The helicopter turned and banked toward the city-state. The dome of the Basilica, partially concealed behind the enormous tarpaulins of the work crews, shone in the bright sunlight, while the Pope’s plea for peace fluttered from the façade in the gentle morning breeze. They swept low over the Viale Vaticano, staying over Italian airspace for as long as possible, then slipped over the wall and set down on the papal helipad. Donati, dressed in a black cassock and magenta sash, was waiting there, a plainclothes Swiss Guard at this side. The tall priest’s expression was grim as they shook hands briefly and set out across the Vatican Gardens toward the Apostolic Palace.

“How serious is it this time, Gabriel?”

“Very.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“The messenger,” said Gabriel. “The messenger.”

GABRIEL WAITED until they were upstairs in Donati’s third-floor office before telling him any more. Donati understood he was being given only part of the story. He was too concerned about the safety of his master to protest.

“I want you by his side until the president leaves the Vatican.”

This time Gabriel did not argue.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Donati said. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“I’m afraid there’s no time for sleep now,” Donati said, “but we have to do something about your appearance. I don’t suppose you brought a suit with you?”

“I wish I could explain to you just how ridiculous that question sounds.”

“You’re going to need some proper clothes. The papal protection detail of the Swiss Guard wear suits and ties. I’m sure the commandant can get you reasonably attired.”

“There’s something I need more than a blue suit, Luigi.”

“What’s that?”

Gabriel told him.

“The Swiss Guard can get you one of those, too.”

Donati picked up the phone and dialed.

THE SAME Swiss Guard who had been at Donati’s side on the helipad was waiting for Gabriel in the San Damaso Courtyard ten minutes later. He was equal to Gabriel in height, with square shoulders that filled out his suit jacket and the dense muscular neck of a rugby player. His blond hair was cropped nearly to the scalp of his bullet-shaped head, so that the wire leading into his earpiece was clearly visible.

“Have we met?” Gabriel asked the Guard in German as they set out down the Via Belvedere.

“No, sir.”

“You look familiar to me.”

“I was one of the Guards who helped you get the Holy Father into the Apostolic Palace after the attack.”

“I thought so,” said Gabriel. “What’s your name?”

“Lance Corporal Erich Müller, sir.”

“Which canton are you from, Lance Corporal?”

“Nidwalden, sir. It’s a demi-canton next to—”

“I know where it is,” Gabriel said.

“You know Switzerland, sir.”

“Very well.”