by Daniel Silva
Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly ten-thirty.
“Move it indoors,” he said.
“The Holy Father won’t hear of it.” Donati joined Gabriel at the window. “Besides, it’s too late. The guests have started to arrive.”
THEY SETTLED HIM in a tiny cell with a sooty window overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard and gave him a boyish-looking ex-carabiniere named Luca Angelli to fetch the files. He limited his search to laypersons only. Even Gabriel, a man of boundless suspicion, could not imagine a scenario under which a Catholic priest could be recruited, knowingly or unwittingly, to the cause of al-Qaeda. He also struck from his list members of the Swiss Guard and Vigilanza. The ranks of the Vigilanza were filled largely by former officers of the Carabinieri and Polizia di Stato. As for the Swiss Guard, they were drawn exclusively from Catholic families in Switzerland and most came from the German- and French-speaking cantons in the mountainous heart of the country, hardly a stronghold of Islamic extremism.
He started with the lay employees of the Vatican city-state itself. To limit the parameters of his search he reviewed only the files of those who had been hired in the previous five years. That alone took him nearly thirty minutes. When he was finished he set aside a half dozen files for further evaluation—a clerk in the Vatican pharmacy, a gardener, two stock boys in the Annona, a janitor in the Vatican museum, and a woman who worked in one of the Vatican gift shops—and gave the rest back to Angelli.
The next files to arrive were for the lay employees attached to various congregations of the Roman Curia. The congregations were the approximate equivalent of government ministries and dealt with central areas of Church governance, such as doctrine, faith, the clergy, saints, and Catholic education. Each congregation was led by a cardinal, and each cardinal had several bishops and monsignori beneath him. Gabriel reviewed the files for the clerical and support staff of each of the nine congregations and, finding nothing of interest, gave them back to Angelli.
“What’s left?”
“The pontifical commissions and councils,” said Angelli. “And the other offices.”
“Other offices?”
“The Administration of the Patrimony of the Holy See, the Prefecture of the Economic Affairs of the Holy See—”
“I get it,” Gabriel said. “How many files?”
Angelli held up his hands to indicate that the pile was well over a foot high. Gabriel looked at his watch: 11:20 …
“Bring them.”
ANGELLI STARTED WITH the pontifical commissions. Gabriel pulled two more files for further review, a consultant to the Commission for Sacred Archaeology, and an Argentine scholar attached to the Pontifical Commission for Latin America. He gave the rest back to Angelli and looked at his watch: 11:45 … He’d promised Donati that he would stand guard over the Pope in the square during the general audience at noon. He had time for only a few more files.
“Skip the financial departments,” Gabriel said. “Bring me the files for the pontifical councils.”
Angelli returned a moment later with a six-inch stack of manila folders. Gabriel reviewed them in the order Angelli handed them over. The Pontifical Council for the Laity…The Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity…The Pontifical Council for the Family…The Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace…The Pontifical Council for the Pastoral Care of Migrants and Itinerant People…The Pontifical Council for Legislative Texts…
The Pontifical Council for Inter-religious Dialogue…
Gabriel held up his hand. He had found what he was looking for.
HE READ FOR a moment, then looked up sharply. “Does this man really have access to the Vatican?”
Angelli bent his thin body at the waist and peered over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Professor Ibrahim el-Banna? He’s been here for more than a year now.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s a member of a special commission searching for ways to improve relations between the Christian and Islamic worlds. There are twelve members in all, an ecumenical team of six Christian scholars and six Muslim scholars representing the various Islamic sects and schools of Islamic law. Ibrahim el-Banna is a professor of Islamic jurisprudence at Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He’s also among the most respected scholars of the Hanafi school of Islamic law in the world. Hanafi is predominant among—”
“Sunni Muslims,” Gabriel said, pointedly finishing Angelli’s sentence for him. “Don’t you know that Al-Azhar is a hotbed of Islamic militancy? It’s been thoroughly penetrated by the forces of al-Qaeda and the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“It is also one of the oldest and most prestigious schools of Islamic theology and law in the world. Professor el-Banna was chosen for the position because of his moderate views. He’s met several times with the Holy Father himself. On two occasions they were alone together.”
“Where does the commission meet?”
“Professor el-Banna has an office in a building near the Piazza Santa Marta, not far from the Arch of Bells.”
Gabriel looked at his watch: 11:55… There was no way to talk to Donati. He would be downstairs with the Pope by now, preparing to enter the square. He thought of the instructions he’d given him the previous night in the Via Belvedere. Make a general nuisance of yourself. If you see a problem, address it. He got to his feet and looked at Angelli.
“I’d like to have a word with the imam.”
Angelli hesitated. “The initiative is very important to the Holy Father. If you level an accusation against Professor el-Banna without just cause, he will take great offense and the commission’s work will be placed in jeopardy.”
“Better an irate imam than a dead Pope. What’s the quickest way to the Piazza Santa Marta?”
“We’ll take the shortcut,” Angelli said. “Through the Basilica.”
THEY SLIPPED THROUGH the passage from the Scala Regia into the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, then hurried diagonally across the vast nave. Beneath the Monument to Alexander VII was a doorway leading into the Piazza Santa Marta. As they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, a roar of wild applause rose from St. Peter’s Square. The Pope had arrived for the General Audience. Angelli led Gabriel across the small piazza and into a gloomy-looking Baroque office building. In the lobby a nun sat motionless behind a reception table. She gave Gabriel and Angelli a disapproving look as they burst inside.
“Ibrahim el-Banna,” said Luca Angelli without elaboration.
The nun blinked twice rapidly. “Room four-twelve.”
They mounted the stairs, Angelli leading the way, Gabriel at his heels. When another swell of applause rose from the square, Gabriel gave Angelli a jab in the kidneys, and the Vatican security man began taking the steps two at a time. When they arrived at Room 412 they found the door was closed. Gabriel reached for the latch, but Angelli stayed his hand and knocked firmly but politely.
“Professor el-Banna? Professor el-Banna? Are you there?”
Greeted by silence, Gabriel pushed Angelli aside and examined the ancient lock. With the slender metal pick in his wallet he could have coaxed it open in a matter of seconds, but another roar of approval from the square reminded him there wasn’t time. He seized hold of the latch with both hands and drove his shoulder into the door. It held fast. He threw his body against the door a second time, then a third. On the fourth attempt, Angelli joined him. The wood of the doorjamb splintered, and they tumbled inside.
The room was empty. Not just empty, thought Gabriel. Abandoned. There were no books or files, no pens or loose papers. Just a single lettersized envelope, positioned in the precise center of the desk. Angelli reached for the light switch, but Gabriel shouted at him not to touch it, then pushed the Italian back into the corridor. He drew a pen from his coat pocket and used it as a probe to examine the density of the envelope’s contents. When he was reasonably certain it contained nothing but paper, he picked it up and carefully lifted the flap. Inside was a single sheet, folded in thirds. Handwritten, Arabic script:
Gabriel ran down the stairs, Angelli at his back.
6.
Vatican City
IN NOMINE PATRIS ET Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”
The Pope’s voice, amplified by the Vatican public address system, resounded across St. Peter’s Square and down the length of the Via della Conciliazione.
Twenty thousand voices replied: “Amen.”
Gabriel and Luca Angelli sprinted across the Piazza Santa Marta, then along the exterior wall of the Basilica. Before reaching the Arch of Bells, Angelli turned to the right and entered the Permissions Office, the main security checkpoint for most visitors to the Vatican. If Ibrahim el-Banna had cleared anyone else into the Vatican, the paperwork would exist there. Gabriel kept going toward the Arch of Bells. The Swiss Guard on duty there, startled by the sight of a man running toward him, lowered his halberd defensively as Gabriel approached. He raised it again when he saw Gabriel waving his Security Office ID badge.
“Give me your sidearm,” Gabriel ordered.
“Sir?”
“Give me your gun!” Gabriel shouted at the Guard in German.
The Guard reached inside his multicolored Renaissance tunic and came out with a very modern SIG-Sauer 9mm, just as Luca Angelli emerged through the archway.
“El-Banna cleared a delegation of three German priests into the Vatican at eleven-thirty.”
“They’re not priests, Luca. They’re shaheeds. Martyrs.” Gabriel looked at the crowd gathered in the square. “And I doubt they’re inside the Vatican any longer. They’re probably out there now, armed with explosives and only God knows what else.”
“Why did they come through the Arch of Bells into the Vatican?”
“To get their bombs, of course.” It was the chink in the Vatican’s security armor. The terrorists had discovered it through repeated surveillance and had used the Holy Father’s initiative of peace to exploit it. “El-Banna probably smuggled the bombs inside over time and stored them in his office. The shaheeds collected them after clearing security at the Permissions Office, then made their way into the square by some route without metal detectors.”
“The Basilica,” said Angelli. “They could have entered the Basilica from the side and come out through one of the front doors. We could have passed them a few moments ago, and we never would have known it.”
Gabriel and Angelli vaulted the wooden fencing separating the Arch of Bells entrance area from the rest of the square and mounted the dais. Their sudden movement sent a murmur through the audience. Donati was standing behind the Pope. Gabriel went quietly to his side and handed him the note he’d taken from el-Banna’s office.
“They’re here.”
Donati looked down, saw the Arabic script, then looked up at Gabriel again.
“We found that in Ibrahim el-Banna’s office. It says they’re going to destroy the Basilica. It says they’re going to kill the Holy Father. We have to get him off the dais. Now, Luigi.”
Donati looked out at the multitude in the square: Catholic pilgrims and dignitaries from around the globe, schoolchildren in white, groups of sick and elderly come to the get the pontiff’s blessing. The Pope was seated in a scarlet ceremonial throne. In the tradition he’d inherited from his predecessor, he was greeting the pilgrims in their native languages, moving rapidly from one to the next.
“And what about the pilgrims?” Donati asked. “How do we protect them?”
“It may be too late for them. Some of them, at least. If we try to warn them, there’ll be panic. Get the Holy Father out of the square as quickly and quietly as possible. Then we’ll start moving the pilgrims out.”
Colonel Brunner, the Swiss Guard commandant, joined them on the dais. Like the rest of the Pope’s personal security detail, he was dressed in a dark business suit and wore an earpiece. When Donati explained the situation, Brunner’s face drained of color.
“We’ll take him through the Basilica.”
“And if they’ve concealed bombs in there?” Gabriel asked.
Brunner opened his mouth to reply, but his words were swept away by a searing blast wave. The sound came a millisecond later, a deafening thunderclap made more intense by the vast echo chamber of St. Peter’s Square. Gabriel was blown from the dais—a scrap of paper on a gale-force wind. His body took flight and turned over at least once. Then he landed hard on the steps of the Basilica and blacked out.
WHEN HE opened his eyes he saw Christ’s Apostles peering down at him from their perch atop the façade. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. A few seconds, perhaps, but not longer. He sat up, ears ringing, and looked around. To his right were the Curial prelates who had been on the dais with the Pope. They appeared shocked and tousled but largely unhurt. To his left lay Donati and next to Donati was Karl Brunner. The commandant’s eyes were closed, and he was bleeding heavily from a wound at the back of his head.
Gabriel got to his feet and looked around.
Where was the Pope?
Ibrahim el-Banna had cleared three priests into the Vatican.
Gabriel suspected there were two more blasts to come.
He found the SIG-Sauer he’d taken from the Swiss Guard and shouted at the prelates to stay down. Then, as he climbed back onto the dais to look for Lucchesi, the second bomb exploded.
Another wave of searing heat and wind.
Another thunderclap.
Gabriel was hurled backward. This time he came to rest atop Donati.
He got to his feet again. He wasn’t able to reach the dais before the third bomb detonated.
When the thunderclap finally died out, he mounted the platform and looked out at the devastation. The shaheeds had distributed themselves evenly throughout the crowd near the front of the dais: one near the Bronze Doors, the second in the center of the square, and the third close to the Arch of Bells. All that remained of them were three plumes of black smoke rising toward the cloudless pale-blue sky. On the spots where the bombers had been standing, the paving stones were blackened by fire, drenched in blood, and littered with human limbs and tissue. Farther away from the blast points, it was possible to imagine that the tattered corpses had moments before been human beings. The folding chairs that Gabriel had watched being put into place earlier that morning had been tossed about like playing cards, and everywhere there were shoes. How many dead? Hundreds, he thought. But his concern at that moment was not with the dead but with the Holy Father.
We declare war on you, the Crusaders, with the destruction of your infidel temple to polytheism…
The attack, Gabriel knew, was not yet finished.
And then, through the screen of black smoke, he saw the next phase unfolding. A delivery van had stopped just beyond the barricade at the far end of the square. The rear cargo doors were open and three men were scrambling out. Each one had a shoulder-launched missile.
IT WAS THEN that Gabriel saw the throne on which the Pope had been seated. It had been blown sideways by the force of the first blast and had come to rest upside down on the steps of the Basilica. Poking from beneath it was a small hand with a gold ring…and the skirt of a white cassock stained in blood.
Gabriel looked at Donati. “They’ve got missiles, Luigi! Get everyone away from the Basilica!”
Gabriel leaped from the dais and lifted the throne. The Pope’s eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from several small cuts. As Gabriel reached down and cradled the Pope in his arms, he heard the distinctive whoosh of an approaching RPG-7. He turned his head, long enough to glimpse the missile streaking
over the square toward the Basilica. An instant later the warhead struck Michelangelo’s dome and exploded in a shower of fire, glass, and stone.
Gabriel sheltered the Pope from the falling debris, then lifted him and started running toward the Bronze Doors. Before they could reach the shelter of the Colonnade, the second missile came streaking across the square. It struck the façade of the Basilica, just beneath the balustrade on the Loggia of the Blessings.
Gabriel lost his balance and fell to the paving stones. He lifted his head and saw the third missile on its way. It was coming in lower than the others and heading directly toward the dais. In the instant before it struck, Gabriel glimpsed a nightmarish image: Luigi Donati trying desperately to move the Curial cardinals and prelates to safety. Gabriel stayed on the ground and covered the Pope’s body with his own as another shower of wreckage rained down upon them.
“Is it you, Gabriel?” the Pope asked, eyes still closed.
“Yes, Holiness.”
“Is it over?”
Three bombs, three missiles—symbolic of the Holy Trinity, Gabriel reckoned. A calculated insult to the mushrikun.
“Yes, Holiness. I believe it’s over.”
“Where’s Luigi?”
Gabriel looked toward the burning remains of the dais and saw Donati stagger out of the smoke, the body of a dead cardinal in his arms.
“He’s alive, Holiness.”
The Pope closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank God.”
Gabriel felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He turned around and saw a quartet of men in blue suits, guns drawn. “Let go of him,” one of the men shouted. “We’ll take him from here.”
Gabriel looked at the man for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I’ve got him,” he said, then he stood up and carried the Pope into the Apostolic Palace, surrounded by Swiss Guards.
THE APARTMENT HOUSE stood in a cobbled vicolo near the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Four floors in height, its faded tan exterior was hung with power and telephone lines and contained several large patches of exposed brickwork. On the ground floor was a small motorcycle repair shop that spilled into the street. To the right of the shop was a doorway leading to the flats above. Ibrahim el-Banna had the key in his pocket.
