by Daniel Silva
They had now lost any remaining element of surprise. Gabriel and Mikhail both reloaded as they sprinted the final thirty yards toward the front door. Yaakov had much experience entering terrorist hideouts in the West Bank and Gaza and led the way. He didn’t bother trying the latch. Instead he sprayed a volley of rounds through the center of the door to take out anyone standing on the other side, then shot away the lock and the surrounding wood of the doorjamb. Navot, the largest of the four men, hurled his thick body against the door, and it collapsed inward like a falling domino.
The other three stepped quickly into the small entrance hall. Gabriel covered the space to the left, Yaakov the center, and Mikhail the right. Gabriel, still wearing the night-vision goggles, saw the man he shot though the window lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Yaakov and Mikhail each fired immediately, and Gabriel heard the screams of two more dying men. They moved forward into the chalet, found the steps to the cellar, and headed down. We’ll start there, Gabriel had said. Torturers always like to do their work belowground.
SHE WAS DESCRIBING for him the day of the sale, when there came from the floor above the sound of a disturbance. He silenced her with a brutal slap across her face, then stood up and, with the gun in his hand, moved quickly to the door. A few seconds later she heard shouts and screams and heavy footfalls on the steps. Muhammad turned and leveled the gun at her face. Sarah, still handcuffed to the table, reflexively lowered her head between her arms as he squeezed the trigger twice. In the tiny chamber the gun sounded like artillery. The rounds scorched the air above her head and embedded themselves in the wall at her back.
He screamed at her in rage for having the indecency of choosing life over death and moved a step closer to fire again. Then the door came crashing inward as though it had been blown away by the concussion of a bomb blast. It slammed against Muhammad’s back and knocked him to the ground. The gun was still in his hand. He rose onto one knee and leveled it at her once more as two men came flashing through the doorway, their faces hidden by balaclavas and night-vision goggles. They shot Muhammad. They kept shooting him until they had no more rounds to fire.
THEY CUT AWAY the handcuffs and the shackles and spirited her past the tattered bodies of the dead. Outside she climbed childlike into Gabriel’s arms. He bore her across the snowy clearing and down the track to the road, where Lavon and Moshe were waiting with the cars. The silence of the forest was shattered by her wailing.
“I had to tell them things.”
“I know.”
“They hit me. They told me they were going to kill me.”
“I know, Sarah. I saw the room.”
“They know about you, Gabriel. I tried to—”
“It’s all right, Sarah. It’s our fault. We let you down.”
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m so sorry.”
“Please, Sarah. Don’t.”
“I saw him again.”
“Who?”
“Bin Shafiq.”
“Where was he?”
“In Zurich. He’s not finished, Gabriel.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s going to hit the Vatican again.”
36.
Zug, Switzerland
TWO OF NAVOT’S WATCHERS managed to make it south over the Italian border before the weather closed the mountain passes. The other two went east into Austria. Navot himself joined with Moshe and went to Paris to throw a security net around Hannah Weinberg. Gabriel took Sarah to the private airstrip outside Zug. They sat like lovers as he drove, Gabriel with his arm around her shoulder, Sarah with her wet face pressed against the side of his neck. It was 4:30 when the plane rose into the clouds and disappeared. Carter and Gabriel were not on it.
“All right, Gabriel, I’m listening.”
“Sarah saw bin Shafiq in Zurich. He told her he was going to hit the Vatican again.”
Carter swore softly beneath his breath.
“Your president is in Rome today, is he not?”
“He is indeed.”
“What time is he due at the Vatican?”
“High noon.”
Gabriel looked at his wristwatch.
“There’s a shuttle between Zurich and Rome that leaves on the hour. If we hurry, we can be on the seven-o’clock plane.”
“Drive,” said Carter.
Gabriel started the car and headed for Zurich. Carter called CIA Headquarters and asked to be connected to the chief of the U.S. Secret Service.
THE FIRST thirty minutes of the drive Carter spent on the telephone. When the lights of Zurich appeared out of the mist at the northern end of the lake, he hung up the phone and looked at Gabriel.
“Sarah will be on the ground at Ramstein Air Base in less than an hour. She’ll be taken to an American military hospital there for a complete examination.”
“What does your doctor say?”
“Her condition is as you might expect. Abrasions and contusions to her face. A slight concussion. Damage to her left eye. Deep abdominal bruises. Two cracked ribs. Two broken toes. I wonder why they did that.”
“They dragged her down the stairs to the cellar.”
“Oh, and the hypothermia. I suppose she got that from riding in the trunk. All in all, things could be a lot worse.”
“Make sure you have someone with her,” Gabriel said. “The last thing we need now is Sarah inadvertently spilling our secrets to the doctors at Ramstein.”
“Fear not, Gabriel. She’s in good hands.”
“She says she talked.”
“Of course she talked. Hell, I would have talked.”
“You should have seen the room.”
“Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t. That sort of stuff isn’t my cup of tea. I sometimes find myself longing for the good old days of the cold war, when torture and blood weren’t part of my business.” Carter looked at Gabriel. “I suppose it’s always been part of yours, hasn’t it?”
Gabriel ignored him. “She told them everything to buy time. The question is, did Muhammad manage to report any of what she told them to his superiors before we arrived?”
“You got his notebook?”
Gabriel tapped the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
“We’ll debrief Sarah when she’s recovered.”
“She might not remember everything she told them. She was filled with drugs.”
They drove in silence for a moment. Despite the early hour, there was morning commuter traffic on the road. Industrious Swiss moneymen, thought Gabriel. He wondered how many of them worked for companies linked however tenuously to AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.
“Do you think they’re going to let me on this plane, Adrian?”
“Gustav assures me we’ll have no problems with our departure.”
“Maybe not you, but I have a colorful history here in Zurich.”
“You have a colorful history everywhere. Don’t worry, Gabriel. They’ll let you on the plane.”
“You’re sure your friend Gustav will keep it quiet?”
“Keep what quiet?” Carter managed a weary smile. “We have a cleanup team en route to Uri as we speak. Gustav will keep the property secured until they arrive. And then…” He shrugged. “It will be as if nothing ever happened.”
“What are you going to do with the bodies?”
“We have more than secret detention facilities in eastern Europe. They’ll get a proper burial, which is more than they deserve. And maybe some day, when this war without end is actually over, we’ll be able to tell one of their relatives where they can claim the bones.” Carter smoothed his mustache. “You have one, don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“A secret cemetery? Somewhere out in the Jordan Valley?”
Gabriel took a long look into his rearview mirror but said nothing.
“How many bodies, Gabriel? Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“How many then? The team needs to know where to look.”
>
Gabriel told him. Two in the four-wheel-drive. Two in the clearing in front of the chalet. One in the first-floor window. One in the second-floor window. Two in the center hall. Two at the bottom of the stairs. And Muhammad.
“Eleven men,” Carter said. “We’ll run their names. We’ll find out who they were and what they were planning. But I think it’s safe to assume right now that you took down a major cell tonight, along with a very senior man in bin Shafiq’s operation.”
“We didn’t get the one we wanted.”
“Something tells me you’ll find him.”
“At least two of them were Europeans, and Uzi heard one of them speaking in a Swiss-German accent.”
“I’m afraid they’ll be buried with the jihadists. I suppose it’s how they would have wanted it.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Can’t you drive any faster?”
“I’m going eighty, Adrian. How much did you tell the Secret Service?”
“I told them we have alarmingly credible evidence that the forces of global jihad are planning to attack the president at the Vatican this afternoon. Heavy emphasis was placed on the words ‘alarmingly credible evidence.’ Secret Service got the message loud and clear, and I hope to have a moment or two with the president later this morning. He’s staying at the ambassador’s residence.”
“He might want to consider canceling.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Carter said. “The Vatican is now the most visible symbol in the world of the dangers of Islamic terrorism. This president isn’t going to pass up a chance to reinforce his message on that stage.”
“He’s going to get an earful from Lucchesi.”
“He’s ready for it,” Carter said. “As for security, Secret Service is already making arrangements with the Italians to change the president’s travel plans. Coincidentally, they were thinking about it before they received my call. Rome is a mess. They’re expecting two million people in the streets today.”
“How are they going to get him into the Vatican?”
“The motorcade of visiting heads of state usually enters the Holy See through St. Anne’s Gate, then heads up the Via Belvedere to the San Damaso Courtyard. He’s met there by the commandant of the Swiss Guard and escorted into the Apostolic Palace. The bodyguards of the visiting heads of state have to stay down in the courtyard. Vatican protocol. The head of state goes up alone, protected only by the Guard. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Secret Service always stashes a couple of men in the official party—nice Catholic boys who want to meet the Holy Father.”
“So what sort of changes are you making?”
“The president is going to chopper to the Vatican and land on the Pope’s helipad.”
“It’s in the far western corner, right against the wall. If someone is waiting down on the Viale Vaticano with another missile…”
“Secret Service says the area can be secured.”
“How many nice Catholic boys are you going to stash in the president’s official delegation?”
“More than usual.” Carter looked at his watch again. “We should probably enter the airport a few minutes apart. Langley booked us in separate seats.”
“You’re ashamed of me, Adrian?”
“Never prouder, actually. You and your boys showed a lot of guts going into the chalet.”
“We didn’t have a choice, Adrian. We never have a choice.”
Carter closed his eyes for a moment. “You know, it’s possible bin Shafiq was just shooting off his mouth, or bluffing for some reason.”
“Why would he bluff, Adrian? He was going to kill her.”
37.
Vatican City
IT’S A GOOD THING your friend the monsignor asked us to give you a lift,” the Carabinieri captain said. “Otherwise you would have never made it from Fiumicino to the Vatican.”
Gabriel looked out the window of the helicopter. Rome lay beneath him. The Villa Borghese had been taken over as a staging area by the demonstrators and was now a sea of humanity. The first marchers were spilling from the bottom of the park into the Via Veneto.
“Can you keep them away from the Vatican?”
“We’re going to try.” The captain pointed out the window. “You see those barricades down there? Our plan is to herd them up the hill into the Janiculum Park. But we’re expecting two million protesters. If things get out of control…” He gave an Italianate shrug. “I’m glad I don’t do riot duty anymore. It could turn into a war zone down there.”
The helicopter turned and banked toward the city-state. The dome of the Basilica, partially concealed behind the enormous tarpaulins of the work crews, shone in the bright sunlight, while the Pope’s plea for peace fluttered from the façade in the gentle morning breeze. They swept low over the Viale Vaticano, staying over Italian airspace for as long as possible, then slipped over the wall and set down on the papal helipad. Donati, dressed in a black cassock and magenta sash, was waiting there, a plainclothes Swiss Guard at this side. The tall priest’s expression was grim as they shook hands briefly and set out across the Vatican Gardens toward the Apostolic Palace.
“How serious is it this time, Gabriel?”
“Very.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“The messenger,” said Gabriel. “The messenger.”
GABRIEL WAITED until they were upstairs in Donati’s third-floor office before telling him any more. Donati understood he was being given only part of the story. He was too concerned about the safety of his master to protest.
“I want you by his side until the president leaves the Vatican.”
This time Gabriel did not argue.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Donati said. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I honestly can’t remember.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time for sleep now,” Donati said, “but we have to do something about your appearance. I don’t suppose you brought a suit with you?”
“I wish I could explain to you just how ridiculous that question sounds.”
“You’re going to need some proper clothes. The papal protection detail of the Swiss Guard wear suits and ties. I’m sure the commandant can get you reasonably attired.”
“There’s something I need more than a blue suit, Luigi.”
“What’s that?”
Gabriel told him.
“The Swiss Guard can get you one of those, too.”
Donati picked up the phone and dialed.
THE SAME Swiss Guard who had been at Donati’s side on the helipad was waiting for Gabriel in the San Damaso Courtyard ten minutes later. He was equal to Gabriel in height, with square shoulders that filled out his suit jacket and the dense muscular neck of a rugby player. His blond hair was cropped nearly to the scalp of his bullet-shaped head, so that the wire leading into his earpiece was clearly visible.
“Have we met?” Gabriel asked the Guard in German as they set out down the Via Belvedere.
“No, sir.”
“You look familiar to me.”
“I was one of the Guards who helped you get the Holy Father into the Apostolic Palace after the attack.”
“I thought so,” said Gabriel. “What’s your name?”
“Lance Corporal Erich Müller, sir.”
“Which canton are you from, Lance Corporal?”
“Nidwalden, sir. It’s a demi-canton next to—”
“I know where it is,” Gabriel said.
“You know Switzerland, sir.”
“Very well.”
Just before reaching St. Anne’s Gate, they turned right and entered the Swiss Guard barracks. In the reception area a duty officer sat primly behind a half-moon desk. Before him was a bank of closed-circuit television monitors. On the wall behind him hung a crucifix and a row of flags representing each of Switzerland’s twenty-six cantons. As Gabriel and Müller walked past, the duty officer made a notation in his logbook. “The Swiss Quarter is tightly controlled,” Müller said.
“There are three different entry points, but this is the main one.”
They left the reception area and turned right. A long dark corridor stretched before them, lined with tiny cell-like quarters for the halberdiers. At the end of the corridor was an archway, and beyond the archway an interior stone courtyard, where a drill sergeant was putting six novices through their paces with wooden rifles. They entered the building on the other side of the courtyard and descended a flight of stone steps to the indoor firing range. It was silent and unoccupied.
“This is where we do our weapons training. The walls are supposed to be soundproof, but sometimes the neighbors complain about the noise.”
“The neighbors?”
“The Holy Father doesn’t seem to mind, but the cardinal secretary of state is not enamored with the sound of gunfire. We don’t shoot on Sundays or Catholic holy days.” Müller went over to a metal cabinet and opened the padlock. “Our standard-issue sidearm is a 9mm SIG-Sauer with a fifteen-shot magazine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel as he opened the doors of the cabinet. “It’s a Swiss-made weapon. Very accurate…and very powerful. Would you like to try it out?”
Gabriel nodded. Müller removed a gun, an empty magazine, and a full box of ammunition and carried them over to the range. He started to load the gun, but Gabriel stopped him. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you see to the target.” The Swiss Guard clipped a target to the line and ran it out halfway over the range. “Farther,” Gabriel said. “All the way to the end, please.” Müller did as he was told. By the time the target had reached the distant wall of the range, Gabriel had loaded fifteen rounds into the magazine and inserted it into the butt of the pistol. “You’re quick,” Müller remarked. “You must have good hands.”