by Daniel Silva
“I won’t countenance a murder. Another murder, I should say.”
“No one’s talking about killing anyone. But if there’s anyone who deserves—”
Donati silenced Gabriel by raising his long hand. “Just talk to Carlo.”
“When?”
“Next week. That way, there will be no chance of anything leaking to the press before the trip to Israel.” He glanced over his shoulder and asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve had a moment to look over the security arrangements?”
“Actually, I’ve reviewed them in great detail.”
“And?”
“I have only one recommendation.”
“What’s that?”
“Take a rain check, Luigi.”
Donati turned slowly. “Are you telling me to cancel the trip?”
“No. We just want you to postpone it until things cool down.”
“We?”
“This comes from the top.”
“The prime minister?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Unless your prime minister is prepared to formally ask the leader of one billion Roman Catholics not to come to Israel, there’s no way we’re going to cancel.”
“Then someone needs to tell the Holy Father how we feel.”
“I agree,” Donati said, smiling. “But it’s not going to be me.”
The Vatican Gardens were in darkness when Gabriel emerged from the Belvedere Palace. He walked past the Fountain of the Sacrament and the Ethiopian College, then made his way toward the spot along the Vatican wall where several Swiss Guards in plainclothes stood like statues. Slipping past them without a word, he mounted a flight of stone steps and climbed slowly toward the parapet. Pietro Lucchesi, otherwise known as His Holiness Pope Paul VII, waited there alone. Rome stirred beneath his feet—dusty, dirty, eternal Rome. Gabriel never tired of looking at it. Neither did the Holy Father.
“I remember the first time we came to this spot together,” the pope said. “It was after the Crux Vera affair. You saved my papacy, not to mention my life.”
“It was the least we could do, Holiness,” Gabriel said. He was staring across the Tiber toward the cupola of the Great Synagogue of Rome, and for an instant he saw Pietro Lucchesi standing atop the bimah, speaking words no pontiff had ever uttered before.
“For these sins, and others soon to be revealed, we offer our confession, and we beg your forgiveness . . .”
“It took enormous courage for you to do what you did that day, Holiness.”
“It wouldn’t have been possible without you. But my work isn’t finished when it comes to healing the wounds between our two faiths, which is why it is essential that I make this trip to Jerusalem.”
“No one wants you to come to Israel more than I do.”
“But?”
“We don’t believe it’s safe at this time.”
“Then do whatever it takes to make it safe. Because as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
The pope smiled. “That’s all, Gabriel? I expected more of an argument from you.”
“I try not to make a habit of arguing with the Vicar of Christ.”
“Good. Because it is my wish that you serve as my personal bodyguard during the trip.”
“It would be my honor, Holiness. After all, it’s a role I’ve played before.”
“To considerable acclaim.”
The pope smiled briefly as the wind moved in his cassock. The air had lost the edge of winter; it smelled of pine and warm earth. His Holiness seemed not to notice. He was clearly preoccupied by matters weightier than the changing of the seasons.
“Is it true that Carlo Marchese had something to do with the death of that poor girl from the museum?” he asked finally.
Gabriel hesitated.
“Is something wrong, Gabriel?”
“No, Holiness. But it might be better if—”
“I was shielded from the unpleasant details?” The pope gave a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. The Vicar of Christ doesn’t hold press conferences. And he doesn’t have to answer a subpoena, either. It’s one of the few fringe benefits of the job.”
“What about the luxury apartment in the middle of Rome?”
“Actually, I’ve never enjoyed living above the store.” The pope looked out at the hills of Rome. The city looked as though it were lit by a million candles. “Cleaning up the mess at the Vatican Bank was one of my top priorities. Now it seems a man with long-standing ties to the Vatican has undone all of our good work.”
“He’ll be gone before you know it.”
“Do you require anything from me?”
“Stay as far away as possible.”
A companionable silence settled between them. The pope examined Gabriel carefully, as Donati had before him.
“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do next?”
“I have a Caravaggio to finish.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to do my very best to make my wife happy.”
“And to think you would have let her slip through your fingers if it wasn’t for me,” the pope said. “Perhaps you should devote some of your time to having a child.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
It was Gabriel’s turn to smile. “What do you have in mind?”
“As leader of the Roman Catholic Church, I’m afraid my options are limited to prayer.”
“Your prayers would be deeply appreciated.”
“And what about my advice?”
Gabriel was silent. The pope scrutinized him a moment before speaking.
“You’ve been wandering for many years, Gabriel. Perhaps the time has come for you to go home.”
“My work is here in Europe, Holiness.”
“Paintings?”
Gabriel nodded.
“There are some things in life more important than art,” the pope said. “I fear your country faces dark days ahead. My sleep has been troubled by dreams of late. I’ve been having . . . visions.”
“What kind of visions, Holiness?”
“It would probably be better if I didn’t answer that question,” the pope replied, placing his hand on Gabriel’s arm. “But listen carefully. Finish that Caravaggio, Gabriel. And then go home.”
37
EAST JERUSALEM
AT THAT SAME MOMENT IN East Jerusalem, Imam Hassan Darwish guided his dented station wagon up the steep ramp leading from the Jericho Road to the Lions’ Gate. As usual, the Israeli policeman on duty gave the car only a cursory inspection before allowing the imam to enter the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. Imam Darwish was a descendant of a family of Palestinian notables from the West Bank town of Hebron. More important, he was a member of the Supreme Council of the Islamic Waqf, the official caretakers of the Temple Mount plateau since Saladin recaptured it from the Crusaders in 1187. The position meant that Darwish was as close to untouchable as an Arab could be in East Jerusalem, for with only a few words of incitement, he could turn the Holy Mountain into a seething cauldron. In fact, on numerous occasions, he had done just that.
He left the station wagon in the small Waqf car park off Lions’ Gate Street and entered his office at the northern edge of the Temple Mount esplanade. A tower of phone messages beckoned from his old Ottoman desk. As the unofficial spokesman for the Waqf, he received dozens of calls each day for interviews on issues related to the Temple Mount and the other sacred sites in Jerusalem. Most he ignored, especially those from American and Israeli reporters—and not without good reason. Working first with Yasir Arafat, then with his successor, Mahmoud Abbas, Darwish had waged a relentless campaign to weaken the Jewish claim on Palestine by denying the existence of the Jewish Temple of Jerusalem. But Darwish’s war on the truth had extended beyond mere words. Using the cover of construction projects, he had systematically stripped the Holy Mountain of all evidenc
e of the ancient Temple. His unofficial adviser in the endeavor, an antiquities expert from Switzerland, had recently been martyred in an explosion at his gallery. Darwish hoped he would not meet the same fate. While he routinely spoke about the beauty of martyrdom, he much preferred to leave the dying to others.
As usual, Darwish quickly dispensed with the interview requests by dropping them unceremoniously into his rubbish bin. All that remained was a single mundane-looking message from a Mr. Farouk saying that an order of Korans had arrived from the printing presses of al-Azhar University in Cairo. Darwish stared at the message for several minutes, wondering whether he had the courage, or the faith, necessary to go through with it. Then he took a ring of keys from the top drawer of his desk and headed out onto the sacred mount.
The Darwish family had been linked to the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf for centuries, and as a child Hassan Darwish had passed his days memorizing the Koran in the shade trees at the northern edge of the Noble Sanctuary. But even now, in middle age, he could not walk past the Dome of the Rock without feeling as though Allah and the Prophet Muhammad were walking beside him. At the center of the colorful octagonal structure was the Foundation Stone, sacred to all three of the Abrahamic faiths. For Jews and Christians, it was the place where the Archangel Gabriel prevented Abraham from slaying his son Isaac; for Muslims, it marked the spot where Gabriel accompanied Muhammad on his Night Journey into heaven. Beneath the stone itself was a natural cave known as the Well of Souls, the place where Muslims believed the souls of the damned are temporarily held before being cast into hell. As a boy, Darwish used to sneak into the cave alone late at night. There he would sit for hours on the musty prayer rugs, pretending he could hear the souls wailing in anguish. In his imagination, they were never Muslims, only the Jews whom God had punished for stealing the land of Palestine.
For a time, Darwish believed it was possible for Jews and Muslims to divide the land and live side by side in peace. Now, after decades of crushing Israeli occupation and broken promises, he had come to the conclusion the Palestinians would never be free until the Zionist state was annihilated. The key to the liberation of Palestine, he believed, was the Temple Mount itself. The Israelis had foolishly allowed the Waqf to retain its authority over the Haram after the Six-Day War. In doing so, they had unwittingly sealed their own fate. A scholar of ancient Middle Eastern history, Darwish understood that conflict between Arabs and Jews was more than simply a struggle over land; it was a religious war, and the Haram was at the center of it. Arafat had used the Temple Mount to ignite the bloody Second Intifada in 2000. Now, Imam Hassan Darwish intended to use it to start another. But this intifada, the third, would dwarf the two that had come before. It would be cataclysmic, a final solution. And when it was over, there would not be a single Jew left in the land of Palestine.
With images of the coming apocalypse vivid in his thoughts, the imam passed beneath the freestanding archway of the Southwest Qanatir and set out across a broad courtyard toward the silver-domed al-Aqsa Mosque. On the eastern side of the massive structure was the newly built entrance to the underground Marwani Mosque. Darwish descended the terrace-like steps and, using one of his keys, unlocked the main door. As always, he felt slightly apprehensive about entering. As director of the construction project, Darwish knew how badly the removal of several tons of earth and debris had weakened the Haram. The entire southern half of the plateau was in danger of collapse. Indeed, on Ramadan and other important holy days, Darwish could almost hear the Holy Mountain groaning under the weight of the faithful. All it would take was one small shove, and a large portion of the most sacred place on earth would collapse into the Kidron Valley, taking the al-Aqsa Mosque, the third-holiest shrine in Islam, with it. And what would happen then? The armies of Islam would be on Israel’s borders within hours, along with tens of millions of enraged Muslim faithful. It would be a jihad to end all jihads, an intifada with but one purpose—the complete annihilation of the State of Israel and its inhabitants.
For now, the enormous subterranean mosque, with its twelve avenues of Herodian pillars and arches, was deathly silent and aglow with a soft, divine light. Alone, Darwish padded quietly along a vaulted passage until he came to a heavy wooden door sealed fast with a thick padlock. The imam had the only key. He unlocked the door and heaved it open, revealing a flight of stone steps. At the bottom was yet another locked door. Darwish possessed the single key to this one as well, but when he opened it, the darkness beyond was absolute. He removed a small Maglite from the pocket of his thobe and, switching it on, illuminated the first fifty feet of an ancient tunnel no wider than the width of a man’s shoulders. Dug during the time of the First Jewish Temple, it was but one of many ancient wonders unearthed by Palestinian workers during the construction of the mosque. Darwish had informed neither the Israel Antiquities Authority nor the United Nations of the tunnel’s existence. No one knew about it—no one but Imam Hassan Darwish and a handful of laborers who had been sworn to secrecy.
Some men might be naturally apprehensive about entering an ancient tunnel at night, but not Darwish. As a child, he had spent countless hours happily exploring the Noble Sanctuary’s hidden caves and passages. This one descended at a treacherously steep angle for several hundred feet before finally leveling off. After that it ran largely straight and flat for approximately a quarter-mile and then rose sharply once again. At the terminus was a newly installed steel ladder. Slightly winded from the arduous walk, Hassan Darwish took hold of the handrails and climbed slowly toward the wooden trapdoor at the top. Opening it, he found himself in the bedroom of an apartment in Silwan, the neighborhood of East Jerusalem adjacent to the City of David. On one wall was a poster of a French soccer star; on another, a photograph of Yahiya Ayyash, the master Hamas bomb maker known as the Engineer. Darwish opened the closet. Inside were the “Korans” that Mr. Farouk had mentioned in his message—several hundred pounds of high explosives and detonators that had been smuggled across the Egyptian border by Hezbollah and Hamas and carried into Israel by Bedouin tribesmen. There was more elsewhere in Silwan. Much more.
Darwish closed the closet door. Then he slipped out of the bedroom and made his way through the cramped rooms of the apartment to a tiny balcony overlooking the Kidron Valley. On the opposite side, floating above the soaring honey-colored walls of Herodian stone, were two enormous domes, one silver, the other gold. “Allahu Akbar,” the imam said softly. “And may he have mercy on my soul for what I am about to do in His name.”
38
VATICAN CITY
FOR THE NEXT WEEK, GABRIEL’S turbulent life settled into a pleasant if cloistered routine. With the flat on the Via Gregoriana now off-limits, he took refuge in a small priestly apartment inside the Apostolic Palace, one floor below Donati and the pope. He rose early each morning, ate breakfast with the Holy Father’s household nuns, and then headed over to the conservation lab to spend a few hours working on the Caravaggio. Antonio Calvesi, the chief restorer, rarely strayed from Gabriel’s grottolike workspace. On the second day, he finally screwed up the nerve to ask about the reason for Gabriel’s absence.
“I was visiting a sick aunt.”
“Where?”
“Palm Beach.”
Calvesi gave a skeptical frown. “Rumor has it you’re going to accompany il Papa on his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
“Actually, we prefer to call it Israel,” said Gabriel, tapping his paintbrush gently against the flowing red mantle of John the Evangelist. “And, yes, Antonio, I’m going with him. But don’t worry, I’ll finish the Caravaggio when we get back.”
“How long?”
“Maybe a week, maybe a month.”
“Do you do that just to annoy me?”
“Yes.”
“Let us hope your aunt remains healthy.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Let us hope.”
At ten o’clock sharp, Gabriel would depart the lab and walk over to the Swiss Guard barracks for a daily briefing on the secu
rity arrangements for the pope’s trip. At first, Alois Metzler seemed annoyed by Gabriel’s presence. But his misgivings quickly evaporated when Gabriel pointed out several glaring problems with the protection plan that no one else seemed to have noticed. At the conclusion of one particularly long meeting, he invited Gabriel into his office.
“If you’re going to serve with us,” he said, glancing at Gabriel’s blue jeans and leather jacket, “you’re going to have to dress like us.”
“Pantaloons make me look fat,” said Gabriel. “And I’ve never been able to figure out how to get a halberd through an airport metal detector.”
Metzler pressed a button on his intercom. Ten seconds later, his adjutant entered carrying three dark suits, three white shirts, three ties, and a pair of lace-up dress shoes.
“Where did you get my measurements?” asked Gabriel.
“Your wife.” Metzler opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a 9mm pistol. “You’re also going to need one of these.”
“I have one of those.”
“But if you’re going to pass for Swiss Guard, you have to carry a standard-issue Swiss Guard sidearm.”
“A SIG Sauer P226.”
“Very impressive.”
“I’ve been around the block a time or two.”
“So I’ve heard.” Metzler smiled. “You’ll just need to pass a range proficiency exam before I can issue the weapon.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m Swiss, which means I never joke.” Metzler rose. “I assume you remember the way.”
“Take a right at the suit of armor and follow the corridor to the courtyard. The door to the firing range is on the other side.”
“Let’s go.”
The walk took less than two minutes. When they entered the range, four Swiss boys in their early twenties were blasting away, and the air was thick with smoke. Metzler ordered them to leave before giving Gabriel the SIG Sauer, an empty magazine, and a box of ammunition. Gabriel quickly inserted fifteen rounds into the magazine and rammed it into the butt of the gun. Metzler put on ear and eye protection.
