An eerie quiet descended on the place, conjured by the glow of fluorescent light on ancient stone. The high-pitched hum of the bulbs seemed to taunt him, heighten his sense of isolation. He became acutely aware of each intake of breath, the sweat creasing his neck, now suddenly chilled by the airless space. It was impossible to think, only to move, back to the entryway, to the corridor.

He had made it halfway to the stairs when the lights suddenly flicked off. Instinct flattened him against the wall, his heart racing. He expected someone to come flying out of the darkness, something to confirm all that Cesare had said, but everything remained still. He slowly remembered that the switches for the lights lay one floor above. Whoever had given chase was now simply making sure to clean up after himself. There was nothing Pearse could do. He turned on his lantern and quickly started down the corridor.

Within a minute, he was once again at the top of the stairs, the sound of voices echoing nearby, people filing out of the church. The funeral was over. He placed the lantern on the second step and casually moved out into the atrium. Most were exiting by the far door, one or two opting for the courtyard, a nod here and there from a familiar face as he made his way back toward the main sanctuary. He scanned the flow of bodies, hoping to spot Cesare’s unmistakable shape, a head bobbing above the rest. As he looked, Pearse suddenly realized that someone else might be doing the very same thing. Perhaps Cesare had managed to elude them. Perhaps that was why the church below had been empty. Hope was a powerful elixir. He began to broaden his sweep. He had no idea what he was looking for, but the action itself seemed to calm him.

Several minutes later, he stood by the main door. He had seen no one, nothing to draw his attention. He stepped out into Via di San Giovanni in Laterano, the rain having turned to mist. Whatever momentary peace of mind he had managed in the church now gave way to the realization that Cesare was gone.

“… the Colosseum … an hour.” He had no choice but to trust the monk would be there.

The sound of his own footsteps trailed Stefan Kleist along the carpeted corridor. There was nothing much to distinguish him save for a pair of exceptionally broad shoulders, far wider than usual for a man his size. They gave him an unexpected power, a compact sturdiness that could very well have defined his entire personality. Elegant arms swayed at his side, muscular even through the fine material of his suit jacket, one hand now slipped casually into his pants pocket as a maid appeared from one of the rooms. She pulled the familiar cart behind her, the Bernini Bristol logo etched into the hotel’s towels. Kleist smiled, a gentle lifting of his lips, pale green eyes betraying nothing but absolute contentment. The young woman nodded once, then quickly moved along in the opposite direction. The moment she had passed, Kleist’s expression returned to its more accustomed steeliness, stone cold eyes, lips again a hardened flat line. Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned left and pushed through a pair of heavy leather doors toward the one remaining suite on the floor. He pressed the bell and waited.

Within a few seconds, a voice came from behind the thick double door. “Si?”

“Stefan.” A moment later, a bolt released and the door pulled back, revealing a foyer with living room beyond. Kleist stepped through, nodded to the man at the door, and proceeded into the larger room. Four others sat on various chairs and couches, each one looking over to acknowledge the recent arrival. Kleist said nothing and took a chair at the far wall, directly behind the man who was speaking.

“Probably tonight or tomorrow,” the man continued, ignoring the interruption. “The end of the week the latest.” Like Kleist, he was impeccably well dressed, a small handkerchief at the lapel pocket of his suit, long legs crossed delicately at the knee. Somewhere in his sixties, Erich Cardinal von Neurath had lost most of his hair, the thin ring lending his face a decided austerity. High cheekbones and sallow complexion accentuated an almost constant expression of indifference. In his usual clerical robes, it gave him an air of reflective piety. In the suit, it translated into an aristocrat’s sneer.

“And there’s no chance he’ll miraculously recover?” asked the one woman in the room. “No act of God?” Dona Marcella de Ortas Somalo, a Castilian contessa-the one true aristocrat among them-was somewhere in her mid-fifties, and had already buried four husbands, the last a man thirty years her senior. Not one for black, she wore an Armani suit, a deep green, the skirt cut to just below the knee so as to point up her best feature. Truth to tell, all her features were her best. Delicate nose and fine cheeks highlighted two dark brown eyes, always with a gaze that said she knew exactly what everyone was thinking. And, more often than not, she did. Even the dyed blond hair tied back in a bun-which, on another woman, might have seemed an affectation, or worse-was perfect for the tone and texture of her skin. It wasn’t as if she looked twenty years younger than she was. She didn’t. But there wasn’t a twenty-five-year-old who wouldn’t have given anything to have what the contessa had. And the contessa knew it.

“No,” answered von Neurath. “Even a Pope has his limitations. The doctors have no explanation for the disease’s sudden appearance, but they do agree it’s too far gone to help him now. As I said, the weekend the latest.”

The youngest member of the quartet edged out on his seat. “Would I then … that is to say, will I need to-”

“Spit it out, Arturo,” said von Neurath.

Arturo Ludovisi, senior analyst at the Vatican Bank, nodded once, a herky-jerky movement that made him look all the more uncomfortable. He was a little man, the crisp line of a comb etched perfectly into his well-oiled hair, shirt collar starched to the point of rigidity, a line of perspiration where neck met cloth. And yet he had a remarkably handsome face, lost in the uneasy expression that seemed always to line it. He took a breath and began again. “Do I … need to accelerate the number of deposits, then?”

Von Neurath looked at him. “Just manage the accounts, Arturo. No. No need to accelerate anything.”

Another quick nod, Ludovisi clearly regretting his little outburst.

“And I take it I won’t need to cancel any of the rites.” The last of the four shifted slightly at the end of the couch. Father John Joseph Blaney, the onetime parish priest, now special envoy to the Vatican, waited for an answer.

“Not at all,” answered von Neurath. “They’re even more important now.” He waited for the familiar Blaney nod, then continued. “So, if it’s in the next few days, that means we need a confirmation on votes, and we need it quickly. There have been rumors that Peretti and I will split the conclave, leaving the papacy open for who knows who to step in.”

“I can’t imagine it would be that hard to apply a little pressure in various circles,” said the contessa.

“Pressure, Dona, won’t be a problem,” interjected Kleist, still seated behind von Neurath. The two had developed a certain fondness for each other, something bordering on the maternal, without all the usual complications. A patroness for him. A confidant for her.

“It’s not applying it that’s the problem,” said Blaney, peering past the cardinal to his minion. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Herr Kleist, but physical intimidation-or worse-has to be a last resort. If that.”

“But it is an option,” said von Neurath.

Blaney hesitated. “This isn’t the fifteenth century, Erich. You’re no Medici prince.”

“The election won’t be the problem,” countered the contessa, trying to move on. “We have to think of the weeks after. I thought that was why we were meeting tonight.”