The Fallen Angel ga-12

by Daniel Silva

  “Do you read Arabic?” the mufti asked.

  “Nein,” Gabriel replied in German.

  The tour complete, the pope and the mufti adjourned to the garden for tea. Alone with the most powerful religious figure in the world, the keeper of Islam’s third-holiest shrine used the opportunity to expound upon his oft-stated theory that the Holocaust had never happened and that the Jews were secretly plotting to destroy the Dome of the Rock with the help of fundamentalist Christians from America. The pope listened in stoic silence, but in his public remarks afterward, he called the conversation “most enlightening.” Then, after delivering his planned apology for the murderous excesses of the Crusades, he pointed out that the Israelis were the first conquerors in the history of Jerusalem to leave the status quo of the Holy Mountain unchanged. As a result, he declared, Islam had a special duty to not only care for the mosques that stood on the surface of the Noble Sanctuary, but to protect the sacred ruins that lay beneath it as well.

  “All in all,” the pope said, climbing into his limousine on Lions’ Gate Street, “I think that went quite well.”

  “I’m not sure the mufti would agree,” said Gabriel, smiling.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t lose my temper. You should have heard the things he said to me.”

  “We hear it every day, Holiness.”

  “But I don’t,” the pope replied. “I can only imagine that God made me sit through that drivel for a reason.”

  Looking down at a copy of the Holy Father’s itinerary, Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder whether it was true.

  The next stop was Yad Vashem.

  Donati had set aside one hour for the visit, but ninety minutes elapsed before the pope finished his private tour of the newly designed Holocaust history exhibit. From there, he went to the Hall of Names, the somber repository of information about the dead, and then walked along the Avenue of the Righteous Among Nations and through the Valley of the Communities. In the Children’s Memorial, a dark, haunting place of reflected candlelight, he became momentarily disoriented. “This way,” said Gabriel softly. And when the pope emerged once more into the brilliant Jerusalem sunlight, his cheeks were streaming with tears. “Children,” he said. “Why in God’s name would they murder little children?”

  “Do you need a minute to collect your thoughts?”

  “No,” said the pope. “It’s time.”

  They made their way past the soaring Pillar of Heroism to the Hall of Remembrance. In the plaza outside, several hundred Israeli dignitaries and Holocaust survivors sat facing the simple podium where the pope would deliver the most important remarks of his trip. Owing to the somber location, the mood was funereal. No flags waved, and there was no applause as the pope entered the hall. Following him into the cool shadows, Gabriel felt a sense of peace for the first time since their arrival on Israeli soil. Here in this hallowed chamber of memory, the Holy Father was safe.

  The flame of remembrance had been temporarily extinguished. With Donati’s assistance, the pope reignited it and then knelt for several moments in silent, agonized prayer. Finally, he rose and made his way outside to the plaza where the crowd was now stirring in anticipation. As the pope approached the podium, Donati removed the black binder containing the prepared text and in its place left a single sheet of ruled white paper. On it were the handwritten notes the Holy Father had made during his final conversation with Gabriel in the Apostolic Palace. The pope was about to deliver one of the most important pronouncements of his papacy without a script.

  He stood at the podium for a long moment as though Yad Vashem’s unique combination of horror and beauty had rendered him incapable of speech. Having helped the Holy Father from the Children’s Memorial, Gabriel knew it was genuine. But he also knew that His Holiness was about to begin his homily with a point about words versus deeds. His silence, therefore, had purpose.

  “In this place of unbearable pain,” he began at last, “mere words cannot possibly describe the depths of our sorrow or our shame. This beautiful garden of memory is more than just a ceremonial gravestone to the six million children of God and Abraham who perished in the fires of the Holocaust. It is a reminder that evil, true evil, is present in the world. It is a reminder, too, that as Christians we accept a portion of the responsibility for what occurred during the Holocaust, and we must beg forgiveness. A decade ago, in the Great Synagogue of Rome, we spoke of our complicity in the crime that Yad Vashem commemorates. And today, we reaffirm our sorrow, and once again we beg forgiveness. But now, in this time of escalating tension in the Middle East, our sorrow is mixed with fear. It is a fear that it could happen again.”

  The line sent a murmur through the crowd. Several of the reporters from the Vatican press corps were now staring bewildered at their copies of the speech. The pope sipped his water and waited for silence. Then he glanced briefly at Gabriel and Donati before resuming his homily.

  “Since our appearance at the Great Synagogue of Rome, the Church has taken great steps toward eliminating anti-Jewish sentiment from our teaching and texts. We asked our Islamic brethren to undertake a similar soul-searching, but, sadly, this has not occurred. Across the Islamic world, Muslim holy men routinely preach that the Holocaust did not occur, while at the same time, radical jihadists promise to bring about another one. The contradiction is amusing to some, but not to me—not when a nation that has sworn to wipe Israel from the face of the earth is relentlessly developing the capability to do just that.”

  Again, the audience stirred in anticipation. Gabriel’s eyes swept over the perplexed members of the Curial delegation before settling on the diminutive figure in white who was about to make history.

  “There are some leaders who assure me that Israel can live with an Iran armed with a nuclear weapon,” the pope continued. “But to someone who lived through the madness of the Second World War, they sound too much like those who said the Jews had nothing to fear from a Germany led by Hitler and the Nazis. Here in this sacred city of Jerusalem, we are reminded at every turn that great empires and great civilizations can vanish in the blink of an eye. Their antiquities fill our museums, but all too often, we fail to learn from their mistakes. We are tempted to think that we have reached the end of history, that it can never happen again. But history is made every day, sometimes by men of evil. And all too often, history repeats itself.”

  Several of the reporters were now whispering into mobile phones. Gabriel suspected they were informing their editors that His Holiness had just taken a newsworthy departure from what was supposed to be a routine speech of remembrance at Yad Vashem.

  “And so,” the pope resumed, “on this solemn occasion, in this sacred place, we do more than remember the six million who suffered and died in the Holocaust. We renew our bond with their descendants, and we assure them that we will do everything in our power to make certain it never happens again.”

  The pope paused one final time, as if signaling to the reporters that the most important line of his address was yet to come. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer tinged with sorrow, only resolve.

  “To that end,” he said, his arms spread wide, his amplified words echoing through the monuments of Yad Vashem, “we pledge to the people of Israel, our elder brothers, that this time, as you confront a challenge to your existence, the Roman Catholic Church will stand by you. We offer our prayers and, if you are willing to accept it, our counsel. We ask only that you proceed with the utmost caution, for your decisions will affect the entire world. The soil of this sacred city is filled with the remnants of empires that miscalculated. Jerusalem is the city of God. But it is also a gravestone to the folly of man.”

  With that, the audience erupted into a thunderous ovation. Gabriel and the rest of the security detail quickly went to the pope’s side and escorted him to the waiting limousine. As the motorcade headed down the slope of Mount Herzl toward the Old City, the pope handed Gabriel the notes for the address.

  “Add that to your collection.”
/>   “Thank you, Holiness.”

  “Still think I should have canceled the trip?”

  “No, Holiness. But you can be sure the Iranians are putting a bounty on your head as we speak.”

  “I always knew they would,” he said. “Just make sure no one manages to collect it before I leave Jerusalem.”

  40

  JERUSALEM

  DONATI AND THE HOLY FATHER were spending the night near the Jaffa Gate, at the residence of the Latin Patriarch. Gabriel saw them to the door, made a final check of security, then headed westward across Jerusalem through the late-afternoon shadows. Rounding the corner into Narkiss Street, he immediately saw the armored Peugeot limousine parked outside the apartment house at Number 16. Its owner was standing at the balustrade of the third-floor balcony, partially concealed by the drooping limbs of the eucalyptus tree, a sentinel on a night watch without end.

  As Gabriel entered the apartment, he smelled the unmistakable aroma of eggplant with Moroccan spice, the specialty of Shamron’s long-suffering wife, Gilah. She was standing in the kitchen next to Chiara, a flowered apron around her waist. Chiara wore a loose-fitting blouse with an embroidered neckline. Her hair hung about her shoulders, and her lips, when kissed, tasted of honey. She adjusted the knot of Gabriel’s tie before kissing him again. Then she nodded toward the television and said, “It seems you and your friend have caused quite a stir.”

  Gabriel looked at the screen and saw himself, following a few feet behind the pope as he emerged from the Hall of Remembrance at Yad Vashem. A news analyst in London was talking about a wholesale realignment of the Vatican’s policies toward the State of Israel. As Gabriel switched from news channel to news channel, it was more of the same. It seemed His Holiness Pope Paul VII had fundamentally altered the dynamic of the conflict in the Middle East, with the Vatican now squarely on the side of the Israelis in the conflict against Iran and radical Islam. And what made it all the more remarkable, the commentators agreed, was that the Vatican had managed to conceal the Holy Father’s intentions prior to his departure from Rome.

  Gabriel switched off the television and went into the bedroom to change. Then, after accepting two glasses of Shiraz from Chiara, he headed out onto the little terrace. Shamron was in the process of lighting a cigarette. Gabriel plucked it from his lips before sitting.

  “You really have to stop, Ari.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re killing you.”

  “I’d rather die from smoking than by the hand of one of my enemies.”

  “There are other options, you know.” Frowning, Gabriel crushed out the cigarette and handed Shamron a glass of wine. “Drink it, Ari. They say it’s good for the heart.”

  “I put mine in storage when I joined the Office. And now that I’m in possession of it again, it’s giving me no end of grief.” He drank some of the wine as a breath of wind moved in the eucalyptus tree. “Do you remember what I said to you when I gave you this flat?”

  “You told me to fill it with children.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Not as good as yours.”

  “Mine isn’t what it once was, which I suppose is fortuitous. I’ve done many things in my life I’d rather forget, most of them involving you.” He looked at Gabriel seriously and asked, “Did it help at all?”

  “What?”

  “Vienna.”

  “I didn’t do it for myself. I did it so someone else wouldn’t have to bury a child or visit a loved one in a psychiatric hospital.”

  “You just answered my question in the affirmative,” Shamron said. “I’m only sorry we had to send Massoud back to Tehran. He deserved to die an ignoble death.”

  “We did the next best thing by burning him.”

  “I only wish the flames could have been real instead of allegorical.” Shamron drank some of his wine and asked Gabriel what it was like being on the Temple Mount.

  “It’s changed since my last visit.”

  “Did you feel close to God?”

  “Too close.”

  Shamron smiled. “The visit didn’t go exactly as planned, at least from the mufti’s point of view. But from ours . . .” Shamron’s voice trailed off. “The pope’s words of support couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. And we have you to thank for it.”

  “They were his words, Ari, not mine.”

  “But I’m not sure he would have spoken them if it wasn’t for your friendship. I just hope he stands by us when the inevitable becomes a reality.”

  “You mean an attack on Iran?”

  Shamron nodded.

  “How much longer do we have?”

  “Your friend Uzi will have to make that decision. But if I had to guess, it will be some time in the next year. In my opinion,” Shamron added, “we’ve waited too long already.”

  “But even you’re not sure whether an attack on their facilities will be successful.”

  “But I am certain of what will happen if we do nothing,” Shamron said. “It’s not a nuclear attack that I fear the most. It’s that our enemies will use the protection of an Iranian nuclear umbrella to make our daily lives unlivable. Rockets from Gaza, rockets from Lebanon, entire sections of the country left uninhabitable. Then what? People get nervous. They slowly start to leave. And then the beautiful country that I helped to create and defend collapses.”

  “It’s possible you’re being too pessimistic.”

  “Actually,” Shamron said, “I was giving you my best-case scenario.”

  “And the worst case?”

  He turned his head a few degrees and gazed in the direction of the Old City. “It could all go up in a ball of fire, like the night Titus laid siege to the Second Temple.”

  The sound of Chiara’s laughter filtered from the kitchen onto the terrace. It softened Shamron’s dark mood.

  “Have there been any developments on the child front?”

  “The pope is praying for us.”

  “So am I,” Shamron said. “I read an interesting article about infertility not long ago. It said frequent travel can sometimes interfere with conception. It also said that the couple should remain at home as often as possible, surrounded by family and loved ones.”

  “Have you no shame?”

  “None whatsoever.” Shamron smiled and placed a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Are you happy, my son?”

  “I will be as soon as I put His Holiness back on his airplane.”

  “I assume you’re planning to accompany him?”

  Gabriel nodded. “I need to have a word with Carlo Marchese. I also have to finish that Caravaggio.”

  “Never a dull moment.”

  “Actually, I’d kill for one.”

  “And when you’re finished in Rome? What then?”

  Gabriel smiled. “Drink your wine, Ari. They say it’s good for the heart.”

  As Shamron predicted, the pope’s remarks during his visit to the Temple Mount did not go over well in the Muslim world. On Al Jazeera that evening, one commentator after another branded them an affront that could not go unanswered. Watching the coverage from his office, Imam Hassan Darwish found the outrage mildly amusing. He knew that in just a few hours’ time, the pope’s words would seem like a bit of loose talk by an old man in white. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he reached for the phone and dialed. The man he knew as Mr. Farouk answered instantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Deliver the Korans to the address I gave you.”

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  Darwish replaced the receiver and headed across the esplanade to the Dome of the Rock—not to the main hall of the shrine, but to the cave just beneath the Foundation Stone known as the Well of Souls. There he knelt on a musty prayer rug, listening to the wailing of the dead. Soon they would be free, he thought, because soon there would be no Well of Souls. In fact, if Allah allowed everything to go according to plan, there would be nothing at all.

  41

  THE OLD CITY, JERUSALEM

&nb
sp; IT WAS GOOD FRIDAY, which meant Jerusalem, God’s fractured citadel upon a hill, was in a state of near hysteria. In the predominantly Jewish districts of the New City, the morning proceeded with the usual last-minute preparations for the coming Shabbat. But in East Jerusalem, thousands of Muslims were making their way to the Haram al-Sharif for Friday prayers, while at the same time, a multitude of Catholics from around the world were preparing to commemorate the crucifixion of Christ with the man they believed to be his representative on earth. Not surprisingly, police and medical personnel reported an unusual surge in cases of Jerusalem Syndrome, the sudden religious psychosis brought on by exposure to the city’s countless sacred sites. In one incident, a guest of the King David Hotel appeared in the lobby wearing only a bedsheet, proclaiming the end of days was near.

  “Where is he now?” asked Donati.

  “Resting comfortably under heavy sedation,” replied Gabriel. “He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Is he one of ours or one of yours?”

  “Yours, I’m afraid.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “And he had to come all the way to Jerusalem to have a psychotic break?”