promised, it had been freshly pressed and discreetly hung on her door in a plastic garment bag by noon.
She snapped her black clutch shut, then decided there wasn’t much need for it. After all, her passport was with the Swiss Guard, and everything else—money, keys, credit cards—was all left behind in Phoenix. And Donovan had said that Father Martin was hosting them inside the city.
“Keep it together,” she told herself. That’s what her father would surely tell her in a situation like this. Being alone, even for this short time, hadn’t settled her one bit. She just kept seeing Evan with a bullet in his head, over and over again. The thought of having company comforted her, got her mind moving in a different direction.
She went and opened the door. Deja vu came over her when she laid eyes upon Donovan standing in the hall wearing a black suit and priest collar. It seemed he was feeling it too.
“Bringing back some memories?” he said with a smile, breaking the ice.
“You could say that.” She pocketed her key card and pulled the door shut. In the unflattering fluorescent-lit hall, Donovan looked especially fatigued. No doubt his harrowing experience in Belfast and the marathon transatlantic flights had taken a lot out of him. Yet still the man managed to keep smiling. And she could tell that it was more for her benefit than his.
“So let’s see what the Vatican is serving up, shall we?” he said.
32
******
Since the Holy Father was still enjoying a five-day retreat at Castel Gandolfo, Father Martin had managed to reserve the sumptuous dining room that typically hosted international dignitaries and diplomats. Being the personal assistant of the secretary of state did, after all, come with many privileges.
“
“This is quite impressive, James,” Donovan said. He’d never actually been inside this room. The man was full of surprises.
Charlotte thought “impressive” was an understatement. The Apostolic Palace’s main entryway was over twenty-four feet high, flanked by Bernini’s mammoth doors sheathed in bronze, which had been taken from ancient Roman temples. The Clementine Hall—the main reception foyer—was cavernous, covered in marble and trimmed with friezes. Three frescoes paid tribute to St. Clement’s baptism, martyrdom, and apotheosis; a fourth honored the arts and sciences. Swiss Guards in full regalia were posted throughout.
“When I informed His Eminence that the legendary Father Patrick Donovan was making a return with a world-renowned guest . . .” He spread his hands. “How could he refuse?”
“I’m not exactly the prodigal son,” Donovan reminded him in a whisper. He was trying to keep things lighthearted, but he couldn’t help but look back at the two armed Swiss Guards standing at attention beside the door. “So the honor is all yours, Charlotte,” he said to his companion.
“If you put it that way ...I’m flattered,” she said.
“Come, let us sit,” Martin said, his right hand sweeping an arc to the far end of the room, where a cozy cluster of chairs faced the tall windows overlooking Piazza San Pietro and St. Peter’s Basilica.
The dining hall pulled Charlotte’s eyes in all different directions as she walked the ornate parquet floors around the grand Louis XIV dining table set beneath a magnificent chandelier.
There were more frescoes painted by the hands of masters—Cherubino Alberti and Baldassare Croce among them, Martin subtly boasted. Furthermore, he was quick to point out that the magnificent tapestry dominating the north wall was an original Raphael that had been among those used to cover the walls of the Sistine Chapel during the 2005 conclave.
Martin smiled when Charlotte picked a wingback chair, making her think she’d violated etiquette. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” Martin said, holding up a hand. “It’s just that your country’s president sat in that same chair during his visit with us last month.”
Charlotte instinctively raised her arms off the elegant fabric as if it were on fire. “Seriously?”
“Oh yes. But if you don’t mind me saying so, it suits
She laughed genuinely, knowing that his preference referred to something other than appearances.
“I was thinking we could have a drink before we eat,” Martin said.
“Sounds great,” Charlotte replied.
Two glasses of Italian red wine and an Irish whiskey on the rocks were delivered by a nun wearing a white habit that covered all but her face and hands. Martin gave a toast, then settled into his chair. “It’s good to have you back, Patrick,” he said. “You’ve been missed.”
“I’m sure the archives have functioned just fine without me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. As luck would have it, the prefect’s position is still vacant.” He gave Donovan a look of anticipation.
Donovan’s noncommittal smile hinted that nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.
For the next fifteen minutes, they spoke of happenings inside the Vatican, both pleasant and distressing. Martin was good at pulling Charlotte into the conversation, but every so often, she was content to sip her Chianti and gaze out at Bernini’s colonnades and Michelangelo’s dome.
Soon thereafter, Martin sensed that Donovan was ready to segue into an explanation for his surprise return. So he allowed a gap of silence to encourage him.
Not knowing quite how to begin, Donovan explained, “Lest I state the obvious . . . our visit doesn’t concern my return to Vatican City.”
“I had a feeling that was the case,” Martin replied.
“And I’m sure you’re wondering why Dr. Hennesey has accompanied me here.”
The priest’s lips puckered. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about that too,” he confessed, watching Donovan’s expression turn conflicted, contemplative. “Tell me. What’s troubling you?”
Some clarification of the events preceding his July departure was required. “I’m sure you recall the secrecy of
