The Order by Daniel Silva Page A

soon be uninhabitable.”
    â€œAt least it will discourage the tourists.”
    Gabriel switched on the radio in time to catch the hourly newscast on SFR 1. The death toll in Hamburg stood at four, with
     another twenty-five wounded, several critically. There was no mention of a Swiss citizen having been murdered the previous
     evening on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.
    â€œWhat are the Polizia di Stato waiting for?” asked Donati.
    â€œIf I had to guess, they’re giving the Vatican a chance to get its story straight.”
    â€œGood luck with that.”
    The last item on the newscast concerned a report by the Episcopal Conference of Switzerland detailing a sharp increase in
     the number of new sexual abuse cases.
    Donati sighed. “I wish they would talk about something uplifting. The bombing in Hamburg, for example.”
    â€œDid you know the report was coming?”
    Donati nodded. “The Holy Father and I reviewed the first draft a few weeks before his death.”
    â€œHow is it possible there are still new cases of abuse?”
    â€œBecause we apologized and asked for forgiveness, but we never addressed the root causes of the problem. And the Church has
     deservedly paid a terrible price. Here in Switzerland, Roman Catholicism is on life support. Baptisms, church weddings, and
     Mass attendance have all fallen to extinction levels.”
    â€œAnd if you had it to do over again?”
    â€œDespite what my enemies used to say about me, I was not the pope. Pietro Lucchesi was. And he was an innately cautious man.”
     Donati paused. “Too cautious, in my opinion.”
    â€œAnd if you were the one with the Ring of the Fisherman on his finger?”
    Donati laughed.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œThe very idea is preposterous.”
    â€œHumor me.”
    Donati considered his answer carefully. “I’d start by reforming the priesthood. It’s not enough merely to weed out the pedophiles.
     We must create a new and dynamic global community of Catholic religious if the Church is to survive and flourish.”
    â€œDoes that mean you would admit women into the priesthood?”
    â€œYou said it, not me.”
    â€œHow about married priests?”
    â€œNow we’re sailing into treacherous waters, my friend.”
    â€œOther faiths allow their clergy to marry.”
    â€œAnd I respect those faiths. The question is, can I as a RomanCatholic priest love and cherish a wife and children while at the same time serving the Lord and tending to the spiritual needs of my flock?”
    â€œWhat’s the answer?”
    â€œNo,” said Donati. “I cannot.”
    A sign warned they were approaching the lakeside resort town of Vevey. Gabriel turned onto the E27 and followed it north to
     Fribourg. It was a bilingual city, but the streets bore French names. The rue du Pont-Muré stretched for about a hundred meters
     through the elegant Old Town, above which soared the spire of the cathedral. Gabriel parked the car in the Place des Ormeaux
     and took a table at Café des Arcades. Alone, Donati crossed the street to Café du Gothard.
    It was a formal, old-fashioned restaurant, with a dark wooden floor and heavy iron fixtures overhead. At that hour, the twilight
     between lunch and dinner, only one other table was occupied, by an English couple who looked as though they had just declared
     a fragile truce after a long and calamitous battle. The maître d’ showed Donati to a table near the window. He dialed Gabriel’s
     number and then laid his Nokia facedown on the tabletop. Several minutes elapsed before Stefani Hoffmann appeared. She placed
     a menu before him and with considerable effort smiled.
    â€œSomething to drink?”

16
Café du Gothard, Fribourg
    She tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and peered at Donati over the top of an order pad. Her eyes were the color of an Alpine lake
     in summer. The rest of