Daniel Silva - The Messenger

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 engineers 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?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Use your power wisely. Even though you will find yourself in a position to punish your enemies, use your power to pursue peace at every turn. Seek justice rather than vengeance.”

Gabriel was tempted to remind the Pope that he was only a secret servant of the State, that decisions of war and peace were in the hands of men far more powerful than he. Instead he assured the Pope that he would take his advice to heart.

“Will you search for the men who attacked the Vatican?”

“It’s not our fight-not yet, at least.”

“Something tells me it will be soon.”

The Pope was watching the traffic below him with a childlike fascination.

“It was my idea to put the dove of peace on the shroud covering the façade of the Basilica. I’m sure you find the sentiment hopelessly naïve. You probably consider me naïve as well.”