Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“Wise man. And then?”

“One step at a time, Holiness.”

“Will you allow me to give you one more piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“As of this moment, you are the most famous man in Italy. A national hero. Something tells me the country would welcome you back with open arms. And this time not as Mario Delvecchio.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“If I were you, I’d make it a bridge back to Venice.”

The Pope gazed silently for a moment through the open door. “I don’t know what I’ll do if God takes him from me. I can’t run the Roman Catholic Church without Luigi Donati.”

“I remember the day he came to Jerusalem to see me,” Gabriel said. “When we were walking through the Old City, I foolishly described him as a faithless man at the side of a man of great faith. But it took a great deal of faith to step in front of those bullets.”

“Luigi Donati is a man of extraordinary faith. He just doesn’t realize it sometimes. Now I have to have faith. I have to believe that God will see fit to let me have him a little longer-and that He will now see fit to end this madness.”

The next question the Pope asked was the same one he had posed to Gabriel at the end of the attack in October.

“Is it over?”

This time Gabriel gazed at the television and said nothing.

No, Holiness, he thought. Not quite .

THE SENATE SELECT COMMITTEE convened one month after the attempt on the president’s life. In their opening statements the ranking members assured the American people that their investigation would be thorough and unsparing, but by the end of the first week senators from both parties were openly frustrated by what they came to regard as a lack of candor by the president’s security and intelligence chiefs. The president’s men explained in painstaking detail how the forces of global Islamic extremism had managed to penetrate the center of Christendom, and how Professor Ali Massoudi had managed to recruit a young Swiss named Erich Müller and insert him into the Pontifical Swiss Guard. But when it came to who had masterminded the two attacks on the Vatican -and more important, who had footed the bill-the president’s men could offer up only informed opinion. Nor could they explain to any of the committee members’ satisfaction the presence at the Vatican of one Gabriel Allon, the now-legendary Israeli agent and assassin. After much internal deliberation, the senators decided to subpoena him for themselves. Because he was a foreign national he was under no obligation to obey the summons and, as expected, he steadfastly refused to appear. Three days later he abruptly changed his mind. He would testify, he told them, but only in secret. The senators agreed, and asked him to come to Washington the following Thursday.

HE ENTERED the subterranean hearing room alone. When the committee chairman asked him to stand and state his name for the record, he did so without hesitation.

“And your employer?”

“The prime minister of the State of Israel.”

“We have many questions we would like to ask you, Mr. Allon, but we have been told by your ambassador that you will not answer any question that you deem inappropriate.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Chairman.”

“We have also been informed that you wish to read a statement into the record before we begin the questioning.”

“That is also correct, Mr. Chairman.”

“This statement deals with the country of Saudi Arabia and America ’s relationship to it.”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Just a reminder, Mr. Allon. While this testimony is being taken in secret, there will still be a transcript made of your remarks.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Very well. You may proceed.”

With that he looked down and began to read his statement. In the far corner of the room, one man visibly winced. Hercules has come to the United States Senate, the man thought. And he’s brought a quiver full of arrows dipped in gall.

“CONGRATULATIONS, GABRIEL,” said Adrian Carter. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? We gave you the stage, and you put it to good use.”

“The senators needed to know about the true nature of the Saudi regime and its support for global terrorism. The American people need to know how all those petrodollars are being spent.”

“At least you kept Zizi’s name out of it.”

“I have other plans for Zizi.”

“You’d better not. Besides, you need to keep your eye on the ball right now.”

“Eye on the ball? What does this mean?”

“It’s a sports metaphor, Gabriel. Play any sports?”

“I don’t have time for sports.”

“You’re getting more like Shamron with each passing day.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gabriel said. “Which ball should I be keeping my eye on?”

“Bin Shafiq.” Carter gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “Any sign of him?”

Gabriel shook his head. “You?”

“We may be on to something, actually.”

“Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Not yet.”

Carter drove across Memorial Bridge and turned onto the George Washington Parkway. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Gabriel looked out the window and admired the view of Georgetown on the other side of the river.

“I saw from your travel itinerary that you’re stopping in Rome on your way back to Israel,” Carter said. “Planning to undertake another assignment for the Vatican?”

“I just want to spend some time with Donati. When I left Rome, he still wasn’t conscious.” Gabriel looked at his watch. “Where are you taking me, Adrian?”

“You have a few hours before your flight. There’s a little place out in the Virginia horse country where we can have lunch.”

“How long before we get there?”

“About an hour.”

Gabriel reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

HE WOKE as they entered a small town called The Plains. Carter slowed as he negotiated the tiny central business district; then he crossed a set of old railroad tracks, and once again headed into the countryside. The road was familiar to Gabriel, as was the long gravel drive into which Carter turned two miles later. It ran along the edge of a narrow stream. To the left was a rolling meadow, and at the top of the meadow was a large farmhouse with a tarnished copper roof and a double-decker porch. When Gabriel had last visited the house, the trees had been empty of leaves and the ground covered in snow. Now the dogwoods were in bloom, and the fields were pale green with new spring grass.

A horse came across the pasture toward them at an easy canter, ridden by a woman with golden hair. The swelling in her face had receded, and her features had returned to normal. All except for the smudges of darkness beneath her eyes, thought Gabriel. In Sarah’s eyes there were still traces of the nightmare she had endured at the chalet in Canton Uri. She guided the horse expertly alongside the car and peered down at Gabriel. A smile appeared on her face, and for an instant she looked like the same beautiful woman he had seen walking down Q Street in Washington last autumn. Then the smile faded and with two precise jabs of her boot heel she sent the horse galloping across the meadow toward the house.

“She has good days and bad days,” Carter said as he watched her go. “But I’m sure you understand that.”

“Yes, Adrian, I understand.”

“I’ve always found personal grudges counterproductive in a business like ours, but I’ll never forgive Zizi for what he did to her.”