Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“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.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

He offered Gabriel protection for his ears and eyes.

“No thanks.”

“Rules of the range, sir.”

Gabriel turned without warning and opened fire. He kept firing until the gun was empty. Müller reeled in the target while Gabriel ejected the empty magazine and picked up his brass.

“Jesus Christ.”

All fifteen shots were grouped in the center of the target’s face.

“Do you want to shoot again?” Müller asked.

“I’m fine.”

“How about a shoulder holster?”

“That’s what pants are for.”

“Let me get you an extra magazine.”

“Give me two, please. And an extra box of ammo.”

HE COLLECTED a parcel of clothing from the commandant’s office, then hurried back to the Apostolic Palace. Upstairs on the third floor, Donati showed him to a small guest apartment with a private bathroom and shower. “I stole that razor from the Holy Father,” Donati said. “The towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

The president wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. Gabriel took his time shaving, then spent several minutes standing beneath the showerhead. The clothing that had been scrounged up by the Swiss Guard fit him surprisingly well, and by eleven o’clock he was walking down the frescoed corridor toward the Pope’s private apartment, looking as well as could be expected.

He had made one additional request of Donati before going to the Swiss Guard barracks: a copy of the final report, prepared jointly by the Italian and Vatican security services, on the October attack. He read it over a cappuccino and cornetto in the Pope’s private dining room, then spent a few minutes flipping round the dial on the Pope’s television, looking for any word of eleven dead bodies found in a Swiss chalet. There was no mention on any of the international news channels. He supposed Carter’s team had completed its task.

Donati came for him at 11:45. They walked to the Belvedere Palace and found an empty office with a good view of the Gardens. A moment later the trees began to twist and writhe, then two enormous twin-rotor helicopters came into view and descended toward the helipad in the far corner of the city-state. Gabriel felt a bit of tension drain from his body as he saw the first helicopter slip safely below the treetops. Five minutes later they caught their first glimpse of the American president, striding confidently toward the palace, surrounded by several dozen heavily armed, nervous-looking Secret Service agents.

“The agents will have to wait down in the Garden,” Donati said. “The Americans don’t like it, but those are the rules of protocol. Do you know they actually try to slip Secret Service agents into the official delegation?”

“You don’t say.”

Donati looked at Gabriel. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “We should get back to the Apostolic Palace. I’d like to be there before the president arrives.”

Donati turned and led the way.

THEY REACHED the Sala Clementina, a soaring frescoed receiving room one floor below the Pope’s private apartments, five minutes before the president. The Holy Father had not yet arrived. There was a detachment of ceremonial Swiss Guard standing outside the wide entranceway and several more in plainclothes waiting inside. Two ornate chairs stood at one end of the long rectangular room; at the other was a pack of reporters, photographers, and cameramen. Their collective mood was more disagreeable than usual. The equipment searches and security checks conducted by the Swiss Guard and Secret Service had been far more invasive than usual, and three European camera crews were refused entry because of minor discrepancies concerning their credentials. The press would be allowed to record the first moments of the historic meeting and broadcast the images live to the world, then they would be shepherded out.