Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

Gabriel may have harbored serious doubts about the benefits of confession, but he had none when it came to the trustworthiness of Luigi Donati. Their bond had been forged in secrecy and was drenched in blood, some of it their own. The former Jesuit knew how to keep a secret. He was also skilled at telling the occasional untruth, as long as it was in the service of a noble cause. And so, as they walked the silent halls of the Apostolic Palace together, Gabriel told him everything, beginning with his summons to Assisi and ending with Ostrovsky’s death.

“Do I have to remind you that we had an agreement? We asked the Italian authorities to allow you to reside in the country under a false identity. We gave you work and accommodations-very pleasant accommodations, I might add. In exchange for this, we asked only that you refrain from any and all work for your former employer.”

Gabriel offered an uninspired version of the “Navot defense”-that it was not really an operation, only a conversation. Donati dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“You gave us your word, Gabriel, and you broke it.”

“We had no choice. Ostrovsky said he would only talk to me.”

“Then you should have picked somewhere else to meet him other than my Basilica. You’ve laid a potential scandal on our doorstep and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

“The difficult questions will be directed toward Moscow, not the Vatican.”

“Let’s hope you’re correct. I’m obviously no expert, but it appears Ostrovsky was poisoned by someone.” Donati paused. “Someone who apparently didn’t want him talking to you .”

“I concur.”

“Because he’s a Russian, and because the Russians have a history of this sort of thing, there’s bound to be speculation about a Kremlin connection.”

“It’s already begun, Luigi. A hundred reporters are camped at the edge of St. Peter’s Square saying that very thing.”

“What do you believe?”

“Ostrovsky told us he was afraid of the siloviki . It’s the word Russians use to describe the gang of former KGB men who’ve set up shop inside the Kremlin. He also told us that the information he had concerned a grave threat to the West and to Israel.”

“What sort of threat?”

“He didn’t get a chance to tell us that.”

Donati clasped his hands behind his back thoughtfully and looked down at the marble floor. “For the moment, Ostrovsky’s death is a matter for the police and security services of the Vatican, but it is unlikely to remain so. I anticipate pressure will build rather quickly for us to grant the Italian authorities primacy in the investigation. Fortunately, murder is not a common occurrence at the Vatican -except when you come to town, of course. We simply don’t have the technical expertise necessary to carry out an inquiry of this complexity, especially if sophisticated poisons or toxins are involved.”

“How long before you’ll have to let the Italians take over?”

“If I had to guess, the request will be on my desk by tomorrow. If we refuse, we’ll be accused of engaging in a cover-up. The press will spin wild theories about dark forces at play behind the walls of the Vatican. Which brings us back to the photographs of you inside the Basilica at the time of Ostrovsky’s death.”

“What about them?”

“Dropping the prints into the pontifical shredder is only a temporary solution. As you might expect, the images are stored permanently in the memory of our computers. And don’t even think about asking me to delete them. I won’t countenance the destruction of evidence- not with the Italians about to take over the case.”

“No one is going to recognize me from those images, Luigi. There’s only one way the Italians will find out I was here.”

“Don’t worry, Gabriel. Your secret is safe with us. Three people know of your involvement: the Holy Father, myself, and the Vigilanza detective who’s leading our investigation. I’ve sworn him to secrecy and he’s agreed to remain silent. He’s what we Italians call an uomo di fiducia: a man of trust. He used to work for the Polizia di Stato.”

“If it’s all right with you, Luigi, I’d like to have a brief word with the inspector.”

“About what?”

“It’s possible the security cameras in the Basilica picked up someone other than me.”

“Who?”

“The man who killed Boris Ostrovsky, of course.”

Gabriel did not require an escort to find the Vatican Central Security Office. Unfortunately, he knew the way. It was there, shortly before the attack on St. Peter’s Basilica, that he had engaged in a frantic search for evidence of an al-Qaeda infiltrator at the Vatican. Had he been able to start a few minutes sooner, he might have prevented the deadliest single act of Islamic terrorism since 9/11.

Ispettore Mateo Cassani, a trim figure in a well-cut dark suit, was waiting in the reception foyer. He regarded Gabriel with a pair of weary, bloodshot eyes, then extended his hand. “Welcome back, Signore. Come with me, please.”

They headed down a narrow corridor and paused briefly in an open doorway. Inside, two uniformed Vigilanza officers were seated before a wall of video monitors. Gabriel quickly scanned the images: St. Anne’s Gate, the Arch of Bells, St. Peter’s Square, the San Damaso Courtyard, the Vatican Gardens, the interior of the Basilica.

“This is our main observation room. It also serves as our command center in times of crisis, such as the morning of the attack. Everything is recorded and stored digitally. For all eternity,” he added with a tired smile. “Just like the Holy Mother Church.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Don’t worry, Signore. I know who you are, and I know exactly what you did the day those terrorists attacked this place. The Church lost four cardinals and eight bishops in a matter of seconds. And if it wasn’t for you, we might have lost a pope as well.”

They left the observation room and entered a cramped office overlooking the darkened Belvedere Courtyard. Cassani sat down before a desktop computer and invited Gabriel to look over his shoulder.

“Monsignor Donati told me you wanted to see every image we had of the dead Russian.”

Gabriel nodded. The detective clicked the mouse and the first image appeared, a wide-angle shot of St. Peter’s Square, taken from a camera mounted atop the left flank of the Colonnade. The shot advanced at the rate of one frame per second. When the time code in the bottom left portion of the screen reached 15:47:23, Cassani clicked the PAUSE icon and pointed to the top right-hand corner.

“There’s Signore Ostrovsky. He enters the square alone and makes his way directly to the security checkpoint outside the Basilica.” Cassani glanced at Gabriel. “It’s almost as if he was intending to meet someone inside.”

“Can you set the shot in motion?” Gabriel asked.

The detective clicked the PLAY icon and Boris Ostrovsky began moving across the square, with Eli Lavon following carefully in his wake. Ninety seconds later, as Ostrovsky was passing between the Obelisk and the left fountain, he slipped out of the range of the camera atop the Colonnade and into the range of another camera mounted near the Loggia of the Blessings. A few seconds later, he was surrounded by a group of tourists. A solitary figure approached from the left side of the image; rather than wait for the group to pass, he shouldered his way through it. The man appeared to bump several members of the group, including Ostrovsky, then headed off toward the entrance of the square.

Gabriel watched the final three minutes of Boris Ostrovsky’s life: his brief wait at the security checkpoint; his passage through the Filarete Door; his stop at the Chapel of the Pietà; his final walk to the Monument to Pius XII. Precisely sixty-seven seconds after his arrival, he fell to his knees before the statue and began clutching his throat. Gabriel appeared twenty-two seconds after that, advancing spiritlike across the screen, one frame per second. The detective appeared moved by the sight of Gabriel lowering the dying Russian carefully to the floor.