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Chiara thrust a catalog beneath his nose and asked his opinion of the couch and coffee
     table displayed on the open page. His indifferent response earned him a glance of mild rebuke. It seemed Chiara had already
     begun scouring the real estate listings for their new home, adding still more evidence to support his theory that a return
     to Venice had been in the works for some time. For now, she had narrowed her search to two properties, one in Cannaregio and
     a second in San Polo, overlooking the Grand Canal. Both would substantially diminish the small fortune Gabriel had accumulated
     through his labors as a restorer, and both would require Chiara to commute to Tiepolo’s offices in San Marco. The San Polo
     apartment was much closer, a few stops by vaporetto. It was also twice the price.
    â€œIf we sell Narkiss Street . . .”
    â€œWe’re not selling it,” said Gabriel.
    â€œThe San Polo apartment has an incredible room with high ceilings where you can build a proper studio.”
    â€œWhich means I can supplement the starvation wages I’ll make working for you by taking private commissions.”
    â€œExactly.”
    Gabriel’s phone pinged with the tone reserved for urgent messages from King Saul Boulevard.
    Chiara watched uneasily as he read it. “Are we going home?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œA car bombing in the Potsdamer Platz in Berlin.”
    â€œCasualties?”
    â€œProbably. But there’s no confirmation yet.”
    â€œWho did it?”
    â€œThe Islamic State is claiming responsibility.”
    â€œDo they have the capability to carry out a bombing in Western Europe?”
    â€œIf you’d asked me that question yesterday, I would have told you no.”
    Gabriel followed the updates from Berlin until the train pulled into Roma Termini. Outside, the sky was cerulean blue and
     cloudless. They walked through canyons of terra-cotta and sienna, keeping to the side streets and alleyways where watchers
     were easier to spot. While dawdling in the Piazza Navona, they agreed they were not being followed.
    Ristorante Piperno was a short distance to the south, in a quiet campo near the Tiber. Chiara entered first and was shown by a dazzled white-jacketed waiter to a prized table near the window.
     Gabriel, who arrived three minutes later, sat outside in the warm autumnal sunlight. He could see Chiara’s thumbs working
     furiously over the keypad of her phone. He drew his own device from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and typed, Something wrong?
    Chiara’s reply arrived a few seconds later. Your son just broke my mother’s favorite vase.
    I’m sure it was the vase’s fault, not his.
    Your lunch date is here .
    Gabriel watched a worn-out Fiat sedan creeping hesitatingly over the cobbles of the tiny campo . It had ordinary Roman registration, not the special SCV plates reserved for cars from the Vatican. A tall, handsome cleric
     emerged from the backseat. His black cassock and simar were trimmed in amaranth red, the plumage of an archbishop. His arrival
     at Ristorante Piperno provoked only slightly less tumult than Chiara’s.
    â€œForgive me,” said Luigi Donati as he sat down opposite Gabriel. “I never should have agreed to speak to that reporter from Vanity Fair . I can’t go anywhere in Rome these days without being recognized.”
    â€œWhy did you do the interview?”
    â€œShe made it clear she was going to write the article with or without my cooperation.”
    â€œAnd you fell for it?”
    â€œShe promised it would be a serious profile of the man who helped to guide the Church through troubled waters. It didn’t turn
     out as promised.”
    â€œI assume you’re referring to the part about your physical appearance.”
    â€œDon’t tell me you actually read it.”
    â€œEvery word.”
    Donati frowned. “I must say, the Holy Father