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fixed rule in Rome and could determine your success, for better or worse. In this particular case, Peter Adam’s outfit said that he was either a media lawyer or a journalist – successful either way. As his blonde hair and his smooth North German facial features did not allow him to pass as Roman, he could only be a foreign journalist. This, together with his looks and his almost accent-free Italian, secured him the interest of the senators that were present, as well as the goodwill of their wives. Ultimately, this was what mattered in Rome.
    At this very moment, however, Peter Adam’s focus was on something entirely different. He stood right in front of the monstrous coffee machine and tried to figure out how the hell the old barista , who was hiding from view, clattering around with cups and spoons and portafilters, created this delicious coffee. In more than fifteen years, Peter had only been able to find out that the old man brewed the caffé together with the sugar. Of course, it was also possible to order unsweetened coffee, but this was regarded as extremely strange. After all, making coffee was just a caffeinated way to liquefy sugar.
    »Summer is coming,« Peter said. »Slowly but surely.« He was attempting to engage the barista in a conversation, even though the man didn’t even greet his regulars.
    »Eh. Era ora – finally, ›twas time,« the old man growled in response. That was it. Then he served Peter his caffé con panna .
    As Peter sipped his espresso with whipped cream, he watched a young woman in a striking suit. Her classic nose and the way she stuck out her little finger when she talked were clear signs that she was Roman. Early thirties, Peter assumed. Daughter of a wealthy family, Law school, fluent in three languages, good in bed, and very, very bitchy. Old Roman Patrician nobility.
    She had noticed him and every now and then their eyes would meet for a moment. Peter was wondering whether he should approach her when he suddenly realized how much she resembled Ellen. Ellen, whom he had also brought to this place, often. Ellen who had loved Rome as much as he did. Ellen, who was dead now, simply dead. Only Rome still existed and would continue to exist forever. Abruptly, Peter turned around and opened the Corriere della Sera which was reporting again – as it had done throughout the entire last week – on the ISS catastrophe. The wave of shocking news and apocalyptic images had no end. The devastating earthquake in New Zealand, the financial crisis in Europe, the riots and civil wars in North Africa, the Tsunami and the nuclear disaster in Japan, and finally the catastrophe on the ISS. As if the human race urgently needed to understand that they were on the brink of doom.
    And now the Pope. All the newspapers reported the abdication, the mysterious disappearance of the Pope, and the tragic, fatal accident of his private secretary. The tabloid papers were speculating wildly about a possible connection with the ISS disaster and about murderous conspiracies in the Vatican. Peter knew from his colleagues in the Hamburg office that the government leaders of the most important industrial nations were holding crisis talks over the phone on a daily basis.
    However, the Vatican seemed to have fallen into a state of shock. There were hardly any statements and even the unofficial channels and the wise guys kept silent. Radio Vaticano aired its regular programming as if nothing had happened, and Cardinal Menendez was not available for any interviews. Not to mention Franz Laurenz. No one knew where he was right now. Or whether he was even still alive.
    Peter thought about the conclave that was supposed to begin in ten days. The first Cardinals had already begun to arrive. No one expected the election of the new pope to be swift. Even though the media was speculating on possible favorites – which was also the only topic that was discussed in the bar – Peter was sure that they would have to brace