Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  Brunner opened his mouth to reply, but his words were swept away by a searing blast wave. The sound came a millisecond later, a deafening thunderclap made more intense by the vast echo chamber of St. Peter’s Square. Gabriel was blown from the dais—a scrap of paper on a gale-force wind. His body took flight and turned over at least once. Then he landed hard on the steps of the Basilica and blacked out.

  WHEN HE opened his eyes he saw Christ’s Apostles peering down at him from their perch atop the façade. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. A few seconds, perhaps, but not longer. He sat up, ears ringing, and looked around. To his right were the Curial prelates who had been on the dais with the Pope. They appeared shocked and tousled but largely unhurt. To his left lay Donati and next to Donati was Karl Brunner. The commandant’s eyes were closed, and he was bleeding heavily from a wound at the back of his head.

  Gabriel got to his feet and looked around.

  Where was the Pope?

  Ibrahim el-Banna had cleared three priests into the Vatican.

  Gabriel suspected there were two more blasts to come.

  He found the SIG-Sauer he’d taken from the Swiss Guard and shouted at the prelates to stay down. Then, as he climbed back onto the dais to look for Lucchesi, the second bomb exploded.

  Another wave of searing heat and wind.

  Another thunderclap.

  Gabriel was hurled backward. This time he came to rest atop Donati.

  He got to his feet again. He wasn’t able to reach the dais before the third bomb detonated.

  When the thunderclap finally died out, he mounted the platform and looked out at the devastation. The shaheeds had distributed themselves evenly throughout the crowd near the front of the dais: one near the Bronze Doors, the second in the center of the square, and the third close to the Arch of Bells. All that remained of them were three plumes of black smoke rising toward the cloudless pale-blue sky. On the spots where the bombers had been standing, the paving stones were blackened by fire, drenched in blood, and littered with human limbs and tissue. Farther away from the blast points, it was possible to imagine that the tattered corpses had moments before been human beings. The folding chairs that Gabriel had watched being put into place earlier that morning had been tossed about like playing cards, and everywhere there were shoes. How many dead? Hundreds, he thought. But his concern at that moment was not with the dead but with the Holy Father.

  We declare war on you, the Crusaders, with the destruction of your infidel temple to polytheism…

  The attack, Gabriel knew, was not yet finished.

  And then, through the screen of black smoke, he saw the next phase unfolding. A delivery van had stopped just beyond the barricade at the far end of the square. The rear cargo doors were open and three men were scrambling out. Each one had a shoulder-launched missile.

  IT WAS THEN that Gabriel saw the throne on which the Pope had been seated. It had been blown sideways by the force of the first blast and had come to rest upside down on the steps of the Basilica. Poking from beneath it was a small hand with a gold ring…and the skirt of a white cassock stained in blood.

  Gabriel looked at Donati. “They’ve got missiles, Luigi! Get everyone away from the Basilica!”

  Gabriel leaped from the dais and lifted the throne. The Pope’s eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from several small cuts. As Gabriel reached down and cradled the Pope in his arms, he heard the distinctive whoosh of an approaching RPG-7. He turned his head, long enough to glimpse the missile streaking over the square toward the Basilica. An instant later the warhead struck Michelangelo’s dome and exploded in a shower of fire, glass, and stone.

  Gabriel sheltered the Pope from the falling debris, then lifted him and started running toward the Bronze Doors. Before they could reach the shelter of the Colonnade, the second missile came streaking across the square. It struck the façade of the Basilica, just beneath the balustrade on the Loggia of the Blessings.

  Gabriel lost his balance and fell to the paving stones. He lifted his head and saw the third missile on its way. It was coming in lower than the others and heading directly toward the dais. In the instant before it struck, Gabriel glimpsed a nightmarish image: Luigi Donati trying desperately to move the Curial cardinals and prelates to safety. Gabriel stayed on the ground and covered the Pope’s body with his own as another shower of wreckage rained down upon them.

  “Is it you, Gabriel?” the Pope asked, eyes still closed.

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “Is it over?”

  Three bombs, three missiles—symbolic of the Holy Trinity, Gabriel reckoned. A calculated insult to the mushrikun.

  “Yes, Holiness. I believe it’s over.”

  “Where’s Luigi?”

  Gabriel looked toward the burning remains of the dais and saw Donati stagger out of the smoke, the body of a dead cardinal in his arms.

  “He’s alive, Holiness.”

  The Pope closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank God.”

  Gabriel felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He turned around and saw a quartet of men in blue suits, guns drawn. “Let go of him,” one of the men shouted. “We’ll take him from here.”

  Gabriel looked at the man for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I’ve got him,” he said, then he stood up and carried the Pope into the Apostolic Palace, surrounded by Swiss Guards.

  THE APARTMENT HOUSE stood in a cobbled vicolo near the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Four floors in height, its faded tan exterior was hung with power and telephone lines and contained several large patches of exposed brickwork. On the ground floor was a small motorcycle repair shop that spilled into the street. To the right of the shop was a doorway leading to the flats above. Ibrahim el-Banna had the key in his pocket.

  The attack had commenced five minutes after el-Banna’s departure from the Vatican. On the Borgo Santo Spirito he had taken advantage of the panic to carefully remove his kufi and hang a large wooden cross round his neck. From there he had walked to the Janiculum Park and from the park down the hill to Trastevere. On the Via della Paglia a distraught woman had asked el-Banna for his blessing. He had bestowed it, imitating the words and gestures he’d seen at the Vatican, then immediately asked Allah to forgive his blasphemy.

  Now, safely inside the apartment house, he removed the offensive cross from his neck and mounted the dimly lit stairs. He had been ordered to come here by the Saudi who had conceived and planned the attack—the Saudi he knew only as Khalil. It was to be the first stop on a secret journey out of Europe and back to the Muslim world. He had hoped to return to his native Egypt, but Khalil had convinced him that he would never be safe there. The American lackey Mubarak will hand you over to the infidels in the blink of an eye, Khalil had said. There’s only one place on Earth where the infidels can’t get you.

  That place was Saudi Arabia, land of the Prophet, birthplace of Wahhabi Islam. Ibrahim el-Banna had been promised a new identity, a teaching position at the prestigious University of Medina, and a bank account with a half million dollars. The sanctuary was a reward from Prince Nabil, the Saudi interior minister. The money was a gift from the Saudi billionaire who had financed the operation.

  And so the Muslim cleric who climbed the steps of the Roman apartment house was a contented man. He had just helped carry off one of the most important acts of jihad in the long, glorious history of Islam. And now he was setting out for a new life in Saudi Arabia, where his words and beliefs could help inspire the next generation of Islamic warriors. Only Paradise would be sweeter.

  He reached the third-floor landing and went to the door of apartment 3A. When he inserted the key into the lock he felt a slight electric shock in his fingers. When he turned it, the door exploded. And then he felt nothing at all.

  AT THAT same moment, in the section of Washington known as Foggy Bottom, a woman woke from a nightmare. It was filled with the same imagery she saw every morning at this time. A flight attendant with her throat slashed. A handsome young pas
senger making one final phone call. An inferno. She rolled over and looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was six-thirty. She picked up the remote control, aimed it at her television, and pressed the power button. God no, she thought when she saw the Basilica in flames. Not again.

  7.

  Rome

  GABRIEL REMAINED AT THE safe flat near the Church of the Trinità dei Monti for the next week. There were moments when it seemed as though none of it had really happened. But then he would wander out to the balcony and see the dome of the Basilica looming over the rooftops of the city, shattered and blackened by fire, as if God, in a moment of disapproval or carelessness, had reached down and destroyed the handiwork of his children. Gabriel, the restorer, wished it was only a painting—an abraded canvas that he might heal with a bottle of linseed oil and a bit of pigment.

  The death toll climbed with each passing day. By the end of Wednesday—Black Wednesday, as Rome’s newspapers christened it—the number of dead stood at six hundred. By Thursday it was six hundred fifty, and by the weekend it had exceeded seven hundred. Colonel Karl Brunner of the Pontifical Swiss Guards was among the dead. So was Luca Angelli, who clung to life for three days in the Gemelli Clinic before being removed from life support. The Pope administered Last Rites and remained at Angelli’s side until he died. The Roman Curia suffered terrible losses. Four cardinals were among the dead, along with eight Curial bishops, and three monsignori. Their funerals had to be conducted in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran, because two days after the attack an international team of structural engineers concluded the Basilica was unsafe to enter. Rome’s largest newspaper, La Repubblica, reported the news by printing a full-page photograph of the ruined dome, headlined with a single word: CONDEMNED.

  The government of Israel had no official standing in the investigation, but Gabriel, with his proximity to Donati and the Pope, quickly came to know as much about the attack as any intelligence officer in the world. He gathered most of his intelligence at the Pope’s dinner table, where he sat each evening with the men leading the investigation: General Marchese of the Carabinieri and Martino Bellano of the Italian security service. For the most part they spoke freely in front of Gabriel, and anything they withheld was dutifully passed along to him by Donati. Gabriel in turn forwarded all his information to King Saul Boulevard, which explained why Shamron was in no hurry to see him leave Rome.

  Within forty-eight hours of the attack the Italians had managed to identify all those involved. The missile strike had been carried out by a four-man team. The driver of the van was of Tunisian origin. The three men who fired the RPG-7s were of Jordanian nationality and were veterans of the insurgency in Iraq. All four were killed in a volley of Carabinieri gunfire seconds after launching their weapons. As for the three men who had posed as German priests, only one was actually German, a young engineering student from Hamburg named Manfred Zeigler. The second was a Dutchman from Rotterdam, and the third was a Flemish-speaking Belgian from Antwerp. All three were Muslim converts, and all had taken part in anti-American and anti-Israeli demonstrations. Gabriel, though he had no proof of it, suspected they had been recruited by Professor Ali Massoudi.

  Using closed-circuit surveillance video and eyewitness accounts, the Vatican and Italian authorities were able to retrace the last moments of the bombers’ lives. After being admitted into the Vatican by an adetto at the Permissions Office, the three men had made their way to Ibrahim el-Banna’s office near the Piazza Santa Marta. Upon leaving each was carrying a large briefcase. As Angelli had suspected, the three men had then slipped into the Basilica through a side entrance. They made their way into St. Peter’s Square, fittingly enough, through the Door of Death. The door, like the other four leading from the Basilica into the square, should have been locked. By the end of the first week the Vatican police still had not determined why it wasn’t.

  The body of Ibrahim el-Banna was identified three days after it was pulled from the rubble of the apartment house in Trastevere. For the time being his true affiliation remained a matter of speculation. Who were the Brotherhood of Allah? Were they an al-Qaeda offshoot or simply al-Qaeda by another name? And who had planned and financed so elaborate an operation? One thing was immediately clear. The attack on the home of Christendom had reignited the fires of the global jihadist movement. Wild street celebrations erupted in Tehran, Cairo, Beirut, and the Palestinian territories, while intelligence analysts from Washington to London to Tel Aviv immediately detected a sharp spike in activity and recruitment.

  On the following Wednesday, the one-week anniversary of the attack, Shamron decided it was time for Gabriel to come home. As he was packing his bag in the safe flat, the red light on the telephone flashed to indicate an incoming call. He raised the receiver and heard Donati’s voice.

  “The Holy Father would like a word with you in private.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon before you leave for the airport.”

  “A word about what?”

  “You are a member of a very small club, Gabriel Allon.”

  “Which club is that?”

  “Men who would dare to ask a question such as that.”

  “Where and when?” Gabriel asked, his tone conciliatory.

  Donati gave him the information. Gabriel hung up the phone and finished packing.

  GABRIEL CLEARED a Carabinieri checkpoint at the edge of the Colonnade and made his way across St. Peter’s Square through the dying twilight. It was still closed to the public. The forensic crews had completed their gruesome task, but the opaque barriers that had been erected around the three blast sites remained in place. An enormous white tarpaulin hung from the façade of the Basilica, concealing the damage beneath the Loggia of the Blessings. It bore the image of a dove and a single word: PEACE.

  He passed through the Arch of Bells and made his way along the left flank of the Basilica. The side entrances were closed and barricaded, and Vigilanza officers stood watch at each one. In the Vatican Gardens it was possible to imagine that nothing had happened—possible, thought Gabriel, until one looked at the ruined dome, which was lit now by a dusty sienna sunset. The Pope was waiting near the House of the Gardener. He greeted Gabriel warmly and together they set out toward the distant corner of the Vatican. A dozen Swiss Guards in plainclothes drifted alongside them amid the stone pines, their long shadows thin upon the grass.

  “Luigi and I have pleaded with the Swiss Guard to reduce the size of their detail,” the Pope said. “For the moment it is nonnegotiable. They’re a bit jumpy—for understandable reasons. Not since the Sack of Rome has a Swiss Guard commander died defending the Vatican from enemy attack.”

  They walked on in silence for a moment. “So this is my fate, Gabriel? To be forever surrounded by men with radios and guns? How can I communicate with my flock? How can I give comfort to the sick and the afflicted if I am cut off from them by a phalanx of bodyguards?”

  Gabriel had no good answer.

  “It will never be the same, will it, Gabriel?”

  “No, Holiness, I’m afraid it will not.”

  “Did they mean to kill me?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Will they try again?”

  “Once they set their sights on a target, they usually don’t stop until they succeed. But in this case, they managed to kill seven hundred pilgrims and several cardinals and bishops—not to mention the commandant of the Swiss Guard. They also managed to inflict severe physical damage to the Basilica itself. In my opinion, they will regard their historical account as settled.”

  “They may not have succeeded in killing me, but they have succeeded in making me a prisoner of the Vatican.” The Pope stopped and looked at the ruined dome. “My cage isn’t so gilded anymore. It took more than a century to build and a few seconds to destroy.”

  “It’s not destroyed, Holiness. The dome can be restored.”

  “That remains to be seen,” the Pope said with uncharacteristic gloominess. “The enginee
rs and architects aren’t so sure it can be done. It might have to be brought down and rebuilt entirely. And the baldacchino suffered severe damage when the debris rained down upon it. This is not something that can simply be replaced, but then you know that better than most.”

  Gabriel snuck a glance at his wristwatch. He would have to be leaving for the airport soon, or he would miss his flight. He wondered why the Pope had asked him here. Surely it wasn’t to discuss the restoration of the Basilica. The Pope turned and started walking again. They were heading toward St. John’s Tower, at the southwest corner of the Vatican.

  “There’s only one reason why I’m not dead now,” the Pope said. “And that’s because of you, Gabriel. In all the sorrow and confusion of this terrible week, I haven’t had a chance to properly thank you. I’m doing so now. I only wish I could do so in public.”

  Gabriel’s role in the affair had been carefully guarded from the media. So far, against all the odds, it had remained a secret.

  “And I only wish I’d discovered Ibrahim el-Banna sooner,” Gabriel said. “Seven hundred people might still be alive.”

  “You did everything that could have been done.”

  “Perhaps, Holiness, but it still wasn’t enough.”

  They arrived at the Vatican wall. The Pope mounted a stone staircase and climbed upward, Gabriel following silently after him. They stood at the parapet and looked out over Rome. Lights were coming on all over the city. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder and saw the Swiss Guards stirring nervously beneath them. He gave them a reassuring hand gesture and looked at the Pope, who was peering downward at the cars racing along the Viale Vaticano.

  “Luigi tells me a promotion awaits you in Tel Aviv.” He had to raise his voice over the din of the traffic. “Is this a promotion you sought for yourself, or is this the work of Shamron?”

  “Some have greatness thrust upon them, Holiness.”

  The Pope smiled, the first Gabriel had seen on his face since his arrival in Rome. “May I give you a small piece of advice?”