Daniel Silva - The Confessor

"It can, Holiness. But there is one problem."

"You're referring to the fact that Carlo Casagrande has portrayed Mr. Allon as a papal assassin?"

"I am, Holiness."

"Obviously, the situation will have to be handled carefully, but if there's one person the Swiss Guards will listen to, it's me." He looked at Shamron. "I will make this pilgrimage to the ghetto as scheduled, and you will be at my side, protecting me, as we should have been at yours sixty years ago. Quite fitting, don't you think, Mr. Shamron?"

Shamron gave a curt nod and an iron smile. Indeed, it was.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the arrangements for the morning complete, Father Donati and the Pope left the safe flat

and sped along the river toward the Vatican. At St. Anne's Gate, the car braked to a halt. Father Donati lowered his window as a Swiss Guard stepped out of his sentry post.

"Father Donati? What in the world is--"

The guardsman fell silent as Pope Paul VII leaned into view. Then the Swiss Guard snapped to attention.

"Holiness!"

"No one must know about this," the Pope said evenly. "Do you understand me?"

"Of course, Holiness!"

"If you tell anyone--even your superiors--that you've seen me tonight, you'll have to answer to me. And I promise you, it won't be a pleasant experience."

"I won't say a word, Holiness. I swear."

"I hope so, young man--for your sake."

The Pope leaned back in his seat. Father Donati raised his window and sped toward the Apostolic Palace. "I'm not sure that poor fellow is ever going to get over that," he said, suppressing laughter.

"Was that really necessary, Luigi?"

"I'm afraid so, Holiness."

"God forgive us," the Pope said. Then he added: "For everything we've done."

"It will all be over soon, Holiness."

"I pray you're right."

ERIC LANGE DID NOT sleep well that night. A rare bout of conscience? Nerves? Perhaps it was the furnacelike heat of Katrine's body nestled against him on the tiny cot. Whatever the reason, he awoke at three-thirty and lay there, wide-eyed, Katrine pressing against his ribs, until the first gray shreds of light entered the window of Carlo Casagrande's hateful room.

He swung his legs out of the bed and crept naked across the bare floor to the window, parted the net curtains, and peered down into the street. His motorcycle was there, parked outside the entrance of the tenement house. There were no signs of surveillance. He released the curtain and it fell back into place. Katrine stirred, wrestled with the blanket, then rolled over and slept on.

Lange brewed a pot of espresso on the electric ring and drank several cups before entering the bathroom. He spent the next hour

there, carefully grooming and altering his appearance. He darkened his hair with dye, transformed his gray eyes to brown with a pair of contact lenses. Lastly, he added eyeglasses, black-rimmed and cheap-looking, the spectacles of a priest. When he finished, the face staring back at him in the fogged glass was that of a stranger. He compared it to the photograph on the badge Casagrande had prepared for him: Manfred Beck, Special Investigation Division, Vatican Security Office. Satisfied, he went back into the main room.

Katrine was still sleeping. Lange padded across the floor, a towel around his waist, and opened the dresser drawer. He slipped on underwear and a pair of the threadbare socks, then went to the closet and opened the door. Black shirt and Roman collar, black trousers, black suit-jacket. Finally, he stepped into the shoes and carefully knotted the laces.

He walked back to the bathroom and stared at himself for a long time in the mirror, slowly transforming himself into the man in the black suit, an actor assuming the role. An assassin, wrapped in a priest's garments; the man he might have been, concealing the man he was. He slipped the Stechkin into the waistband of his trousers and looked at himself one last time. Priest. Revolutionary. Killer. Which one are you, old man?

He poured the last of the coffee into a cup and sat down at the edge of the bed. Katrine opened her eyes and recoiled, hands reflexively padding the bedding for a weapon. When Lange gently touched her leg, she froze, a hand over her breast as she tried to gather herself.

"My God, Eric. I didn't recognize you."

"That's the point, my dear." Lange handed her the cup of coffee. "Get dressed, Katrine. We haven't much time."

Chiara was brewing coffee in the kitchen of the safe flat when the telephone rang. She recognized the voice of Father Donati.

"I'll be there in a minute or two. Send him down."

Chiara hung up as Gabriel came into the room. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie, all compliments of Shimon Pazner's Rome station. Chiara brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve.

"You look very handsome." Then she added: "A bit like an undertaker, but handsome."

"Let's hope not. Who was on the phone?"

"Father Donati. He's on his way."

Gabriel swallowed a cup of coffee and pulled on a tan raincoat. Then he kissed Chiara on the cheek and held her in his arms for a moment.

"You will be careful, won't you, Gabriel?"

A car horn sounded outside. When Gabriel tried to pull away, Chiara held him tightly for a moment, refusing to let him leave. When Father Donati honked the horn again, this time with more urgency, she released her hold on him. Gabriel kissed her one last time.

He slipped his Beretta into a shoulder holster and walked downstairs. A gray Fiat sedan with Vatican plates stood outside the entrance. Father Donati sat behind the wheel, dressed in a clerical suit and a black raincoat. Gabriel climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. Donati turned toward the Tiber embankment.

It was a gray morning, low, dark clouds, a gusty wind making whitecaps on the river. The priest was hunched over the wheel, eyes wide, foot heavy on the accelerator. Gabriel squeezed the armrest, thinking that it was a miracle the Pope had made it back to the Vatican alive last night.

"Drive much, Father Donati?"

"Last night was the first time in about eighteen years."

"I wouldn't have guessed."

"You're a terrible liar, Mr. Allon. I thought people in your line of work were supposed to be good at deception."

"How's the Holy Father this morning?"

"He's quite well, actually. Despite the events of last night, he managed to get a few hours of sleep. He's looking forward to his journey across the river."

"I'll be happy when it's over and he's safely back in the papal apartments."

"That makes two of us."

As they sped along the Tiber, Father Donati briefed Gabriel on the security arrangements. The Pope would travel to the synagogue in his usual armor-plated Mercedes limousine, accompanied by Donati and Gabriel. Immediately surrounding the Pope would be a ring of plainclothes Swiss Guards. As always, Italian police and security forces would provide a second cordon of protection. The route from the Vatican to the old ghetto would be lined by carabinieri traffic units and closed to all other traffic.

The square dome of the Great Synagogue rose before them, a towering structure of pale gray stone and aluminum, Persian and Babylonian in its architectural design. The extreme height of the structure, coupled with its unique facade, made it stand out from the surrounding ocher-colored baroque buildings. The effect was intentional. The community that built the synagogue a hundred years earlier had wished to make it easily visible to the men on the other side of the Tiber--the men behind the ancient walls of the Vatican.

A hundred meters from the synagogue, they came to a police

checkpoint. Father Donati lowered his window, flashed his Vatican identification, and exchanged a few words in Italian with an officer. A moment later, they pulled into the courtyard at the front of the synagogue and braked to a halt. Before Father Donati could shut down the engine, they were set upon by a carabiniere with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Gabriel liked what he saw so far.