Daniel Silva - The Confessor

The man walked quickly down the steps and started across the square, directly toward the van. Mordecai panicked. The only weaponry he had was a directional microphone and a long-lens Nikon camera. It was the Nikon he reached for. As the man drew closer to the van, Mordecai raised it calmly to his eye and snapped off three quick shots.

The last one, he was convinced, was a keeper.

Vatican city state is the world's smallest country and also the most sparsely populated. More than four thousand people work there each day, yet only four hundred or so actually live behind the walls. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi was one of them. His private apartment in the Apostolic Palace was just one floor away from that of the Holy Father. While some prelates found life in the epicenter of Vatican power the equivalent of living in a gilded cage, Cardinal Brindisi truly relished it. His rooms were glorious, his commute was exceedingly short, and a staff of priests and nuns saw to his every need. If there was one drawback, it was the proximity of the papal household. While inside the palace, there was little the Cardinal could do to shield himself from the prying eyes of the Pope's secretaries. The back room at L'Eau Vive was suitable for many of the cardinal's private assignations, though others, like the one scheduled for this evening, had to be held under more secure circumstances.

A Mercedes sedan was waiting in the San Damaso Courtyard outside the entrance of the Apostolic Palace. Unlike lesser Curial cardinals, Brindisi did not have to endure the luck of the draw in the Vatican motor pool. A Mercedes sedan and a driver were permanently assigned to him, along with a Vigilanza security man. Brindisi climbed into the back, and the car pulled away. It moved slowly along the Via Belvedere--past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Swiss Guards' barracks--before slipping through St. Anne's Gate into Rome proper.

The car crossed the Piazza della Citta, then turned into the entrance of an underground parking garage. The building above was a Vatican-owned residential complex where many Curial cardinals lived. There were several others like it scattered around Rome.

The car braked to a halt next to a gray Fiat van. As Brindisi climbed out, the van's rear door swung open and a man lowered himself to the ground. Like Brindisi, he was cloaked in a cassock, with a crimson simar and fascia. But unlike the secretary of state, he had no right to wear it. He was not a cardinal; in fact, he was not even an ordained priest. Cardinal Brindisi did not know the man's name, only that he had worked briefly as an actor before coming to work for the Vigilanza.

Brindisi's stand-in stepped out of the shadows and paused for an instant before the cardinal. As always, Brindisi felt a chill at the back of his neck. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror. The features, the round eyeglasses, the gold pectoral cross--the man had even Earned to mimic the arrogant angle of Brindisi's zucchetto. A tepid smile flickered over the man's face, a precise imitation of Brindisi's own, then he said, "Good evening, Eminence."

"Good evening, Eminence," Cardinal Brindisi found himself repeating.

The impersonator nodded tersely, then climbed into the back of Brindisi's staff car and sped away. Father Mascone, Brindisi's private secretary, was waiting in the back of the van. "Please hurry, Eminence. It's not safe to stay here long."

The priest helped the cardinal into the back of the van and closed the door, then guided him onto an embroidered stool. The van sped back up the ramp and turned into the street. A moment later, it was heading across Rome toward the Tiber.

The priest unzipped a garment bag and removed several articles of clothing: a pair of gray trousers, a mock turtleneck pullover, an expensive tan blazer, a pair of black loafers. Cardinal Brindisi loosened his simar and began to undress. After a moment, he was naked except for his underwear and a spiked chain wrapped around his right thigh.

"Perhaps you should remove your cilice," the priest said. "It might show through your trousers."

Cardinal Brindisi shook his head. "My willingness to shed my vestments goes only so far, Father Mascone. I will wear my cilice tonight, regardless of whether or not it shows through"--he paused---"my trousers."

"Very well, Eminence."

With the priest's help, the cardinal quickly changed into the unfamiliar clothing. When he was fully dressed, he removed his distinctive spectacles and replaced them with a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses. The transformation was complete. He no longer looked like a prince of the church, but like a well-to-do Roman male of ill repute, perhaps a man who put himself about with younger women. Five minutes later, in a deserted square on the opposite side of the Tiber, the van came to a stop. The priest opened the door. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi made the sign of the cross and stepped out.

IN MANY WAYS, Rome is a company town. Under normal circumstances, Marco Brindisi could not walk the Via Veneto without being recognized, even dressed in the simple black cassock of a parish priest. Tonight, however, he moved unnoticed, slicing his way through the buzzing crowds and past overflowing cafes as though he were just another Roman in search of a good meal and pleasant company.

The glory days of the Via Veneto had long since faded. It was still a lovely boulevard lined with plane trees, exclusive shops, and expensive restaurants, but the intellectuals and movie stars had long ago moved on in search of undiscovered delights. Now the crowd was mainly tourists and businessmen and pretty Italian teenagers careening about on motor scooters.

Marco Brindisi had never been seduced by the Via Veneto's dolce vita, even in the sixties, when he was a young Curial bureaucrat fresh from his Umbrian hill town, and it seemed even less appealing now. The snatches of table conversation drifting past his ears seemed so utterly trivial. He knew that some cardinals--indeed, even some popes--liked to walk about Rome in mufti to see how the other half lived. Brindisi had no desire to see how the other half 'lived. With few exceptions, he found the other half to be an immoral and uncouth rabble who would be far better off if they listened more to the teachings of the Church and less to the incessant blare of their televisions.

An attractive middle-aged woman in a low-cut dress shot him an admiring glance from a cafe table. Brindisi, playing the part, smiled back. As he walked on, the cardinal begged Christ's forgiveness and applied pressure to his cilice to increase the pain. He had heard the confessions of priests who had fallen victim to the temptation of sex. Priests who kept mistresses. Priests who had performed unspeakable acts with other priests. Brindisi had never known such temptations. The moment he entered the seminary, his heart was given over to Christ and the Virgin. Priests who could not keep their vows sickened him. He believed that any priest who could not remain celibate should be defrocked. But he was also a pragmatist, and he realized that such a policy would certainly decimate the ranks of the clergy.

The cardinal came to the intersection of the Via Veneto and the Corso d'italia and glanced at his watch. He had arrived at precisely the scheduled time. A few seconds later, a car pulled to the curb. The rear door swung open, and Carlo Casagrande climbed out.

"Excuse me if I don't kiss your ring," Casagrande said, "but I don't think it would be appropriate under the circumstances. The weather is quite mild this evening. Shall we walk in the Villa Borghese?"

Casagrande lead the cardinal across the broad boulevard, exposing the second-most powerful man in the Catholic Church to the bloodlust of Rome's drivers. Arriving safely at the other side, they strolled along a gravel footpath. Come Sunday, the park would be filled with screaming children and men listening to the soccer matches on portable radios. Tonight it was quiet except for the swish of traffic along the Corso. The cardinal walked as though he were still wearing crimson, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head down--a rich man who had dropped money and was making a halfhearted effort to find it. When Casagrande whispered that Peter Malone was dead, Brindisi murmured a brief prayer but resisted the impulse to conclude it with the sign of the cross.