Messenger

by Daniel Silva

  “Charity is the third pillar of Islam,” Gabriel said. “Zakat.”

  “And a noble quality,” Shamron said, “except when the zakat ends up in the hands of murderers.”

  “Do you think Ali Massoudi was connected to the Saudis by more than money?”

  “We may never know because the great professor is no longer with us. But whomever he was working for clearly has his sights set on the Vatican—and someone needs to tell them.”

  “I suspect you have someone in mind for the job.”

  “Consider it your first assignment as chief of Special Ops,” Shamron said. “The prime minister wants you to step into the breach. Immediately.”

  “And Amos?”

  “Amos has another name in mind, but the prime minister and I have made it clear to him who we want in the job.”

  “My own record is hardly free of scandal, and unfortunately the world now knows about it.”

  “The Gare de Lyon affair?” Shamron shrugged. “You were lured into it by a clever opponent. Besides, I’ve always believed that a career free of controversy is not a proper career at all. The prime minister shares that view.”

  “Maybe that’s because he’s been involved in a few scandals of his own.” Gabriel exhaled heavily and looked down at the photographs once more. “There are risks to sending me to Rome. If the French find out I’m on Italian soil—”

  “There’s no need for you to go to Rome,” Shamron said, cutting him off. “Rome is coming to you.”

  “Donati?”

  Shamron nodded.

  “How much did you tell him?”

  “Enough for him to ask Alitalia if he could borrow a plane for a few hours,” Shamron said. “He’ll be here first thing in the morning. Show him the photographs. Tell him as much as you need to in order to impress upon him that we think the threat is credible.”

  “And if he asks for help?”

  Shamron shrugged. “Give him whatever he needs.”

  Jerusalem

  MONSIGNOR LUIGI DONATI, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, was waiting for Gabriel in the lobby of the King David Hotel at eleven the following morning. He was tall and lean and handsome as an Italian movie idol. The cut of his black clerical suit and Roman collar suggested that the monsignor, while chaste, was not without personal vanity—as did the expensive Swiss watch on his wrist and the gold fountain pen lodged in his breast pocket. His dark eyes radiated a fierce and uncompromising intelligence, while the stubborn set of his jaw revealed that he was a dangerous man to cross. The Vatican press corps had described him as a clerical Rasputin, the power behind the papal throne. His enemies within the Roman Curia often referred to Donati as “the Black Pope,” an unflattering reference to his Jesuit past.

  It had been three years since their first meeting. Gabriel had been investigating the murder of an Israeli scholar living in Munich, a former Office agent named Benjamin Stern. The trail of clues had led Gabriel to the Vatican and into Donati’s capable hands, and together they had destroyed a grave threat to the papacy. A year later Donati had helped Gabriel find evidence in a Church archive that allowed him to identify and capture Erich Radek, a Nazi war criminal living in Vienna. But the bond between Gabriel and Donati extended far beyond two men. Donati’s master, Pope Paul VII, was closer to Israel than any of his predecessors and had taken monumental steps to improve relations between Catholics and Jews. Keeping him alive was one of Shamron’s highest priorities.

  When Donati spotted Gabriel coming across the lobby, he smiled warmly and extended a long, dark hand. “It’s good to see you, my friend. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

  “Have you checked into your room?”

  Donati held up the key.

  “Let’s go upstairs. There’s something you need to see.”

  They walked to the elevators and entered a waiting carriage. Gabriel knew, even before Donati reached out for the panel of call buttons, that he would press the one for the sixth floor—just as he knew that the key in Donati’s hand opened the door to Room 616. The spacious suite overlooking the Old City walls was permanently reserved for Office use. Along with the usual luxury amenities, it contained a built-in audio recording system, which could be engaged by a tiny switch concealed beneath the bathroom sink. Gabriel made certain the system was turned off before showing the photographs to Donati. The priest’s face showed no emotion as he regarded each image carefully, but a moment later, as he stood at the window gazing out toward the Dome of the Rock sparkling in the distance, Gabriel noticed the muscles of his jaw alternatively clenching and unclenching with stress.

  “We’ve been through this many times before, Gabriel—the Millennium, the Jubilee, nearly every Christmas and Easter. Sometimes the warnings are delivered to us by the Italian security services, and sometimes they come from our friends in the Central Intelligence Agency. Each time, we respond by clamping down on security, until the threat is deemed to have subsided. Thus far, nothing has materialized. The Basilica is still standing. And so, too, I’m pleased to say, is the Holy Father.”

  “Just because they haven’t succeeded doesn’t mean they aren’t trying, Luigi. The Wahhabi-inspired terrorists of al-Qaeda and its affiliates regard everyone who doesn’t adhere to its brand of Islam as kafur and mushrikun, worthy only of death. Kafur are infidels, and mushrikun are polytheists. They regard even Sunni and Shiite Muslims as mushrikun, but to their way of thinking, there’s no bigger symbol of polytheism than the Vatican and the Holy Father.”

  “I understand all that, but as you say at your Passover seder, why is this night different from all other nights?”

  “You’re asking me why you should take this threat seriously?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Because of the messenger,” Gabriel said. “The man on whose computer we found these photographs.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  Donati turned slowly away from the window and regarded Gabriel imperiously. “I’ve laid bare some of the darkest secrets of the Roman Catholic Church to you. The least you can do in return is tell me where you got the photographs.”

  Gabriel hesitated. “Are you familiar with the name Ali Massoudi?’

  “Professor Ali Massoudi?” Donati’s expression darkened. “Wasn’t he killed in London a couple of nights ago?”

  “He wasn’t killed,” Gabriel said. “He died in an accident.”

  “Dear God, please tell me you didn’t push him in front of that truck, Gabriel.”

  “Save your sorrow for someone worthy of it. We know Massoudi was a terrorist recruiter. And based on what we found on his laptop, he might have been a planner as well.”

  “Too bad he’s dead. We could have put him on the rack and tortured him until he told us what we wanted to hear.” Donati looked down at his hands. “Forgive my sarcastic tone, Gabriel, but I’m not a great supporter of this war on terror we’re engaged in. Nor for that matter is the Holy Father.”

  Donati looked out the window once again, at the walls of the Old City. “Ironic, isn’t it? My first visit to this holy city of yours, and this is the reason for it.”

  “You’ve really never been?”

  Donati slowly shook his head.

  “Care to have a look at where it all started?”

  Donati smiled. “Actually, I’d like nothing better.”

  THEY CROSSED the Valley of Hinnom and labored up the slope of the hill to the eastern wall of the Old City. The footpath at the base of the wall was in shadow. They followed it southward, toward the Church of the Dormition, then rounded the corner and slipped through the Zion Gate. On the Jewish Quarter Road, Donati produced a slip of paper from the pocket of his clerical suit. “The Holy Father would like me to leave this in the Western Wall.”

  They followed a cluster of haredim down Tif’eret Yisra’el. Donati, in his black clothing, looked as though he might be part of the group. At the end of the street they descended
the wide stone steps that led to the plaza in front of the wall. A long line stretched from the security kiosk. Gabriel, after murmuring something to a female border police officer, led Donati around the metal detectors and into the square.

  “Don’t you do anything like a normal person?”

  “You go ahead,” Gabriel said. “I’ll wait here.”

  Donati turned and inadvertently headed toward the women’s side of the wall. Gabriel, with a discreet cluck of his tongue, guided him to the portion reserved for men. Donati selected a kippah from the public basket and placed it precariously atop his head. He stood before the wall a moment in silent prayer, then slipped the small scroll of paper into a crevice in the tan Herodian stone.

  “What did it say?” Gabriel asked, when Donati returned.

  “It was a plea for peace.”

  “You should have left it up there,” Gabriel said, pointing in the direction of the Al-Aqsa mosque.

  “You’ve changed,” Donati said. “The man I met three years ago would never have said that.”

  “We’ve all changed, Luigi. There’s not much of a peace camp in this country anymore, only a security camp. Arafat didn’t count on that when he unleashed the suicide bombers.”

  “Arafat is gone now.”

  “Yes, but the damage he left behind will take at least a generation to repair.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the wounds of the second intifada will never heal.”

  “And so the killing will go on? Surely you can’t contemplate a future like that.”

  “Of course we can, Luigi. That’s the way it’s always been in this place.”

  They left the Jewish Quarter and walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Gabriel waited in the courtyard while Donati, after fending off a freelance Palestinian tour guide, went inside. He returned ten minutes later. “It’s dark,” he said. “And a little disappointing, to be honest with you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what everyone says.”

  They left the courtyard and walked in the Via Dolorosa. A group of American pilgrims, led by a brown-cassocked monk clutching a red helium balloon, hustled toward them from the opposite direction. Donati watched the spectacle with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Do you still believe?” Gabriel asked suddenly.

  Donati took a moment before answering. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, my personal faith is something of a complex matter. But I do believe in the power of the Roman Catholic Church to be a force for good in a world filled with evil. And I believe in this Pope.”

  “So you’re a faithless man at the side of a man of great faith.”

  “Well put,” Donati said. “And what about you? Do you still believe? Did you ever?”

  Gabriel stopped walking. “The Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amalekites, the Moabites—they’re all gone. But for some reason we’re still here. Was it because God made a covenant with Abraham four thousand years ago? Who’s to say?”

  “‘I will bless you greatly and make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands of the seashore,’” Donati said, quoting the twenty-second chapter of Genesis.

  “‘And your descendants shall come to possess the gates of your enemies,’” Gabriel said, finishing the passage for him. “And now my enemy wants those gates back, and he’s willing to do anything, including sacrifice his own son, to get them back.”

  Donati smiled at Gabriel’s clever interpretation of Scripture. “We’re not so different, you and I. We’ve both given our lives over to higher powers. For me, it’s the Church. For you, it’s your people.” He paused. “And the land.”

  They walked farther along the Via Dolorosa, into the Muslim Quarter. When the street was enveloped in shadow, Gabriel pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead. Palestinian shopkeepers eyed him curiously from their crowded stalls.

  “Is it all right for you to be here?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I take it you’re armed.”

  Gabriel allowed his silence to serve as an answer. As they walked on Donati’s gaze was on the cobblestones, and his dark brow was furrowed in concentration.

  “If I know Ali Massoudi is dead, is it safe to assume his comrades know he’s dead, too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do they also know his computer contained those photographs? And that it fell into your hands?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Might that encourage them to accelerate their plans?”

  “Or it might cause them to postpone the operation until you and the Italians let your guard down again.”

  They passed through Damascus Gate. Gabriel lowered his sunglasses as they entered the crowded, cacophonous market square beyond the walls.

  “There’s something you should know about those photos,” Donati said. “They were all taken during the Holy Father’s general audience, when he greets pilgrims from around the world in St. Peter’s Square.”

  Gabriel stopped walking and gazed at the golden Dome of the Rock, floating above the stone walls. “The general audience takes place on Wednesdays, does it not?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Gabriel looked at Donati and said, “Today is Tuesday.”

  Donati looked at his wristwatch. “Will you give me a ride back to the airport? If we hurry, we can be in Rome in time for supper.”

  “We?”

  “We’ll stop at your apartment on the way out of town so you can pack a bag,” Donati said. “It’s been stormy in Rome. Make sure you pack a raincoat.”

  He would have to bring more than a raincoat, Gabriel thought as he led Donati through the crowded market. He was going to need a false passport, too.

  Vatican City

  IT WAS A RATHER ordinary office for so powerful a man. The Oriental carpet was faded and timeworn, and the curtains were heavy and drab. As Gabriel and Donati entered the room, the small figure in white seated behind the large austere desk was gazing intently at the screen of a television. A scene of violence played there: fire and smoke, bloodstained survivors pulling at their hair and weeping over the tattered bodies of the dead. Pope Paul VII, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, successor to St. Peter, pressed the Power button on his remote control, and the image turned to black. “Gabriel,” he said. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  The Pope rose slowly to his feet and extended a small hand—not with the fisherman’s ring facing upward, the way he did toward most people, but with the palm sideways. The grip was still strong, and the eyes that gazed fondly up at Gabriel were still vibrant and clear. Gabriel had forgotten how diminutive Pietro Lucchesi really was. He thought of the afternoon Lucchesi had emerged from the conclave, an elfin figure, swimming in the hastily prepared cassock and barely visible over the balustrade of the Basilica’s great loggia. A commentator for Italian television had proclaimed him Pietro the Improbable. Cardinal Marco Brindisi, the reactionary secretary of state who had assumed he would be the one to emerge from the conclave dressed in white, had acidly referred to Lucchesi as “Pope Accidental I.”

  For Gabriel, though, it was another image of Pietro Lucchesi that he would always think of first, the sight of him standing on the bimah of the Great Synagogue of Rome, speaking words no pope had ever spoken before. “For these sins, and others soon to be revealed, we offer our confession, and we beg your forgiveness. There are no words to describe the depth of our grief. In your hour of greatest need, when the forces of Nazi Germany pulled you from your houses in the very streets surrounding this synagogue, you cried out for help, but your pleas were met by silence. And so today, as I plead for forgiveness, I will do it in the same manner. In silence….”

  The Pope retook his seat and looked at the television screen, as if the images of distant mayhem could still be seen there. “I warned him not to do it, but he didn’t listen to me. Now he intends to come to Europe to mend fences with his former allies. I wish him well, but I think his chances for success are slim.”

  Gabriel looked t
o Donati for an explanation.

  “The White House informed us last night that the president will be coming here early next year for a tour of European capitals. The president’s men are hoping to project a warmer, less confrontational image and repair some of the damage over the decision to go to war in Iraq.”

  “A war I steadfastly opposed,” the Pope said.

  “Is he coming to the Vatican?” Gabriel asked.

  “He’s coming to Rome—that much we know. The White House hasn’t told us yet whether the president would like an audience with the Holy Father. We fully expect that a request will be arriving soon.”

  “He wouldn’t dream of coming to Rome without dropping by the Vatican,” the Pope said. “Conservative Catholics are an important part of his constituency. He’ll want a nice photo opportunity and some kind words from me. He’ll get his photo. As for the kind words…” The Pope’s voice trailed off. “I’m afraid he’ll have to look elsewhere for those.”

  Donati motioned for Gabriel to sit, then settled himself in the chair next to him. “The president is a man who appreciates straight talk, as our American friends like to say. He’ll listen to what you have to say, Holiness.”

  “He should have listened to me the first time. I made it very clear to him when he came to the Vatican before the war that I believed he was embarking on a disastrous path. I told him that war was not justified because there was no true imminent threat to America and her allies. I told him that he had not exhausted every last avenue to avert conflict and that the United Nations, not the United States, was the proper authority for dealing with this problem. But I reserved most of my passion for my final argument against the war. I told the president that America would win a quick battlefield victory. ‘You are powerful,’ I said, ‘and your enemy is weak.’ But I also predicted that for years after the war America would face a violent insurgency. I warned him that in trying to solve one crisis with violence, he would only create another more dangerous crisis. That war would be seen by the Muslim world as a new Crusade by white Christians. That terrorism could not be defeated by more terrorism but only through social and economic justice.”