Then the line goes dead.
* * *
PETER WATCHES IN A frantic state as I gather our belongings.
“Babbo, where are we going?”
“To Prozio Lucio.”
I’ve called Lucio’s apartments. Don Diego is on his way. He will escort us back to the penthouse of my uncle’s palace.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, clutching my arm.
“I don’t know. Just help me finish packing.”
Ten long minutes later, the knock comes. Glancing through the peephole, I see Diego standing beside an unfamiliar Swiss Guard. I unbolt the door.
“Father Alex,” Diego says, “this is Captain Furrer.”
“Father, what happened?” Furrer asks.
“Someone left this message under my door.”
He shakes his head. “Impossible. Access to this floor is restricted.”
I show him the envelope, but he disregards it.
“The stairwells are secured,” he says, “and the elevator attendants won’t bring anyone to this floor without a room key.”
So this is what the nun meant yesterday about the precautions the sisters have taken.
“I saw a priest in a cassock getting into the elevator,” I say.
“There must be another explanation,” Furrer says. “We’ll straighten it out downstairs.”
Diego extends his hands, offering to take our bags. Peter, misunderstanding the gesture, runs into his arms for a hug. Over his shoulder, Diego gives me a quizzical look, asking where our gendarme escort is. Down the hall, the Eastern priests continue to stare.
* * *
THE NUN AT THE front desk is wearing a black habit.
“I brought up the envelope,” she says. “What’s the matter?”
“Where did it come from?” I demand.
“It was with the incoming mail.”
But there’s no postage or address on it. Someone dropped it here by hand. I wonder if that was after they tried delivering it themselves.
I notice the lobby is dead. The dining hall has closed early, and a sign says the rear chapel is closed, too. Cordons block the way.
“What’s happening?” I ask the nun at the desk.
“Repairs,” she says.
Another sign announces that the top floor, where Peter and I were staying, can be reached only by the secondary elevator.
“Sister, did you tell anyone where we were staying?” I ask.
The nun looks concerned. “Of course not. We’re under strictest orders. There must be a misunderstanding.”
But I reach into my cassock and fish out our room key. The Casa’s initials are raised on the fob, and engraved beside them, our room number. I wonder if this was my mistake. If someone saw this key. It’s an advertisement of where Peter and I have been staying.
“Will you be checking out, Father?” the nun asks, offering to take back the key.
“No,” I say, slipping it back into my cassock. I doubt we’re coming back, but there’s no need to advertise that, too.
Diego takes our bags and gestures toward the door. “Your sedan is waiting,” he says.