ignorance, an ignorantia affectata. A willful lack of
knowledge designed to protect one from the harm. It is time to shed
our ignorantia affectata. Our Savior said that he was the light of the
world, but here in the Vatican, we live in darkness. I intend to turn
on the lights."
"My memory seems to be playing tricks on me, Holiness, but it
is my recollection of the conclave that we elected a Catholic Pope." "You did, Eminence, but you also elected a human one." "If it were not for me, you would still be wearing red." "It is the Holy Spirit who chooses popes. We just cast his ballots." "Another example of your shocking naivety." "Will you be at my side next week in Trastevere?" "I believe I'm going to be suffering from the flu next week."
The cardinal stood up abruptly. "Thank you, Holiness. Another
pleasant meal."
"Until next Friday?"
"That remains to be seen."
The Pope held out his hand. Cardinal Brindisi looked down at
the fisherman's ring shining in the lamplight, then turned around
and walked out without kissing it.
Father Donati listened to the quarrel between the Holy Father and the cardinal from the adjoining pantry. When Brindisi had gone, he entered the dining room and found the Pope looking tired and drawn, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger squeezing the bridge of his nose. Father Donati sat in the cardinal's chair and pushed away the half-drunk cup of espresso.
"I know that must have been unpleasant, Holiness, but it was necessary."
The Pope finally looked up. "We have just disturbed a sleeping cobra, Luigi."
"Yes, Holiness." Donati leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now let us pray that in its rage, the cobra makes a miscalculation and bites itself."
MUNICH
Gabriel spent the better part of the following morning trying to track down Doctor Helmut Berger, chairman of the department of modern history at Ludwig-Maximilian University. He left two messages on the professor's home answering machine, a second on his cellular phone, and a third with a surly secretary in the department. Over lunch in the shadowed courtyard of the hotel, he considered waiting in ambush outside the professor's office. Then the concierge appeared with a message slip in his hand. The good professor had agreed to meet with Herr Landau at six-thirty at a restaurant called the Gastatte Atzinger on the Amalienstrasse.
That left five hours to kill. The afternoon was clear and blustery, so Gabriel decided to take a walk. Leaving the hotel, he wandered up a narrow cobblestone street that led to the southern end of the English Gardens. He moved slowly along the footpaths, beside shaded
streams, across broad sunlit lawns. In the distance the thousand-foot spire of the Olympia Tower sparkled against the crystalline blue sky. Gabriel lowered his gaze and kept walking.
Leaving the park, he drifted through Schwabing. In the Adalbertstrasse he saw Frau Ratzinger sweeping the steps of No. 68. He had no wish to speak to the old woman again, so he rounded a corner and headed in the opposite direction. Every few minutes he would look up and glimpse the tower, looming before him, growing larger by degrees.
Ten minutes later, he found himself at the southern edge of the village. In many ways Olympiapark was just that: a village, a vast residential area, complete with its own railway station, its own post office, even its own mayor. The cement-block bungalows and apartment houses had not aged gracefully. In an attempt to brighten up the place, many of the units had been painted in bright tie-dye patterns.
He came upon the Connollystrasse. It was not a street, really, but a pedestrian walkway lined with small three-story apartment houses. At No. 31 he stopped walking. On the second floor, a bare-chested teenager stepped onto the balcony to shake out a throw rug. Gabriel's memory flashed. Instead of a young German, he saw a Palestinian in a balaclava. Then a woman emerged from the ground-floor apartment, pushing a stroller and clutching a
knowledge designed to protect one from the harm. It is time to shed
our ignorantia affectata. Our Savior said that he was the light of the
world, but here in the Vatican, we live in darkness. I intend to turn
on the lights."
"My memory seems to be playing tricks on me, Holiness, but it
is my recollection of the conclave that we elected a Catholic Pope." "You did, Eminence, but you also elected a human one." "If it were not for me, you would still be wearing red." "It is the Holy Spirit who chooses popes. We just cast his ballots." "Another example of your shocking naivety." "Will you be at my side next week in Trastevere?" "I believe I'm going to be suffering from the flu next week."
The cardinal stood up abruptly. "Thank you, Holiness. Another
pleasant meal."
"Until next Friday?"
"That remains to be seen."
The Pope held out his hand. Cardinal Brindisi looked down at
the fisherman's ring shining in the lamplight, then turned around
and walked out without kissing it.
Father Donati listened to the quarrel between the Holy Father and the cardinal from the adjoining pantry. When Brindisi had gone, he entered the dining room and found the Pope looking tired and drawn, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger squeezing the bridge of his nose. Father Donati sat in the cardinal's chair and pushed away the half-drunk cup of espresso.
"I know that must have been unpleasant, Holiness, but it was necessary."
The Pope finally looked up. "We have just disturbed a sleeping cobra, Luigi."
"Yes, Holiness." Donati leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now let us pray that in its rage, the cobra makes a miscalculation and bites itself."
MUNICH
Gabriel spent the better part of the following morning trying to track down Doctor Helmut Berger, chairman of the department of modern history at Ludwig-Maximilian University. He left two messages on the professor's home answering machine, a second on his cellular phone, and a third with a surly secretary in the department. Over lunch in the shadowed courtyard of the hotel, he considered waiting in ambush outside the professor's office. Then the concierge appeared with a message slip in his hand. The good professor had agreed to meet with Herr Landau at six-thirty at a restaurant called the Gastatte Atzinger on the Amalienstrasse.
That left five hours to kill. The afternoon was clear and blustery, so Gabriel decided to take a walk. Leaving the hotel, he wandered up a narrow cobblestone street that led to the southern end of the English Gardens. He moved slowly along the footpaths, beside shaded
streams, across broad sunlit lawns. In the distance the thousand-foot spire of the Olympia Tower sparkled against the crystalline blue sky. Gabriel lowered his gaze and kept walking.
Leaving the park, he drifted through Schwabing. In the Adalbertstrasse he saw Frau Ratzinger sweeping the steps of No. 68. He had no wish to speak to the old woman again, so he rounded a corner and headed in the opposite direction. Every few minutes he would look up and glimpse the tower, looming before him, growing larger by degrees.
Ten minutes later, he found himself at the southern edge of the village. In many ways Olympiapark was just that: a village, a vast residential area, complete with its own railway station, its own post office, even its own mayor. The cement-block bungalows and apartment houses had not aged gracefully. In an attempt to brighten up the place, many of the units had been painted in bright tie-dye patterns.
He came upon the Connollystrasse. It was not a street, really, but a pedestrian walkway lined with small three-story apartment houses. At No. 31 he stopped walking. On the second floor, a bare-chested teenager stepped onto the balcony to shake out a throw rug. Gabriel's memory flashed. Instead of a young German, he saw a Palestinian in a balaclava. Then a woman emerged from the ground-floor apartment, pushing a stroller and clutching a
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