Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  Finally, he killed the connection and slipped the telephone back into his pocket.

  “Well?” said Gabriel.

  “Father Donati is going to see the Pope.”

  FATHER LUIGI Donati stared at the telephone for a long moment before deciding on his course of action, Tiepolo’s words ringing in his ears. I need to see the Holy Father. It is important I see the Holy Father before Friday. Tiepolo never spoke like that. His relationship with the Holy Father was strictly collegial—pasta and red wine and humorous stories that reminded the Pope of the good times in Venice before he had been made a prisoner of the Apostolic Palace. And why before Friday? What did Friday have to do with anything? Friday was the day the Holy Father would visit the synagogue. Was Tiepolo trying to tell him that there was a problem?

  Donati stood abruptly and set out for the papal apartments. He brushed past a pair of the Pope’s household nuns without so much as a word and entered the dining room. The Holy Father was entertaining a delegation of bishops from the American Midwest, and the conversation had come round to a topic His Holiness found revolting. He seemed relieved to see Donati stride into the room, even though Donati’s demeanor was grim and businesslike.

  The priest stood next to his master and bent slightly at the waist, so that he could speak directly into his ear. The bishops took their cue from Donati’s tense appearance and looked away. When Donati finished, the Pope laid down his knife and fork and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, nodded once, and returned his attention to his guests.

  “Now, where were we?” the Pope said as Donati strode from the room.

  THEY PACED the length of the campo a half-dozen times waiting for the phone to ring. Tiepolo filled the empty, anxious minutes by peppering Gabriel with a hundred questions—about his work for Israeli intelligence, about his life and family, about what it was like for a Jew to be surrounded day and night by the images of Christianity. Gabriel answered those he could and gently fended off those that strayed into uncomfortable waters. Still skeptical that Gabriel was indeed not an Italian, Tiepolo goaded him into speaking a few words of Hebrew. For the next several minutes he and Chiara carried on a lively conversation, mostly at Tiepolo’s expense, until they were interrupted by the chirp of the Italian’s cellular phone. He brought it to his ear, listened in silence for a moment, then murmured: “I understand, Father Donati.”

  He severed the connection and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “Did he give you an answer?” asked Gabriel.

  Tiepolo smiled.

  29

  ROME

  IN THE NORTH OF ROME, near a lazy bend in the Tiber, lies a tidy little piazza where tourists rarely venture. There is an ancient church with a cracked belfry and a bus stop that few people use. There is a coffee bar and a small bakery that prepares bread on the premises, so that in the early morning the smell of flour and yeast mingles with the marshy scent of the river. Directly opposite the bakery is a teetering tenement block with a pair of potted orange trees marking the entrance. On the top floor, there is a large flat, from where it is possible to see the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance. The flat is rented by a man who rarely uses it. He does so as a favor to his masters in Tel Aviv.

  The building contained no lift, and to reach the flat it was necessary to navigate four gloomy flights of stairs. Chiara went first, followed by Gabriel and Francesco Tiepolo. Before she could slip her key into the lock, the door flew open and Shimon Pazner’s square physique filled the frame. The memory of Gabriel and Chiara’s flight from the beach was visible in the expression on his face. Had Ari Shamron and Eli Lavon not been standing six feet behind him, each puffing away on a Turkish cigarette, Gabriel was quite certain Pazner would have pounced. Instead, he was forced to silently hold his ground as Gabriel brushed past without a word and greeted Shamron. There would be no family quarrels tonight, not in front of an outsider. But one day, when Shamron was gone, Pazner would take his revenge. That’s the way things always went in the Office.

  Gabriel handled the introduction. “This is Francesco Tiepolo. Francesco, these are the guys. I won’t insult you by giving them names, because they wouldn’t be real in any case.”

  Tiepolo seemed to take this news in good humor. Shamron stepped forward and took over the proceedings. He shook Tiepolo’s hand and looked up directly into his eyes for a long moment. Tiepolo could see he was being appraised for trustworthiness but made no sign that he found Shamron’s undisguised scrutiny at all uncomfortable.

  “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to help us, Signor Tiepolo.”

  “The Holy Father is a dear friend of mine. If any harm ever came to him, I would never be able to forgive myself, especially if I had been in a position to somehow prevent it.”

  “You may rest assured that our interests in this matter are in complete harmony.” Shamron finally released Tiepolo’s hand and looked at Shimon Pazner. “Bring him some coffee. Can’t you see he’s had a long journey?”

  Pazner shot Gabriel an icy look and stalked off to the kitchen. Shamron ushered Tiepolo into the sitting room. The Venetian settled himself at the end of the couch, the rest gathered around him. Shamron wasted no more time on small talk.

  “What time do you enter the Vatican?”

  “I’m expected at the Bronze Doors at six o’clock this evening. Customarily, Father Donati greets me there and escorts me up to the third floor, to the papal apartments.”

  “Are you certain this man Donati is to be trusted?”

  “I have known Father Donati as long as I have known the Holy Father. He is intensely loyal.”

  Shimon Pazner entered the room and handed Tiepolo a cup of espresso.

  “It is important that the Pope and his aides feel comfortable,” Shamron resumed. “We will meet with His Holiness under any circumstances of his choosing. Obviously, we would prefer a secure location, someplace where our presence will not be noted by certain elements of the Curia. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Signor Tiepolo?”

  Tiepolo raised the coffee to his lips and nodded vigorously.

  “The information we wish to pass to the Holy Father is of a sensitive nature. If necessary, we will meet with a trusted aide, but we believe it would be best for the Pope to hear it with his own ears.”

  Tiepolo swallowed the espresso in a gulp and set the cup gently on the saucer. “It would be helpful to me if I had some idea of the nature of this information.”

  Shamron allowed his face to register discomfort, then he leaned forward. “It concerns the actions of the Vatican during the Second World War and a meeting that took place in a convent on Lake Garda a long time ago. You’ll forgive me, Signor Tiepolo, if I say no more.”

  “And the nature of the threat to his life?”

  “We believe the threat to the Holy Father originates from forces inside the Church, which is why he needs to take additional steps to protect himself and those around him.”

  Tiepolo inflated his cheeks and expelled the air slowly. “You have one thing working to your advantage. Father Donati has told me on any number of occasions that he is concerned about the security around the Holy Father. So this will come as no surprise to him. As for the war—” Tiepolo hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Let me just say that it is a topic to which the Holy Father has given a great deal of thought. He calls it a stain on the Church. A stain that he is determined to remove.”

  Shamron smiled. “Obviously, Signor Tiepolo, we’re here to help.”

  AT 5:45P.M., a black Fiat sedan pulled up outside the entrance of the apartment house. Francesco Tiepolo settled himself in the backseat. Shamron and Shimon Pazner appeared briefly on the terrace and watched the car set out along the river toward the dome in the distance.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Fiat deposited the Venetian at the entrance of St. Peter’s Square. Tiepolo slipped through the metal guard barrier and made his way along Bernini’s Colonnade as the bells of the Basil
ica tolled six o’clock. At the Bronze Doors, he presented his name and Italian identity card to the Swiss Guard. The Guard consulted a clipboard, then compared Tiepolo’s face to the photograph on the identity card. Satisfied, he allowed Tiepolo to enter the Apostolic Palace.

  Father Donati was waiting at the foot of the Scala Regia. As usual, he wore a grim expression, like a man perpetually bracing himself for bad news. He shook Tiepolo’s hand coldly and led him upstairs to the papal apartments.

  As always, Tiepolo was taken aback by the appearance of the papal study. It was a simple room—much too austere for so powerful a man, he thought—yet completely in keeping with the humble clergyman he had come to know and admire in Venice. Pope Paul VII was standing in the window overlooking St. Peter’s Square, a white figure posed against the crimson drapery. He turned as Tiepolo and Father Donati entered the room and managed a fatigued smile. Tiepolo fell to his knees, kissing the fisherman’s ring. Then the Pope took Tiepolo by the shoulders and guided him to his feet. He seized the Venetian by his biceps and squeezed, seemingly drawing strength from the bigger man.

  “You look well, Francesco. Obviously life in Venice continues to treat you well.”

  “Until yesterday, Holiness, when I learned about a threat to your life.”

  Father Donati sat down, carefully crossed one leg over the other, and smoothed the crease of his trousers—a busy chief executive, eager to move the proceedings along. “All right, Francesco,” Donati said. “Enough of the dramatics. Have a seat and tell me exactly what in God’s name is going on.”

  POPE PAUL VII was scheduled to dine that evening with a delegation of visiting bishops from Argentina. Father Donati telephoned the leader of the delegation, a prelate from Buenos Aires, and told him that unfortunately His Holiness was under the weather and would not be able to host the meal. The bishop promised to pray for the Holy Father’s speedy recovery.

  At nine-thirty, Father Donati stepped into the corridor outside the papal study and confronted the Swiss Guard standing watch. “The Holy Father wishes to walk in the gardens to meditate,” Donati said briskly. “He’ll be leaving in just a few moments.”

  “I thought His Holiness was ill this evening,” the Swiss Guard replied innocently.

  “How His Holiness is feeling is none of your concern.”

  “Yes, Father Donati. I’ll notify the Guards in the garden that His Holiness is coming.”

  “You will do no such thing. The Holy Father would like to meditate in peace.”

  The Swiss Guard stiffened. “Yes, Father Donati.”

  The priest walked back to the study, where he found Tiepolo helping the Pope into a long fawn overcoat and brimmed hat. With the coat buttoned, only the fringe of his white soutane was visible.

  There are a thousand rooms in the Vatican and countless miles of corridors and staircases. Father Donati had made it his business to learn every inch of them. He led the Pope past the Swiss Guard, then spent the next ten minutes winding his way downward through the labyrinthine passageways of the ancient palace—here a murky shoulder-width tunnel with a dripping arched ceiling, here a flight of stone steps, rounded by time, slick as ice.

  Finally, they came to a darkened underground garage. A small Fiat sedan was waiting. The Vatican SCV license plates had been replaced by normal Italian tags. Francesco Tiepolo helped the Pope into the backseat and joined him there. Father Donati climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

  The Pope could not hide his alarm at this development. “When was the last time you drove a car, Luigi?”

  “To be honest, Holiness, I can’t recall. It was certainly before we came to Venice.”

  “That was eighteen years ago!”

  “May the Holy Spirit protect us on our journey.”

  “And all the angels and saints,” added the Pope.

  Donati forced the car into gear and guided it timidly up a winding, darkened ramp. A moment later, the car emerged into the night. The priest hesitantly pushed the accelerator toward the floor and sped along the Via Belvedere toward St. Anne’s Gate.

  “Duck down, Holiness.”

  “Is that really necessary, Luigi?”

  “Francesco, please help His Holiness conceal himself!”

  “I’m sorry, Holiness.”

  The big Venetian grabbed the Pope by the lapels of his overcoat and pulled him down into his lap. The Fiat sped past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Vatican Bank. As they approached St. Anne’s Gate, Father Donati switched on his headlights and sounded his horn. A stunned Swiss Guard leapt out of the path of the speeding car. Father Donati made the sign of the cross as the car flashed through the gate and entered Rome proper.

  The Pope looked up at Tiepolo. “May I sit up now, Francesco? This is most undignified.”

  “Father Donati?”

  “Yes, I think it’s safe now.”

  Tiepolo helped the Pope sit up and straightened his overcoat.

  IT WAS Chiara, standing on the terrace of the safe flat, who spotted the Fiat entering the piazza. The car stopped in front of the building and three men climbed out. Chiara ducked into the sitting room. “There’s someone here,” she said. “Tiepolo and two other men. I think one of them might be him.”

  A moment later there was a sharp knock. Gabriel quickly crossed the room and pulled open the door. He was greeted by the sight of Francesco Tiepolo and a priest in a clerical suit, flanking a small man in a long overcoat and a fedora hat. Gabriel stepped aside. Tiepolo and the priest ushered the man into the safe flat.

  Gabriel closed the door. As he turned around, he saw the little man remove his fedora and hand it to the priest. Perched on his head was a white zucchetto. Next, he removed the fawn overcoat, revealing a soutane of brilliant white.

  His Holiness Pope Paul VII said: “I’m told that you gentlemen have some important information you’d like to impart to me. I’m all ears.”

  30

  ROME

  THE DOOR OF THE FLAT opened to Lange’s touch, just as the Italian had said it would. He closed it again and pushed the dead bolt into place before switching on the lights. He was greeted by the sight of a single room with a bare floor and water-marked walls. There was a steel bed—more like a cot than a real bed—with a wafer-thin mattress. No pillow, a scratchy woolen blanket folded at the foot, stains. Piss? Semen? Lange could only guess. It was not unlike the room in Tripoli, where he had once spent a feverish fortnight waiting for his guide from the Libyan secret service to take him to the training camps in the south. There were distinct differences about this place, though, namely the large carved-wood crucifix hanging above the bed, adorned with a rosary and a length of dried palm leaf.

  Next to the bed was a small chest. Lange wearily pulled open the drawers. He found underpants, balled black socks, and a dog-eared breviary. With some trepidation he ventured into the bathroom: a rust-stained basin with twin taps, a mirror that barely cast a reflection, a toilet with no seat.

  He opened the closet. Two clerical suits hung from the rod. On the floor was a pair of black shoes, well worn but polished, the shoes of a poor man who took care of his appearance. Lange pushed the shoes out of the way with the toe of his loafer and saw the loose floorboard. He bent down and pried it up.

  Reaching into the small space, he found a bundle of oilcloth. He unfolded the cloth: a Stechkin pistol, a silencer, two magazines of nine-millimeter ammunition. Lange rammed one magazine into the butt and slipped the Stechkin into the waistband of his trousers. The silencer and the second magazine he rewrapped in the oilcloth.

  He reached into the compartment a second time and found two more items: a set of keys to the motorcycle parked outside the apartment house, and a leather billfold. He opened the billfold. Inside was a Vatican Security Office identification badge, quite obviously the real thing. Lange looked at the name—MANFRED BECK, SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION—then at the photograph. It was the one he had given Casagrande in the hotel room in Zurich. It was not him, of course, but the vagu
e resemblance could easily be enhanced with a bit of preparation.

  Manfred Beck, Special Investigations Division . . .

  He returned the billfold to the compartment, then replaced the floorboard and covered it with the shoes. He looked around at the barren, lonely room. A priest’s room, this. A sudden memory overtook him: a winding cobblestone street in Fribourg, a young man in a black cassock drifting through the mist rising from the river Saane. A young man in crisis, Lange remembered. A tormented man. A man who could not bear the acute loneliness of the life that lay ahead of him. A man who wanted to be on the front lines. How odd that the path he had chosen had resulted in a life more lonely than a parish priest’s. How odd that it had led him back here, to this desperate room in Rome.

  He went to the window and pushed open the glass. The wet night air washed over his face. The Stazione Termini stood in the distance, about a half kilometer away. Directly across the street lay a straggly, unkempt park. A woman was making her way along the puddled walkway. A streetlamp briefly caught the Breton red highlights in her hair. Something made her look up at the open window. Training. Instinct. Fear. Seeing his face, she smiled, and started across the road.

  31

  ROME

  ARI SHAMRON HAD DECIDED that there would be no misleading the Vicar of Christ. Gabriel was to tell him everything, with no regard for protecting sources or methods. He also ordered Gabriel to give the account chronologically, for Shamron, a man who had briefed a half-dozen prime ministers, knew the value of a good story. He believed that the dirty details of how intelligence was acquired often made the conclusions more credible to the target audience—in this case the Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.

  They settled themselves in the sitting room. The Pope sat in a comfortable armchair, knees together, hands folded. Father Donati sat next to him, a notebook open on his lap. Gabriel, Shamron, and Eli Lavon squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the couch, separated from the Pope and his secretary by a low coffee table and a pot of tea that no one touched. Chiara and Shimon Pazner stood watch on the balcony. Francesco Tiepolo, his work complete, kissed the papal ring and left for Venice in the back of an Office car.