Sister Vincenza had been looking for Don Albino all afternoon. Walking the hallways of the Apostolic Palace, carrying a small tray with a glass of water and a pill on a saucer, she stopped by a window and saw him sitting on a bench in the gardens. The Holy Father was holding his head with both hands and seemed engrossed in disturbing thoughts.

“ Gethsemane,” Sister Vincenza said, almost reflexively.

The old woman descended the stairs leading to the wonderful gardens, and continued on one of the gravel paths toward the rotunda. Just on the other side, Don Albino was sitting in his pure white cassock, staring down at his shoes.

Sister Vincenza stood in front of him.

“The doctors recommended that you take walks through the gardens. They didn’t say you should sit in the gardens.”

There was a hearty smile on Don Albino’s lips as he looked at his loyal nurse.

“Yes. They suggested I go for walks to get rid of this swelling in my feet. But as it happens, with my feet so swollen I can’t walk. So, what can I do?”

Sister Vincenza, well acquainted with Don Albino’s unshakable logic, admitted that the doctors’ prescription wasn’t very practical.

Without a word, the pope took the pill and the glass offered by the nun, and after looking at the medication with a resigned sigh, he swallowed it, delighting more in the cool water than in the promised benefits of the pill.

“Did you know my father, Sister Vincenza?” Don Albino asked his nurse, still standing before him. “When I went to the seminary at eleven, my father spent two months without saying a word to my mother. She was a very devout woman, but my father-”

“Don Giovanni was a rebel,” Sister Vincenza said.

“No. Don Giovanni, as you call him, was a socialist. But, considering what is going on now, I don’t know if an immigrant, a laborer, or temporary worker who has always lived in misery can be anything else. In fact, when I entered the seminary, my father said, ‘Finally, a sacrifice has to be made.’ I’d say that, for being avidly anti-Church, he had a premonition almost like a spiritual vision. That’s what I was thinking about when you came.”

“God will help you carry this burden, Holy Father.”

Don Albino glanced benevolently at Sister Vincenza. No good could have come from his starting a conversation about the poor conduct of the directors of the Vatican Bank. What would this innocent nun think after being told that the Mafia’s money was being laundered through intermediate enterprises in the stock markets of Zurich, London, and New York? What would happen to Sister Vincenza’s simple faith if she learned that, since August 6, 1966, affable Cardinal Villot’s name appeared with the number 041/3 in the archives of the P2 Lodge? How could this venerable old nun sleep, knowing that her Don Albino didn’t head Christ’s Church, but a financial conglomerate that would end up exploding in his face if he didn’t fix it? And as for himself, how could he look that good woman in the eye, knowing that his Church had been converted into a den of thieves?

“I could bear this burden, Sister Vincenza,” he added finally, “but I don’t know if others would be willing to put up with me.”

“Put your trust in God, Don Albino,” the dear old woman said, turning back on the gravel path toward the Apostolic Palace. “Trust in God.”

John Paul I stayed a few minutes longer on that bench in the rotunda, engrossed in his thoughts and looking at his swollen feet. It was time to go back to his office. He had so much to do! With a resigned shrug, he got up, and a grimace revealed the pain in his ankles as he stood.

“ ‘Finally,’ as old Don Giovanni had said, ‘a sacrifice has to be made.’ ”

And he slowly walked back to his office, hands clasped behind his back.

Staughton was making a supreme effort to follow his boss’s orders. The fat man’s bad mood was obvious, but Staughton couldn’t allow himself that kind of luxury. Even though he hadn’t slept all night, he had no subordinates available to relieve him. And he didn’t have any family nearby to relax with. His parents were happily retired in Boston, and women could never put up with his work patterns. Anybody who worked at the agency was so committed that, little by little, duty became all-consuming, eventually disrupting family ties, even close friendships. A true secret agent had no relationship with the outside world, and that facilitated his performance.

In this regard, Staughton was no different from the rest, although he did maintain some ties with his parents and other family members. Recently he contacted his mother to tell her he was doing fine. To her, Staughton was a software specialist in the London office of an American company, a cover containing a grain of truth. His childhood friendships had been shrinking over time. Concerning women, Staughton did make an effort. Twice he came close to putting a ring on his finger, with the usual marriage commitment before the laws of God and country. He failed the first attempt on September 11, 2001. His fiancée couldn’t be faulted, because Staughton spent three months without returning to his country after the World Trade Center attack, and he limited himself to a skimpy weekly phone call, always promising he would be back the following week. The same was to happen with another woman in 2003, before the second Gulf War. The wedding was scheduled for April 9, the same day the combined forces reached Baghdad. But Staughton was, in effect, incommunicado for five months, during which he mailed an occasional letter to report his mental and physical well-being, and to say that he would be back the next month.

When he finally returned, his sweetheart had moved to another city, so utterly crushed that she wouldn’t answer or return a single one of his many calls. He decided then to be done with long-term relationships, and now, at thirty-two, he lived just for work, hoping the day would come when he could have a family, with time to love and care for it. He lived in terror of becoming another Geoffrey Barnes, with no love life, no interests outside work, except to fill his stomach in any restaurant where he could eat well. To Staughton, Geoffrey Barnes was an insensitive, unscrupulous son of a bitch.

“Is it ready?” Barnes asked, leaning over the screen of the computer Staughton was using.

“Not yet, but almost.”

“Do you already have something?”

“What I have is in the printer.”

Barnes headed for the printer next to the window, and grabbed the handful of papers in the tray. There was a lot of information that would take hours to process. He looked toward the outer room, which was bristling with activity. Men and women moving from one side to the other. There were shouts, orders, phone calls. Three young agents were engaged in a very lively conversation.

“Hey, you three,” Barnes called out. “I want you to analyze this in full detail. And when you finish, there’s more.”

All smiles instantly vanished, but they promptly complied with the order.

“Keep Staughton posted on whatever you find.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them answered.

Barnes withdrew to his office. The day was flying by and there was no news.

The young men sat at a table to carry out the work order. One, the most outgoing, went over to Staughton.

“Haven’t you eaten today?”

“I haven’t eaten, or drunk, or slept, or fucked,” Staughton spat out, his eyes still glued to the computer screen.

“We’re ready.”

“Pray that we find them soon, because if we don’t, you can’t even imagine how ready we’ll be.”

The agent leaned toward Staughton, as if to share a secret. “I came in today, man. I haven’t the slightest idea what we’re looking for.”