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of the smallest and - thanks to men like you and me - most secure state in the world. And, for our sins, one day he may even be pope. But we'll never be papabili, and possibly never even cardinals. As they say in the Curia, we've got an impressive CV but not much of a pedigree. We do have some power, however, and we know how to fight. That makes us formidable opponents, and for all his fanaticism and arrogance, Iwaszkicwicz knows it. We can't be crushed like the Jesuits and the liberals in the Curia, to the benefit of the Opus Dei, the fundamentalist Mafia, or God on Sinai. Totus tuus is all very well, but they'd better not mess with me. Mastiffs don't go down without a fight."
    The archbishop looked at his watch and called the waiter. He put his hand on Quart's arm to stop him paying the bill and put some banknotes on the table. Eighteen thousand lire exactly, Quart noticed. The Mastiff never left a tip. His childhood had been poor.
    "It's our duty to fight, Father Quart," he said as he stood up. "Because we're right, not Iwaszkiewicz. He and his friends would like to go back to imprisoning and torturing people, but the Church can be strong and retain authority without that. I remember when Luciani was appointed pope - he lasted thirty-three days. That was twenty years ago, before your time, but I was already involved in this kind of work." The archbishop frowned. "When he made that speech just after his investiture, about 'the Almighty being more of a mother than a father', Iwaszkicwicz and his hard-liners were climbing the walls. And I thought to myself, 'This isn't going to work.' Luciani was too soft. I suppose the Holy Spirit got rid of him before he could cause too much trouble. The press called him the smiling pope, but everyone in the Vatican knew his was a strange smile." He grinned mischievously, baring his teeth. "A nervous smile."
    The sun had come out and was drying the paving stones of the Piazza di Spagna. Flower sellers were removing tarpaulins from their stalls, and tourists were coming to sit on the still-damp steps leading to Trinita dei Monti. Quart walked up the steps with the archbishop. He was dazzled by the light - an intense Roman light, like a good omen. Halfway up, a tourist - a young woman with a rucksack on her back, in jeans and a striped T-shirt - was sitting on one of the steps. She took a photo of Quart as the two priests came level with her. A flash and a smile. Spada half-turned, irritated but also amused. "Do you know, Father Quart? You're too good-looking to be a priest. It would be crazy to appoint you to a convent." "I'm sorry, Monsignor."
    "Don't be sorry, it's not your fault. But how do you manage? To keep temptation at bay, I mean. You know, woman as the Devil's creation and all that."
    Quart laughed. "Prayer and cold showers, Your Grace."
    "You always follow the rules, don't you? Aren't you bored with being so good?"
    "That's a trick question, Monsignor."
    Spada looked at him out of the corner of his eye and nodded approvingly. "All right. You win. Your virtue passes the test. But I haven't lost hope. One day I'll catch you out."
    "Of course, Monsignor. For my countless sins."
    "Shut up. That's an order."
    "Very good, Your Reverence."
    When they reached the obelisk of Pius VI, the archbishop looked back at the girl in the striped T-shirt. "Regarding your eternal salvation," he said, "remember the old proverb: 'If a priest can keep his hands off money and his legs out of a woman's bed until he's fifty, he has every chance of saving his soul.'"
    "That's what I'm striving for, Monsignor. I have twelve years to go."
    They passed the impressive facade of the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel and then turned down the Via Sistina. The only sign on the tailor's door was a discreet plate. None but elite members of the Curia passed through that door. With the exception of the popes. They alone enjoyed the privilege of having Cavalleggeri and Sons - granted a minor title of nobility by Pope Leo XIII -