The Confessor

Conciliazione for the run to the river. The Pope closed his eyes. Gabriel looked at Father Donati, who leaned over and whispered into Gabriel's ear that His Holiness always passed the time in motorcades by praying.
    A motorcycle outrider moved into position a few feet from the Pope's window. Gabriel looked carefully at his face, at the hinge of his jaw and the shape of the cheekbones showing beneath the visor. Mentally, he compared the features to those of the man in the photographs, as if he were authenticating a painting, comparing the brushstrokes of a master to those in a newly discovered work. The faces were similar enough to make Gabriel reach into his jacket and put his hand on the butt of his Beretta. Father Donati noticed this. The Pope, who was still praying with his eyes tightly closed, was oblivious.
    As the motorcade turned onto the Lungotevere, the outrider dropped back a few meters. Gabriel felt his tension subside. The street had been cleared of traffic, and there were only a few knots of onlookers here and there along the river. Evidently, the sight of a papal motorcade in this part of Rome did not arouse much interest.
    The journey passed quickly: three minutes by Gabriel's calculation. The dome of the synagogue appeared before them, and soon they were rushing past the mob of protesters. The motorcade stopped in the front courtyard. Gabriel stepped out of the car first, blocking the half-open door with his body. The chief rabbi stood on the steps of the synagogue, flanked by a delegation from Rome's Jewish community. Around the limousine stood the security men: Italian and Vatican, some plainclothes, some in uniform. To the right of the steps, the Vatican press corps strained against a yellow rope. The air was filled with the rumble of the motorcycles.
    Gabriel scanned the faces of the security men, then the reporters and photographers. A dozen might have been the assassin in disguise. He poked his head into the back of the car and looked at Father Donati. "This is the part that worries me most. Let's be quick about it." When he stood upright, he found himself staring into the bluff face of Karl Brunner.
    "This part is my job," Brunner said. "Step out of the way."
    Gabriel did as he was told. Brunner helped the Pope out of the car. The rest of the Swiss Guard detail closed in. Gabriel found
    himself in a sea of dark suits, the Pope, clad in his sparkling white cassock, clearly visible in the center.
    The motorcycles went silent. On the steps of the synagogue, the Pope embraced the chief rabbi and a few of the delegates. It was quiet, except for the distant chanting of the protesters and the cicada-like whirring of the news cameras. Gabriel stood behind Karl Brunner, whose left hand was resting on the small of the Pope's back. Gabriel looked around him, eyes alert, searching for anything out of the ordinary. A man pushing his way forward. An arm swinging upward.
    There was a commotion behind them. Gabriel turned in time to see a trio of carabinieri wrestling a man to the ground, but it was only a protester carrying a sign that read free Chinese catholics;
    The Pope turned around as well. At that instant Gabriel caught his eye. "Please go inside, Holiness," Gabriel murmured. "There are too many people out here."
    The Pope nodded and turned to his host. "Well, Rabbi, shall we get on with it?"
    "Yes, Your Holiness. Please, come inside. Let me show you our place of worship."
    The rabbi led the Pope up the stairs. A moment later, much to the relief of Gabriel and Father Donati, the leader of the world's one billion Catholics was safely inside the synagogue.
    At the entrance to St. Peter's Square, Eric Lange climbed off the motorbike. Katrine slid forward, taking hold of the handlebars. Lange turned and started walking.
    The square was filled with pilgrims and tourists. Carabinieri paced the edge of the colonnade. Lange headed toward the Apostolic Palace, his walk crisp and purposeful, his pace quick but controlled. Passing the towering Egyptian obelisk, he drew several long breaths to slow his heart rate.
    A few paces from the palace, a carabiniere stepped in his path.
    "Where do you think you're going?" he asked Lange in Italian, staring at him with a pair of stubborn brown eyes.
    "Portone di Bronzo," Lange replied.
    "You have an appointment inside?"
    Lange removed his wallet and flashed the identification badge. The carabiniere took a step backward. "I'm sorry, Father Beck. I didn't realize."
    Lange put