“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
“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
“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 evidence 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
