The Fallen Angel (23 page)

There would be no explosion.

There would be no funeral for a child.

Just a pair of fallen angels rushing forward with their arms extended.

Two seconds, maybe less.

Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . .

Then it was done.

 

Chiara never heard the gunshots, only the sirens. Alone in her room, she thought it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She listened for several minutes, then snatched up her mobile phone and dialed Uzi Navot at the Interior Ministry. She could barely hear his voice over the background noise.

“What's going on?”

“It's over,” he said.

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Only the bad guys.”

“Where is he?”

“The Austrians have him.”

“I want him back.”

“Don't worry,” Navot said. “He's all yours now.”

36

VIENNA–TEL AVIV–VATICAN CITY

L
IKE MOST LIES, IT WAS
not altogether convincing. Shamron found no fault in this; in fact, he wholeheartedly approved. Lying, he said, was a distinctly human endeavor, even when it was being done by professionals. And a lie that was too well told was one not easily believed.

Initially, there was confusion over precisely what had occurred at sunset in the narrow street outside the Stadttempel. The first bulletins on Austrian radio reported that a pair of gunmen had killed four Jewish men outside the synagogue in what appeared to be an act of right-wing extremist violence. The situation was muddied further when an obscure neo-Nazi group proudly claimed responsibility for the deed. Jonas Kessler's first instinct was to quickly correct the story. But Shamron and Uzi Navot prevailed upon him to let it linger until nine that evening, when he finally appeared in the Interior Ministry's press briefing room to reveal the truth—or at least the truth as he saw it. Yes, Kessler began, there had indeed been a shooting at the synagogue, but the four dead were suicide bombers from Hezbollah who had come to Vienna to carry out a murderous terrorist attack. The Austrian authorities, he said, had been alerted to the presence of the cell in Vienna by a foreign intelligence service that Kessler, for understandable reasons, could not identify. As for the successful operation outside the synagogue, it was a strictly Austrian affair carried out by the EKO Cobra division of the Federal Police. It was, Kessler concluded with admirable sincerity, “EKO Cobra's finest hour.”

Naturally, the press was drawn to the one aspect of the story where Kessler had been most evasive—the source of the intelligence that had led to the successful operation. Kessler and the rest of the Austrian security establishment held fast to their refusal to comment, but within forty-eight hours, numerous unnamed “intelligence sources” were quietly giving credit to the CIA. Once again, the television terrorism analysts questioned the accuracy of the reports, saying it was far more likely that the information had come from Israel. On the record, the Israelis refused to comment. Privately, however, they swore it wasn't true.

The matter did not die there. In fact, it took on new life the very next morning when
Die Presse
, one of Austria's most respected papers, published a detailed account of the operation, based in large part on eyewitness testimony. The most intriguing aspect of the story was the description of the smaller of the two gunmen. And then there was the unkempt figure who had overseen the evacuation of the interior of the synagogue in the minutes preceding the attack. There were some who thought he bore an uncanny resemblance to a man who used to run a small Holocaust restitution agency in Vienna called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. An Israeli newspaper immediately reported that the man in question—Professor Eli Lavon of Hebrew University—was working on a dig near the Western Wall Tunnel at the time and that he had no known links to Israeli intelligence, neither of which was true.

Needless to say, much of the Islamic world was soon boiling over with a sacred rage directed at Israel, its intelligence service, and, by extension, their new friends the Austrians. Newspapers across the Middle East declared the killings a wanton act of murder and challenged the Austrians to produce the bomb vests allegedly worn by the four “martyrs.” When Kessler did just that, the Arab press declared the vests fraudulent. And when Kessler released carefully edited photographs of the bodies that clearly showed the four men laden with bombs, the Arab world declared those fraudulent, too. It saw the hidden hand of Israel in the killings, and for once it was absolutely and entirely correct.

It was against this unsettled backdrop that Massoud Rahimi, Iran's kidnapped diplomat, was found wandering handcuffed and blindfolded in a pasture in the far north of Germany. He told the German police that he had escaped from his captors, but in a statement, the Iranian Liberation Army said they had released Massoud for “humanitarian reasons.” The next morning, looking a few pounds thinner but otherwise in good health, Massoud appeared before the cameras in Tehran, flanked by the Iranian president and the chief of his service. Massoud offered few details about his time in captivity, except to say that, in general terms, he was well treated. His chief appeared somewhat skeptical, as did the Iranian president, who vowed that those behind the kidnapping would be severely punished.

The threat of Iranian retaliation was not taken lightly, especially within the corridors of King Saul Boulevard. For the most part, though, the Office celebrated the success of the operation. Lives had been saved, an old adversary had been severely compromised, and a lucrative fund-raising network for Hezbollah lay in ruins. If there was one factor that diminished their mood, however, it was the fact that His Holiness Pope Paul VII was scheduled to land at Ben Gurion Airport in less than a week. Given the overall turbulence in the region, Uzi Navot thought it might be wise for the Vatican to consider postponing the trip, a sentiment shared by the prime minister and the rest of his fractious cabinet. But who was going to tell the pope not to come to the Holy Land? They had but one candidate. A fallen angel in black. A sinner in the city of saints.

 

Father Mark was waiting for Gabriel just inside the Bronze Doors. He escorted him up the steps of the Scala Regia, across the cobblestones of the Cortile di San Damaso, and, eventually, upstairs to the private apartments of the pope. Donati was seated behind the desk in his office. It was a simple, high-ceilinged room with whitewashed walls and shelves lined with books on canon law. Framed photographs stood in neat rows atop the credenza. Most showed Donati standing discreetly at the side of his master at historic moments of the papacy. One photo, however, seemed curiously out of place—a younger version of Donati, soiled and smiling without reservation, his arm flung across the shoulder of a bookish young priest.

“That's Father José Martinez,” Donati explained. “We'd just finished building a schoolhouse in our village in El Salvador. It was taken a week before his murder.” He studied Gabriel's face for a moment and then frowned. “You look the way I did when I came out of El Salvador one step ahead of the death squads.”

“It's been a busy few weeks since I left Rome.”

“So I've been reading,” Donati said. “An art theft in France, an explosion at a gallery in St. Moritz, a kidnapped Iranian diplomat, and a dramatic counterterrorism operation in the heart of Vienna. To the uninitiated, these events might appear unrelated. But to someone like me, they appear to have one thing in common.”

“Two
things, actually,” said Gabriel. “One is the Office. And the other is Carlo Marchese.”

 

It was approaching six o'clock, and the sun was dipping below the rooftops and domes of Rome's historic center. As Gabriel spoke, the soft sienna light drained slowly from the office until it was cloaked in a confessional gloom. Dressed in his black cassock, Donati might have been invisible were it not for the ember of his cigarette. At the conclusion of Gabriel's account, he sat for several minutes in a penitential silence before walking over to the window. Directly below was the Bastion of Nicholas V, the medieval tower that now served as headquarters of the Vatican Bank.

“Can you prove any of it?”

“There's the kind of proof that will stand up in a court of law. And then there's the kind of proof that's good enough to make a problem go away.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“A conversation,” answered Gabriel. “I'll tell Carlo everything I know. And then I'll tell him that you and His Holiness would like him to resign his position on the supervisory council of the Vatican Bank effective immediately. I'll also tell him that if he ever darkens the Bronze Doors again, he'll have to answer to me.”

“It seems an awfully small price to pay for two murders.”

“But it's what you wanted.” Gabriel looked at Donati's silhouette in the window. “It
is
what you wanted, isn't it, Luigi?”

“The moral thing to do would be to tell General Ferrari everything you know.”

“Perhaps. But if the Italian government brings charges against Carlo for dealing in looted antiquities, money laundering, and murder, it will be a public-relations disaster for the Church. And for you, Luigi. Everything will come out. You'll be destroyed.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so will Veronica.”

“And if Carlo refuses to leave quietly?”

“I'll make it clear he doesn't have a choice. Trust me,” Gabriel added, “he'll get the message.”

“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.”