuchsia-trimmed cassock and simar he wore around the office, which was how men of his ecclesiastical rank referred to the Apostolic Palace. An archbishop, Donati served as private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII. Tall and lean, with rich dark hair and movie-idol features, he had recently celebrated his sixty-third birthday. Age had done nothing to diminish his good looks. Vanity Fair magazine had recently christened him “Luscious Luigi.” The article had caused him no end of embarrassment inside the backbiting world of the Curia. Still, given Donati’s well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness, no one had dared to mention it to his face. No one but the Holy Father, who had teased him mercilessly.
Better not to say too much on the phone …
Donati had been preparing himself for this moment for a year or more, ever since the first mild heart attack, which he had concealed from the rest of the world and even
much of the Curia. But why tonight of all nights?
The street was oddly quiet. Deathly quiet, thought Donati suddenly. It was a palazzo-lined avenue just off the Via Veneto, the sort of place a priest rarely set foot—especially a priest educated and trained by the Society of Jesus, the intellectually rigorous and sometimes rebellious order to which Donati belonged. His official Vatican car, with its SCV license plates, waited curbside. The driver was from the Corpo della Gendarmeria, the Vatican’s 130-member police force. He headed westward across Rome at an unhurried pace.
He doesn’t know …
On his mobile phone Donati scanned the websites of the leading Italian newspapers. They were in the dark. So were their colleagues in London and New York.
“Turn on the radio, Gianni.”
“Music, Excellency?”
“News, please.”
It was more drivel from Saviano, another rant about how Arab and African immigrants were destroying the country, as if the Italians weren’t more than capable of making a fine mess of things themselves. Saviano had been badgering the Vatican for months about a private audience with the Holy Father. Donati, with no small amount of pleasure, had refused to grant it.
“That’s quite enough, Gianni.”
The radio went blessedly silent. Donati peered out the window of the luxury German-made sedan. It was no way for a Soldier of Christ to travel. He supposed this would be his final journey across Rome by chauffeured limousine. For nearly two decades he had served as something like the chief of staff of the Roman Catholic Church. It had been a tumultuous time—a terrorist attack on St. Peter’s, a scandal involving antiquities and the Vatican Museums, the scourge of priestly sexual abuse—and yet Donati had relished every minute of it. Now, in the blink of an eye, it was over. He was once again a mere priest. He had never felt more alone.
The car crossed the Tiber and turned onto the Via della Conciliazione, the broad boulevard Mussolini had carved through Rome’s slums. The floodlit dome of the basilica, restored to its original glory, loomed in the distance. They followed the curve of Bernini’s Colonnade to St. Anne’s Gate, where a Swiss Guard waved them onto the territory of the city-state. He was dressed in his night uniform: a blue tunic with a white schoolboy collar, knee-length socks, a black beret, a cape against the evening chill. His eyes were dry, his face untroubled.
He doesn’t know …
The car moved slowly up the Via Sant’Anna—past the barracks of the Swiss Guard, the church of St. Anne, the Vatican printing offices, and the Vatican Bank—before coming to a stop next to an archway leading to the San Damaso Courtyard. Donati crossed the cobbles on foot, boarded the most important lift in all of Christendom, and ascended to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace. He hurried along the loggia, a wall of glass on one side, a fresco on the other. A left turn brought him to the papal apartments.
Another Swiss Guard, this one in full dress uniform, stood straight as a ramrod outside the door. Donati walked past him without a word and went inside. Thursday, he was thinking. Why did it have to be a Thursday?
EIGHTEEN YEARS, THOUGHT DONATI AS he surveyed the Holy Father’s private study, and nothing had changed. Only the telephone. Donati had finally managed to convince the Holy Father to replace Wojtyla’s ancient rotary contraption with a modern multiline device. Otherwise, the room was exactly the way the Pole had left it. The same austere wooden desk. The same beige chair. The same worn Oriental rug. The same golden clock and crucifix. Even the blotter and pen set had belonged to Wojtyla the Great. For all the early promise of his papacy—the promise of a kinder, less repressive Church—Pietro Lucchesi had never fully escaped the long shadow of his predecessor.
Donati, by some instinct, marked the time on his wristwatch. It was 12:07 a.m. The Holy Father had retired to the study that evening at half past eight for ninety minutes of reading and writing. Ordinarily, Donati remained at his master’s side or just down the hall in his office. But because it was a Thursday, the one night of the week he had to himself, he had stayed only until nine o’clock.
Do me a favor before you leave, Luigi …
Lucchesi had asked Donati to open the heavy curtains covering the study’s window. It was the same window from which the Holy Father prayed the Angelus each Sunday at noon. Donati had complied with his master’s wishes. He had even opened the shutters so His Holiness could gaze upon St. Peter’s Square while he slaved over his curial paperwork. Now the curtains were tightly drawn. Donati moved them aside. The shutters were closed, too.
The desk was tidy, not Lucchesi’s usual clutter. There was a cup of tea, half empty, a spoon resting on the saucer, that had not been there when Donati departed. Several documents in manila folders were stacked neatly beneath the old retractable lamp. A report from the Archdiocese of Philadelphia regarding the financial fallout of the abuse scandal. Remarks for next Wednesday’s General Audience. The first draft of a homily for a forthcoming papal visit to Brazil. Notes for an encyclical on the subject of immigration that was sure to rile Saviano and his fellow travelers in the Italian far right.
One item, however, was missing.
You’ll see that he gets it, won’t you, Luigi?
Donati checked the wastebasket. It was empty. Not so much as a scrap of paper.
“Looking for something, Excellency?”
Donati glanced up and saw Cardinal Domenico Albanese eyeing him from the doorway. Albanese was a Calabrian by birth and by profession a creature of the Curia. He held several senior positions in the Holy See, including president of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, and archivist and librarian of the Holy Roman Church. None of that, however, explained his presence in the papal apartments at seven minutes past midnight. Domenico Albanese was the camerlengo. It was his responsibility alone to issue the formal declaration that the throne of St. Peter was vacant.
“Where is he?” asked Donati.
“In the kingdom of heaven,” intoned the cardinal.
“And the body?”
Had Albanese not heard the sacred calling, he might have moved slabs of marble for his living or hurled carcasses in a Calabrian abattoir. Donati followed him along a brief corridor, into the bedroom. Three more cardinals waited in the half-light: Marcel Gaubert, José Maria Navarro, and Angelo Francona. Gaubert was the secretary of state, effectively the prime minister and chief diplomat of the world’s smallest country. Navarro was prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, guardian of Catholic orthodoxy, defender against heresy. Francona, the oldest of the three, was the dean of the College of Cardinals. As such, he would preside over the next conclave.
It was Navarro, a Spaniard of noble stock, who addressed Donati first. Though he had lived and worked in Rome for nearly a quarter century, he still spoke Italian with a pronounced Castilian accent. “Luigi, I know how painful this must be for you. We were his faithful servants, but you were the one he loved the most.”
Cardinal Gaubert, a thin Parisian with a feline face, nodded profoundly at the Spaniard’s curial bromide, as did the three laymen standing in the shadow at the edge of the room: Dr. Octavio Gallo, the Holy Father’s personal physician; Lorenzo Vitale, chief of the Corpo della Gendarmeria; and Colonel Alois Metzler, commandant of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. Donati, it seemed, was the last to arrive. It was he, the private secretary, who should have summoned the senior princes of the Church to the bedside of the dead pope, not the camerlengo. Suddenly, he was racked by guilt.
But when Donati looked down at the figure stretched upon the bed, his guilt gave way to overwhelming grief. Lucchesi was still wearing his white soutane, though his slippers had been removed and his zucchetto was nowhere to be seen. Someone had placed the hands upon the chest. They were clutching his rosary. The eyes were closed, the jaw slack, but there was no evidence of pain on his face, nothing to suggest he had suffered. Indeed, Donati would not have been surprised if His Holiness woke suddenly and inquired about his evening.
He was still wearing his
white soutane …
Donati had been the keeper of the Holy Father’s schedule from the first day of his pontificate. The evening routine rarely varied. Dinner from seven to eight thirty. Paperwork in the study from eight thirty until ten, followed by fifteen minutes of prayer and reflection in his private chapel. Typically, he was in bed by half past ten, usually with an English detective novel, his guilty pleasure. Devices and Desires by P. D. James lay on the bedside table beneath his reading glasses. Donati opened it to the page marked.
Forty-five minutes later Rickards was back at the scene of the murder …
Donati closed the book. The supreme pontiff, he reckoned, had been dead for nearly two hours, perhaps longer. Calmly, he asked, “Who found him? Not one of the household nuns, I hope.”
“It was me,” replied Cardinal Albanese.
“Where was he?”
“His Holiness departed this life from the chapel. I discovered him a few minutes after ten. As for the exact time of his passing …” The Calabrian shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I cannot say, Excellency.”
“Why wasn’t I contacted immediately?”
“I searched for you everywhere.”
“You should have called my mobile.”
“I did. Several times, in fact. There was no answer.”
The camerlengo, thought Donati, was being untruthful. “And what were you doing in the chapel, Eminence?”
“This is beginning to sound like an inquisition.” Albanese’s eyes moved briefly to Cardinal Navarro before settling once more on Donati. “His Holiness asked me to pray with him. I accepted his invitation.”
“He phoned you directly?”
“In my apartment,” said the camerlengo with a nod.
“At what time?”
Albanese lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as though trying to recall a minor detail that had slipped his mind. “Nine fifteen. Perhaps nine twenty. He asked me to come a few minutes after ten. When I arrived …”
Donati looked down at the man stretched lifeless upon the bed. “And how did he get here?”
