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Benedictine Abbey…”
    â€œYes, you asked me to do the necessary. But we didn’t need to take any action, as the unfortunate Father Andrei committed suicide, I think, and we can draw a line under it all.”
    His Eminence hated being interrupted: even if Calfo was trying to get him to forget the fact, he was in charge here. He would soon put him in his place.
    Catzinger was an Austrian. He had been chosen by the Pope, who found that his reputation as an enlightened theologian would be useful. But he rapidly revealed himself to be a formidable conservative, and since this was also, deep down, to the taste of St Peter’s new successor, the honeymoon between the two men turned into an enduring union.
    â€œSuicide is an abominable sin – God have mercy on his soul! But it seems there’s another black sheep in this monastery, where the flock of the faithful really needs to be above reproach. Look at this” – he passed a file over to Calfo – “a denunciation of this person from the Father Abbot. Perhaps it’s of no importance: you be the judge, and we’ll come back to it. There’s no urgency, at least not yet.”
    The Cardinal’s relation to his own past was fraught. His father had been an officer in the Austrian Wehrmacht , the Anschluss division. While he had distanced himself from Nazism to the utmost, he had preserved one of its instincts: his conviction of being the sole possessor of a truth that alone was capable of uniting the world, around a Catholic faith that was non-negotiable.
    â€œThe internal question concerns you directly, Monsignor…”
    Calfo crossed his legs and waited to hear the rest.
    â€œYou know the Roman proverb: una piccola avventura non fa male – a little adventure does no harm… so long as the prelateremembers his position and is, above all, properly discreet. Well, I’ve learnt that a… common whore is threatening to sell her story to the paparazzi in the anti-clerical press, who are promising to pay her a fortune in exchange for her revelations concerning certain… how shall I put it?… certain private conversations you are alleged to have had with her.”
    â€œSpiritual conversations, Your Eminence: we are together making progress along the path of mystical experience.”
    â€œI’m sure you are. But anyway, the sums mentioned are considerable – what do you intend to do?”
    â€œSilence is the first of Christian virtues: Our Lord himself refused to reply to the slanders of the High Priest Caiaphas. So silence has no price – I think that a few hundred dollars…”
    â€œYou must be joking! This time you need to add a zero. I’m inclined to help you out, but make this the last time: the Holy Father will not fail to see the paragraph published in Il Paese . This is a warning to us. It really is deplorable!”
    Emil Catzinger slipped his hand into his crimson cassock and pulled out of the inside pocket a little silver-gilt key. He leant forwards, inserted the key into the bottom drawer of his desk and opened it.
    The drawer contained a score of bulging envelopes. From even the smallest parish of the Catholic empire, a tax is gathered for the Apostolic seat. Catzinger directed one of the three congregations which ensured the collection of this manna, as regular and innocent as the fine drizzle of Brittany.
    He delicately took hold of the first envelope, opened it and rapidly counted the notes with his fingertips. Then he proffered the envelope to Calfo, who half-opened it. He didn’t need to stick his hand in to find out exactly how much it contained: a Neapolitan can count a bundle of banknotes with a glance.
    â€œYour Eminence, I can’t say how touched I am. You can rest assured of my gratitude and devotion!”
    â€œI’m sure I can. The Pope and I appreciate your zeal for the most sacred cause there is – touching as it does the person of