Excerpt:

Chapter 1

The great bell of St. Peter's struck five times. The wind carried its sound far beyond the borders of the Vatican. There were only a few tourists in the spacious Piazza San Pietro. It was still almost five weeks until Easter, when the first big rush of the year to Rome usually took place. However, the two large, fourteen-meter-high fountains in St. Peter's Square had already been awakened from their winter slumber by the Vatican's craftsmen, and water splashed incessantly into the huge granite bowls. Like two large hands that seemed to embrace the center of Catholic Christianity, the elliptical, four-row colonnades framed St. Peter's Square. 

Vincenzo Riva, known as Enzo, sat in his small workshop, only vaguely aware of the deep sound of St. Peter's bell. He was used to hearing it ring regularly. He was born and raised in the Borgo, the old Roman district that borders the Vatican and stretches to Castel Sant'Angelo, the Angel Castle. Even as a little boy, he had spent a lot of time in the workshop, watching his father work with interest when he wasn't playing soccer in the street with his younger brother Alfredo and his friends from the neighborhood. It was only natural that Enzo learned his father's trade and also became a cabinetmaker. In addition, he discovered his artistic streak at a very early age and had been trying his hand at sculpture and painting since his youth. After completing his training, he ran the workshop together with his father for several years until his father had to give up his profession due to illness. Since then, he had been running the workshop in the Borgo on his own. 

Over five hundred years ago, numerous craftsmen who were part of the San Pietro cathedral workshop settled in the Borgo. After the completion of Basilica di San Pietro, they remained there, and for generations the small craft businesses lived with and, in many cases, from the Vatican, and were usually passed down from father to son. Many old craft techniques used by cabinetmakers and restorers, who were repeatedly called upon by the Vatican, have thus been preserved in part to the present day. In addition to these small businesses, the narrow streets and alleys of the Borgo are now home to numerous bars, cafés, restaurants, and shops that take advantage of their proximity to the Vatican and benefit from the millions of pilgrims and tourists who visit the Vatican every year to see the Pope. During the more than twenty-six-year pontificate of John Paul II, the flow of pilgrims to Rome had already increased enormously, and since the election of Benedict XVI just under two years ago, the number of pilgrims had risen significantly once again. 

According to many old travelogues, it must have been an impressive experience in the past to suddenly emerge from the narrow streets of the Borgo into the bright, wide St. Peter's Square with the mighty St. Peter's Basilica. Today, most tourists reach the Vatican via the fifty-meter-wide Via della Conciliazione, which connects Castel Sant'Angelo on the banks of the Tiber with St. Peter's Square. This magnificent boulevard was only built in 1929, after the signing of the Lateran Treaty. These treaties between the Holy See and the Kingdom of Italy, represented by the fascist Prime Minister Benito Mussolini, finally clarified the status of the Vatican, the so-called Roman Question. In the course of the Risorgimento, the Italian unification movement, Rome was occupied in 1870 and the Papal States were effectively dissolved. The popes saw themselves as prisoners in the Vatican and therefore no longer left it. It was not until 1929 that an agreement was reached between Pope Pius XI and Italy, thus establishing the Vatican City State. At Mussolini's instigation, the Via della Conciliazione, the Street of Reconciliation, was then created by rigorously razing an entire row of houses to the ground. At least the Chiesa Santa Maria in Traspontina and the Palazzo Torlonia, which was already over four hundred years old at the time, were integrated into the rows of houses on the left and right of the new street. Nevertheless, the street cut a swath through the Borgo, and many of the old Borghegiani who had lived through the period before 1929 still regret this today. 

Enzo Riva was putting the finishing touches to the restoration of an old, solid wooden table. He had promised his customer that he could pick up the restored table in the evening. At half past seven, the owner of the table, for whom he had already restored several pieces of furniture, was standing in his workshop. Riva, who had just finished his work in time, helped him carry the heavy table to his car and lift it onto the trailer. The car was parked two blocks away because Riva's workshop was located in one of the narrow alleys of the Borgo, which are closed to traffic. Only occasionally did a Vespa rattle through the narrow streets. With the wages for the last few days' work in his pocket, Riva returned to his workshop, sorted his tools, and put them away. Then he swept the floor, which was littered with a few bent nails and quite a few wood shavings. It was still a little early for dinner by Italian standards, but after tidying up his workshop, he immediately set off for his favorite trattoria, as he had something to do that evening. The small trattoria was only a few blocks away from his workshop. Giorgio, the owner of Da Vecchio Zio, was a school friend of Enzo Riva. Giorgio had learned to cook at his great-uncle's trattoria while still at school, had been busy in the kitchen ever since graduating, and had inherited the trattoria after his uncle's death, as his uncle had no children of his own. Giorgio greeted his regular customer warmly when he entered the trattoria.

"Salve Enzo."

"Ciao Giorgio, what can you recommend today?"

"For my first course today, I'd have fettuccine alla romana or penne all'arrabiata, and for my second course, you could have saltimbocca alla romana or coda alla vaccinara."

"Then I'll have the fettuccine and the coda."

The pasta with the sauce made from chicken liver, ham, dried porcini mushrooms, and tomatoes was just as delicious as the oxtail ragout. After the meal and the indispensable espresso, Riva strolled back to his workshop. By now it had become completely dark and a cool wind was blowing fiercely through the narrow streets. It was already early March, but spring seemed to be taking an unusually long time to arrive this year. Riva hadn't put on a jacket, so he was glad when he reached his workshop and could close the door behind him. He turned the key and checked that the door was really locked. To the left and right of the glass door were two large windows that reached down to the floor, so it was very bright at his workplace during the day. Now Riva drew the long brown curtain across the door and windows so that no one outside could see what was going on in the workshop. He turned on the large bright ceiling light and set up his easel. From a small side room that served as his storage space, he fetched a large painting, lifted it onto the easel, took a step back, and looked at his work. It was almost finished; he would be able to complete it that night. 

Riva had first attempted to copy an old painting at the age of sixteen. After many attempts with different pictures, he had perfected his brushwork to such an extent that the copies looked deceptively real. Even an expert from the Roman Academy of Art, who once examined one of his paintings, could not tell at first glance whether it was the original or a forgery. In the years that followed, he repeatedly made copies of the works of great masters and initially sold them at art and flea markets for modest prices. Later, he almost exclusively produced commissioned works and, as his customers' requests became more demanding, he was able to charge correspondingly higher prices. However, it would never have occurred to him to pass off his copies as originals. 

Then, two years ago, he received a mysterious letter. A potential customer, who wished to remain anonymous for the time being, had made him a tempting offer. He was to create a copy of a painting that hung in a small church in the Trastevere district of Rome. However, the anonymous letter writer was not interested in a copy of San Francesco d'Assisi, he wanted the original. Once Riva had finished the painting of the saint, he was to exchange the forgery for the original in the church. The price offered was about ten times what he usually received for his paintings. After two days of deliberation, Riva still hadn't decided whether to accept the offer, so he wanted to consult with his younger brother. Alfredo was immediately enthusiastic and offered to take on the risky task of swapping the two paintings in the church. Alfredo's enthusiasm ultimately convinced Enzo to get involved in this shady business. They agreed that Alfredo would receive half of the fee for his dangerous task.

As he had announced in his letter, the anonymous client called Enzo after a week. He still did not reveal his name on the phone; he just wanted to know if Enzo could complete his assignment within the next six weeks. When Enzo confirmed that he could, the caller simply said that he would be in touch again in due course to arrange the handover of the painting and the money. He hung up without waiting for a further response. The next day, Enzo closed his workshop in the afternoon, got on his Vespa, and rode the short distance to Trastevere. Before he began copying a painting, he had to examine the original closely himself. He also photographed it from different angles and in great detail so that the copy would look as true to the original as possible. This was more important than ever with his latest commission, because after the paintings had been exchanged, no one should notice that the original San Francesco was no longer hanging in the church. In his usual skillful manner, he had copied it in the following four weeks. Meanwhile, Alfredo had visited the small church in Trastevere again and again to explore the premises in detail. He didn't want to take any risks when swapping the paintings and leave anything to chance. 

Alfredo Riva was twenty-seven years old. Unlike his brother Enzo, who was two years older and with whom he usually got on very well, he had shown little interest in his father's work from an early age. After graduating from school, he had started an apprenticeship in one of the small bakeries in the Borgo. He didn't mind getting up early in the middle of the night and enjoyed his work. That's why, after completing his apprenticeship, he gladly accepted his boss's offer and remained employed at the bakery. However, since it was impossible to earn a fortune as a baker, a little extra income now and then came in very handy. 

After careful consideration and weighing up various options, Alfredo came to the conclusion that the easiest thing to do was to have himself locked in the church unnoticed at noon and swap the pictures between then and 4 p.m., when the sacristan would unlock the church again. The church was not equipped with an alarm system, and the only person in charge was the old sacristan, who locked and unlocked the church and took care of minor repairs and flower arrangements during opening hours. During the day, swapping the paintings would have been too risky because older Roman women in particular would often come to the church to light a candle in front of the statue of Mary or St. Anthony and kneel down in one of the pews for a short prayer. 

The ideal place to hide was the confessional, where Alfredo had sat down shortly before noon, when the church was empty and the sacristan was busy cutting flowers for the altar in the garden next to the church. The four hours he was locked in were easily enough time to remove the original painting from its frame, replace it with the copy, and stow the valuable painting, well packed, in his backpack. He then slipped out of the church unnoticed and drove to his brother's house with the painting. Over the next few days, he and Enzo waited impatiently for the anonymous client to get back in touch. Exactly six weeks after his first call, he did indeed call Enzo again, and after hearing that his painting was ready for collection, he announced that he would come by the following evening. 

Half an hour before the agreed time for the handover of the painting, Alfredo had arrived at Enzo's workshop, locked the door, and drawn the curtains. They had both been very nervous because they didn't know exactly what to expect. However, their nervousness had been completely unfounded. The mysterious client arrived right on time, took delivery of the original San Francesco, examined it, and finally handed Enzo an envelope containing the agreed-upon sum.

"You will hear from me again when the time comes," said the very distinguished signore, dressed in an expensive black suit, as he took his leave.

The whole thing had taken only a few minutes. Over the next year and a half, Enzo had received two more similar commissions. He had copied the paintings, and Alfredo had taken care of the exchange, just as he had the first time. Their client had paid the agreed sum in cash each time, and Enzo and Alfredo had shared it literally like brothers. 

Now Enzo stood in front of the almost completed fourth painting, which had been commissioned by the Signore, who always wore a black suit. However, this work differed considerably from the previous three. The painting Tre beati teatini, the original of which hung in the Basilica Sant'Andrea della Valle and depicted three monks of the Theatine Order, was much larger than the previous three paintings. That is why Enzo had insisted on a working time of three months from the outset. In addition, after examining the original in the church together with Alfredo, he had demanded a risk surcharge of twenty-five percent on the offered sum. Due to the size of the painting, it was not possible to simply pack the original into a backpack and carry it out of the church. This time, Alfredo would have to incapacitate the sacristan or another supervisor in order to transport the painting. 

"See you in three months, then," their client said curtly on the phone, as usual, leaving the risk premium demand uncommented. Nevertheless, Enzo had set to work, had to use almost the entire three months, and was now nearing completion of the Tre beati teatini. 

Chapter 2

Chiara Hartinger was standing in the kitchen preparing dinner when her husband came home.

"Hello, my dear."

"Ciao Max, dinner will be ready in a minute."

She slid the spaghetti into the boiling water and continued stirring the ham and cream sauce simmering in a pan with her other hand.

"I'm starving!"

"When aren't you?" Chiara laughed and pinched him on the hint of a love handle that was visible under his shirt.

Max hugged his wife and kissed her.

"Where are the girls?"

"Martina is still riding and Elena went to the movies with a school friend. How was your day?"

"Relatively uneventful. We still haven't made any progress with the dead woman from the highway rest stop. Unfortunately, the DNA trace we found on the body from the potential perpetrator doesn't match any of the DNA samples already stored in our archives. And the witness statements are all so vague that they haven't yielded any hot leads yet. Besides, Wiggerl was useless today anyway. He hardly slept a wink last night because the little one started screaming practically every half hour. Gabi took him to the pediatrician this morning, but it seems to be just a harmless cold." 

Max Hartinger had been working for the Rosenheim Criminal Investigation Department for over two decades, and for more than eight years he had been sharing an office and work with his colleague Ludwig Maler, known as Wiggerl. Forty-two-year-old Wiggerl was three years younger than his friend and colleague, but while Hartinger's daughters were already sixteen and fourteen, Maler had only become the proud father of a little boy three and a half months earlier. Although little Sebastian usually only woke up at night when he wanted to be fed, there were still nights when he hardly let his parents sleep. 

"I booked our flight to Rome today, Max."

"Which flight did you choose? Friday or Saturday?"

"Friday, late afternoon. If we leave as soon as the girls get home from school, we should make it without any problems. The highway heading south will definitely be congested again at the start of the Easter holidays, but it shouldn't be too busy in the opposite direction. We also need to start thinking about what to get Dad for his birthday."

"There are still four weeks to go."

"Still, I don't want to wait until the last minute, and besides, I don't have any ideas yet. I'll call Francesco today, maybe he or Giulia have already thought of something." 

Chiara's father, Aldo Bianchi, was an internist in Rome. His birthday in early April often fell during the Easter holidays, as it did this year, which is why Chiara wanted to take this opportunity to spend a few days at home with her parents in her hometown of Rome. In addition, her father was about to celebrate his 70th birthday, an occasion that neither his children nor his only two grandchildren should miss. It had been almost eighteen years since Chiara had left Rome to marry Max, whom she had met just under two years earlier during a trip to Munich at the Oktoberfest. Her brother Francesco, who was a year older, had fallen in love with Giulia, who was born on the island, during a vacation on the island of Ischia that same year. He had married her just eleven months later and now worked there as a Carabiniere. Even when Chiara and Francesco were still small children, the Bianchi family had regularly spent their vacations on the volcanic island in the Gulf of Naples, and even after her marriage to Max, Chiara had often traveled to Ischia with him and their children. The previous year, during their summer vacation on Ischia, her husband and brother had even managed to solve the murders of a German hotel guest and the German-born son of an Ischian migrant worker. 

After dinner, during which Max and Chiara debated what gifts to take with them to Rome, they loaded the dishes into the dishwasher together. Max then poured himself a wheat beer and sat down in front of the TV in the living room. He had been looking forward to an exciting evening of soccer all day. As a die-hard fan, he couldn't miss the Champions League match between his team, FC Bayern, and Real Madrid. The pre-match reports from the Munich Arena were already on when Max turned on the TV and made himself comfortable in his recliner. Chiara stayed in the kitchen and dialed her brother's phone number.

"Pronto."

"Ciao Giulia, it's me, Chiara."

"Chiara!" her sister-in-law exclaimed happily. "It's great to hear from you. How are you all doing?"

"Everything's fine with us. How are you in Ischia?"

"Everything's fine here too. Francesco is out tonight, I don't know if he's working on a big case or something."

"Max got home early today. Coincidentally, there's soccer on TV tonight."

"Yes, our men are always on time for that. AS Roma played last night, so Francesco didn't come home late, of course. He was over at my dad's, but I could hear them shouting from here, so even without watching the game, I knew that Roma had scored two goals."

"That's how I always feel when I'm not sitting in Max's living room while he's watching soccer. I usually join him at the beginning, but when it gets really exciting, I prefer to go to the kitchen because it upsets me too much, and Max is always on edge anyway."

"It's the same with Francesco, of course."

"Giulia, I'm calling because I wanted to ask if you've already thought about what you want to give our dad for his birthday? We don't have any real ideas yet, maybe we could organize something together."

"Francesco and I talked about it last weekend, but we haven't come up with anything useful yet. Have you talked to your mom about it?"

"Not yet, but I'll definitely call her about it. Maybe she knows something he would like."

The two sisters-in-law chatted for a while longer. Giulia talked about the preparations for the new holiday season at the hotel where she had been working for many years. Chiara told her that Martina, her older daughter, had been coming home very late after her riding lessons a lot lately.

"She hasn't come home yet today, even though she should have been back long ago. I suspect one of the young guys who works at the stable is behind it."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"Yes, but she gave me a very evasive answer."

"Give her time. If it's really something serious, she'll tell you soon enough."

"Sure. But I think she doesn't want to rush into anything. Ever since she fell head over heels in love with our bagnino in Ischia last summer and he moved on to the next girl after a few days just because Martina didn't want to sleep with him right away, she's become a bit more cautious and reserved in that regard."

"It certainly doesn't hurt if men don't always get what they want right away."

Both of them laughed out loud at Giulia's remark. They gossiped a little more about the peculiarities of their own husbands, then said goodbye and hung up.

Chiara got a bottle of mineral water from the pantry, took a glass from the kitchen cupboard, and was about to sit down with her husband in the living room. She looked at the clock; it was exactly a quarter to nine. The game Max had been eagerly awaiting all day was about to start any minute. Chiara had just her hand on the living room door handle when her husband yelled:

"Goal!"

Max was standing in front of the TV with his fist clenched and raised in the air when Chiara hastily opened the door.

"1-0 after ten seconds," he cheered, throwing his arms around his wife and hugging her so tightly that she almost dropped the water bottle and glass she was holding.

"The fastest goal in Champions League history," Max triumphantly repeated the TV reporter's comment.

"Don't get too excited, the game still has ninety minutes to go, so much can happen."

Chiara was right, and Max had to sweat it out until the last second of the game to see if Bayern would advance. After the 3-2 defeat in Madrid, a Bayern victory was essential in the return leg. When the score was 2-0 in the middle of the second half, it looked like a comfortable qualification for the quarterfinals, but when Madrid scored 2-1 seven minutes before the end with a dubious penalty, it became exciting again, as any further goals would have meant elimination. Chiara had retreated to the kitchen shortly after the goal because she couldn't bear to watch the exciting game and her nervous husband any longer. Only when she heard Max shout "Victory!" loud and clear did she return to the living room.

"I think I need another beer now," sighed Max, who had been pacing nervously in front of the TV during the last minutes of the game.

"Maybe a few drops of valerian would be better to calm you down," Chiara suggested somewhat mockingly. 

Martina and Elena had come home at almost the same time during the second half and had both just poked their heads in the living room door to let their parents know they were back. Elena then helped herself to the food in the refrigerator, while Martina immediately jumped in the shower to get rid of the horse stable smell she always brought home with her after riding. After that, she had to finish the last part of her math homework, which she hadn't been able to complete before riding. Elena, on the other hand, had only disappeared into the bathroom shortly after Martina had vacated it, poked her head in the living room door again to say "good night," and gone to bed.

"Dad, you look really happy and content," Martina remarked when she joined her parents in the living room after finishing her homework.

"He already is now," Chiara agreed with her daughter. "But don't ask how he was running around excitedly just fifteen minutes ago. By the way, Aunt Giulia sends her regards; she's looking forward to seeing us all again soon in Rome."

"Have they already bought a present for Grandpa?" Max wanted to know, because Chiara hadn't told him what she had discussed with Giulia during the game.

Now she told Max and Martina about her phone call with her sister-in-law, naturally leaving out the mutual gossip about their soccer-crazy husbands. Max had already turned off the TV, annoyed that the game was followed by long commercial breaks after each short interview. After Chiara had briefly recounted the news from Ischia, all three of them went to bed. While Martina and Chiara fell asleep quickly, it took Max a while longer to calm down after the exciting soccer evening. He could tell from Chiara's steady breathing that she was already fast asleep. Finally, he too drifted off to sleep. 

Chapter 3

Alfredo Riva had had a restless night. He had tossed and turned in bed for hours, and in the brief moments when he did fall asleep, he was plagued by a recurring dream. He found himself in a large, dark church. Only a little light filtered through the tall, colorful windows, and a single candle burned on the altar. In the glow of the small flame, incense could be seen spreading like a veil of mist in the presbytery. Johann Sebastian Bach's Toccata in D minor played on the organ, reinforcing the gloomy atmosphere. Alfredo ran down the center aisle toward the back, straight toward the main portal. But the faster he ran and the harder he tried to reach the exit, the further the large wooden door seemed to move away from him. He also had the feeling that he was being followed; again and again he noticed a large, dark shadow, without being able to see who was behind him. Gradually, he seemed to be caught up, because suddenly he heard footsteps behind him, coming closer and closer. Finally, he woke up drenched in sweat, rolled around in his sheets, and then experienced a similar nightmare in the next short sleep sequence. 

It was only as dawn was breaking that Alfredo was able to sleep a little longer without having to flee the large church once again. The spring sun was already shining through the window when he got up, feeling pretty exhausted from the restless night, and immediately jumped in the shower. The cold, refreshing water revived him, and he immediately felt much better. The hot, strong coffee he made in his small kitchen also had an effect, and now he felt fit for the new day and the adventure that awaited him in the coming hours. He had taken a day off from his bakery, otherwise he would have been up since half past four in the morning. After several weeks of preparation, the time had finally come for the most daring exchange of a painting with the copy made by his brother. The over two-hundred-year-old original of the Tre beati teatini was to leave its ancestral home in the Basilica Sant'Andrea della Valle and disappear into the private chambers of a wealthy Roman art collector. The evening before, Alfredo's brother Enzo had picked up a delivery van, a white Fiat Ducato, from a friend, which he could borrow from time to time when he needed to transport large pieces of furniture. Also the night before, Alfredo had unscrewed the license plates from an old car at a junkyard on the outskirts of town and taken them with him. As a precaution, they wanted to replace the Ducato's license plates in case anyone saw them. Together, they had also wrapped the copy of the Tre beati teatini in two large brown blankets and tied them securely so that they would not be damaged during transport. Under cover of darkness, they had then carried their hot cargo to the delivery van parked near Enzo's workshop. 

As agreed, the two brothers met at ten o'clock at the parking lot where the van was parked.

"I slept very badly last night," Enzo complained as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"I didn't fare any better, and I had crazy dreams the whole time."

"It's your nerves, Alfredo. Do you have everything?"

"Yes, of course," he confirmed to his brother. Nevertheless, Alfredo opened his backpack and rummaged through the things he had packed inside.

"The Rome travel guide, the balaclava, my tools, the duct tape, my leather gloves, a few handkerchiefs, and of course the bottle of chloroform—it's all here."

"I've got my gloves too. Then we're good to go," Enzo said and started the Ducato's engine.

"Andiamo, let's do this," Alfredo agreed. 

Enzo silently drove the van through the streets of the Borgo toward Castello Sant'Angelo and the Tiber, crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Principe Amadeo Savoia Aosta, but instead of continuing straight on toward Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, he turned left. They drove along the Tiber to the Ponte Duca d'Aosta, where they crossed back to the other side of the Tiber and headed straight for the site of the 1960 Summer Olympics, known as the Foro Italico. There, Enzo knew of a parking lot right next to the Olympic Stadium that was not visible from the main road and was usually deserted as long as there were no soccer games or other events taking place in the stadium. Once they arrived at the parking lot, he backed the delivery van into a parking space bordered by several dense bushes. While Alfredo got out and went to the back, Enzo remained seated in the driver's cab to keep a better eye on the entire area. It took Alfredo only a minute to change the license plates at the rear of the Ducato. When he was done, he signaled to his brother, Enzo started the engine and turned the van around so that the front of the Fiat was now facing the parking lot boundary. Now he got out too, stood at the rear, took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and pretended to make a call. He didn't take his eyes off the entrance to the parking lot for a second. It took less than a minute for Alfredo to replace the front license plate of the Ducato with the one he had stolen from the junkyard the night before. 

On the way back, they didn't exchange a word again. Enzo concentrated on the heavy traffic, while Alfredo went over his plan to swap the paintings again and again in his mind. As with the first successful picture swaps, he wanted to hide in the confessional until the sacristan closed the church to visitors at lunchtime. But because the painting of the Tre beati teatini was far too large to carry in a backpack, he would have to send the sacristan to the land of dreams with chloroform, whether he liked it or not, in order to be able to remove the original from the church unobserved. When his brother turned into Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, Alfredo glanced at his wristwatch.

"Now I have just under an hour and a half until the church closes, that should be enough."

Enzo looked over at him and nodded silently. When he looked back ahead, he noticed at the last moment that the red Alfa Romeo in front of him had to brake because a pedestrian had suddenly stepped onto the road without paying attention to the traffic. Enzo slammed on the brakes. With a loud screech of tires, they came to a stop just in front of the rear of the Alfa.

Cursing loudly, he railed against the pedestrian.

"That's all we needed, to have an accident with a borrowed car and stolen license plates."

Alfredo, who had immediately turned pale, puffed out his cheeks and took a deep breath.

"That was a close call." 

In contrast to the mighty dome of St. Peter's Basilica, which can be seen from afar no matter which direction you approach the Vatican from, the Basilica Sant'Andrea della Valle can only be seen up close when you drive toward the basilica through the deep urban canyon of Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Yet the dome of the main church of the Theatine Order is the second highest in Rome after that of San Pietro. When they reached the church, Enzo drove past the main portal and turned right onto Piazza Vidoni, which is located directly to the left of the church's nave. All the parking spaces along the church wall and the parking bays painted on the asphalt on the opposite side of the small piazza were occupied. They slowly rolled to the end of the cars parked on the right, and Enzo turned off the engine.

"Well, here we are. Don't forget to put your cell phone on silent when you hide."

"Sure, I'm not a beginner! And let me know immediately if anything suspicious happens out here. Before we get caught, we'd better break off today and try again in a few days."

"Except that I might be blocking a parked car with mine, nothing can really happen here. The main thing is that everything goes smoothly in the church."

"It'll be fine," replied his brother, rummaging through his backpack for the travel guide, opening the passenger door, and getting out.

"If everything goes as planned, I'll pick you up shortly after noon."

"Good luck." 

Alfredo slammed the door behind him, threw his backpack over his right shoulder, marched past the parked cars back to the Corso, and, with the guidebook in his hand, entered the church through the main entrance, disguised as a tourist. He pushed the door open with his left shoulder so as not to leave any fingerprints on the door handle. Inside, he crossed himself with holy water and knelt down. The impressive, wide and high interior of the basilica was almost empty, with only a Japanese couple standing to the left of the entrance to the Cappella di San Sebastiano, the third of a total of eight chapels arranged to the left and right of the nave. Alfredo stopped at the first chapel on the left, opened his guidebook, and began to read in a low voice:

"The first act of Giacomo Puccini's opera Tosca is set in the first chapel on the left, the Cappella Barberini, although there the chapel is called Cappella Attavanti."

The two Japanese tourists glanced at him briefly as he began to read, and he instinctively turned to the side so they couldn't see his face. But they didn't pay any further attention to him, instead taking a few photos of the Cappella di San Sebastiano and then turning their attention to the two papal tombs of Pius II and Pius III, located on the walls above the last chapel opening on the left and right in front of the transept. Alfredo strolled slowly from chapel to chapel, pretending to read his guidebook, but always keeping an eye on the two Japanese tourists, who, after admiring the papal tombs, were now admiring the imposing dome and photographing the altarpiece depicting the crucifixion of the Apostle Andrew. 

At a quarter past eleven, the two tourists finally prepared to leave the church after their extensive tour. No other visitors had entered in the meantime, and there was no sign of the sacristan anywhere. Alfredo quickly put on his thin leather gloves and ran as soon as the door had closed behind the Japanese, to the confessional, which stood on the left side of the nave at the mighty, wide column between the third and fourth side chapels. He made sure once again that no one was watching him, disappeared behind the wooden door in one leap, and closed it behind him. Actually, it was only half a door, because it only closed off the lower part of the entrance, which was intended for the priest. The upper half could only be closed with two wooden flaps that looked like shutters. Alfredo closed the flaps just enough so that he could still see a little bit out of the confessional, but he himself could not be seen inside. Now all he could do was wait. The minute hand of his watch seemed unwilling to move forward at all, and the three quarters of an hour until shortly before noon seemed endless. Apart from him, no one else seemed to be in the church during that time. He took the balaclava out of his backpack and pulled it over his head. From inside the confessional, he watched the main portal of the church incessantly. A few minutes before noon, two elderly women, who were clearly not tourists, had entered. He couldn't see where they had gone, but they were probably kneeling down to pray in front of one of the chapels. Right on time, as the clock struck twelve, he heard the sacristan coming. Since Alfredo had explored the interior of the basilica and the sacristan's habits several times in recent weeks, he knew that the sacristan always wore sneakers whose rubber soles made a soft squeaking sound on the bare stone floor with every step. Now the squeaking was unmistakable, growing louder and stopping near the confessional. 

"Excuse me, Signore, I'm afraid I have to close the church now, it's twelve o'clock."

Alfredo held his breath as the two women and the sacristan walked past the confessional to the main door of the church. He unscrewed the bottle of chloroform he had been holding in his hand for a few minutes, soaked two cloth handkerchiefs lying on his left knee with the contents, and then stowed the bottle in a side pocket of his backpack. He made sure that the backpack wasn't in his way when he sneaked out of the confessional and overpowered the sacristan.

He could clearly hear the heavy wooden door closing and the key turning in the lock. He heard the squeaky footsteps again and was ready to leave his hiding place in the next few seconds, as soon as the sacristan had passed the confessional. But once again, the sound of his footsteps suddenly stopped. Alfredo couldn't see where the sacristan had stopped. What happened next was something he really hadn't expected.