The Confessor

Rome."
    "Point taken, Holiness."
    Father Donati leaned forward. "Once the Holy Father steps beyond the walls of the Vatican, onto Italian soil, his security is augmented by Italian police. Thanks to the false papal-assassin plot
    engineered by Carlo Casagrande, security for tomorrow's event at the synagogue will be unprecedented. We believe that it is safe enough for His Holiness to make the appearance."
    "And what if this man is a member of the Pope's security contingent?"
    "The Holy Spirit will protect me during this journey," the Pope replied.
    "With all due respect, Holiness, I would feel better if someone else was looking over your shoulder as well."
    "You have a suggestion, Mr. Shamron?"
    "I do, Holiness." Shamron put a rough hand on Gabriel's shoulder. "I'd like Gabriel to accompany you and Father Donati into the synagogue. He's an experienced officer who knows a thing or two about this sort of business."
    The Pope looked at Father Donati. "Luigi? Surely, this can be accomplished, can it not?"
    "It can, Holiness. But there is one problem."
    "You're referring to the fact that Carlo Casagrande has portrayed Mr. Allon as a papal assassin?"
    "I am, Holiness."
    "Obviously, the situation will have to be handled carefully, but if there's one person the Swiss Guards will listen to, it's me." He looked at Shamron. "I will make this pilgrimage to the ghetto as scheduled, and you will be at my side, protecting me, as we should have been at yours sixty years ago. Quite fitting, don't you think, Mr. Shamron?"
    Shamron gave a curt nod and an iron smile. Indeed, it was.
    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the arrangements for the morning complete, Father Donati and the Pope left the safe flat
    and sped along the river toward the Vatican. At St. Anne's Gate, the car braked to a halt. Father Donati lowered his window as a Swiss Guard stepped out of his sentry post.
    "Father Donati? What in the world is--"
    The guardsman fell silent as Pope Paul VII leaned into view. Then the Swiss Guard snapped to attention.
    "Holiness!"
    "No one must know about this," the Pope said evenly. "Do you understand me?"
    "Of course, Holiness!"
    "If you tell anyone--even your superiors--that you've seen me tonight, you'll have to answer to me. And I promise you, it won't be a pleasant experience."
    "I won't say a word, Holiness. I swear."
    "I hope so, young man--for your sake."
    The Pope leaned back in his seat. Father Donati raised his window and sped toward the Apostolic Palace. "I'm not sure that poor fellow is ever going to get over that," he said, suppressing laughter.
    "Was that really necessary, Luigi?"
    "I'm afraid so, Holiness."
    "God forgive us," the Pope said. Then he added: "For everything we've done."
    "It will all be over soon, Holiness."
    "I pray you're right."
    ROME
    ERIC LANGE DID NOT sleep well that night. A rare bout of conscience? Nerves? Perhaps it was the furnacelike heat of Katrine's body nestled against him on the tiny cot. Whatever the reason, he awoke at three-thirty and lay there, wide-eyed, Katrine pressing against his ribs, until the first gray shreds of light entered the window of Carlo Casagrande's hateful room.
    He swung his legs out of the bed and crept naked across the bare floor to the window, parted the net curtains, and peered down into the street. His motorcycle was there, parked outside the entrance of the tenement house. There were no signs of surveillance. He released the curtain and it fell back into place. Katrine stirred, wrestled with the blanket, then rolled over and slept on.
    Lange brewed a pot of espresso on the electric ring and drank several cups before entering the bathroom. He spent the next hour
    there, carefully grooming and altering his appearance. He darkened his hair with dye, transformed his gray eyes to brown with a pair of contact lenses. Lastly, he added eyeglasses, black-rimmed and cheap-looking, the spectacles of a priest. When he finished, the face staring back at him in the fogged glass was that of a stranger. He compared it to the photograph on the badge Casagrande had prepared for him: Manfred Beck, Special Investigation Division, Vatican Security Office. Satisfied, he went back into the main room.
    Katrine was still sleeping. Lange padded across the floor, a towel around his waist, and opened the dresser drawer. He slipped on underwear and a pair of the threadbare socks, then went to the closet and opened the door. Black shirt and Roman collar, black trousers, black suit-jacket. Finally, he