The Confessor

motorcycles. Father Donati approached the closest officer and said, "There's an emergency at the Vatican. We need a motorbike."
    The carabiniere shook his head. "I can't, Father Donati. It's completely against regulations. I could be fired if I let you take my motorcycle."
    Gabriel put a hand on the officer's shoulder. In Italian, he said: "Il papa has personally dispatched us on this mission. Do you really wish to refuse a direct request from His Holiness?"
    The carabiniere quickly dismounted the motorcycle.
    Gabriel took the handlebars and swung his leg over the saddle. Father Donati climbed on the back.
    "Can you drive one of these things?"
    "Hold on."
    Gabriel turned onto the deserted Lungotevere and opened the throttle full. As he raced north toward the Vatican, he could hear Father Donati reciting the Lord's Prayer in his ear.
    Marco Brindisi stood in the center of the room before a bank of television screens. His arms were spread wide, his palms were open, his face seemed to have drained of blood. In his rage, the red. zucchetto had fallen from his pate and lay on the carpet at his feet.
    "Will no one silence this heretic?" the cardinal screamed. "Damn you, Carlo! Cut him down! Where is your man?"
    "I'm right here," Eric Lange said calmly.
    Cardinal Brindisi turned his head a few degrees and took note of the man in a humble clerical suit who had slipped silently into his office.
    "Who are you?"
    Lange's arm swung up, the Stechkin in his hand.
    "Would you like to make a last confession, Eminence?"
    The cardinal narrowed his eyes. "May the fires of hell consume your soul."
    He closed his eyes and prepared himself for death.
    Lange indulged him.
    He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The Stechkin spit fire but emitted no sound. Three shots struck the cardinal in the chest, forming a perfect triangle over his heart.
    As the cardinal collapsed onto his back, Lange stepped forward and stared into the lifeless eyes. He placed the tip of the silencer against the prelate's temple and fired one last shot.
    Then he turned and walked calmly out.
    VATICAN CITY
    It took three minutes for Gabriel to reach the entrance of St. Peter's Square. As he skidded to a halt at the metal barricades, a startled carabiniere leveled his automatic weapon and braced himself for assault. Father Donati waved his Vatican badge. "Put your gun down, you idiot! I'm Luigi Donati, the Pope's private secretary. We have an emergency. Move the barricade!" "But--" "Move it! Now!"
    »
    The carabiniere lifted a section of the barricade, creating a passage wide enough for a motorcycle. Gabriel nosed through and started across the crowded square. Startled tourists leapt out of the way to safety, screaming insults at him in a half-dozen languages.
    By the time they reached the Bronze Doors, the Swiss Guard had dispensed with his halberd and was holding a Beretta pistol in his
    outstretched hands. He lowered the gun when he saw that it truly was Father Donati on the back of the motorcycle.
    "We were told there was an intruder," Donati said.
    The Swiss Guard nodded. "Now there's been a report of a shooting inside the palace."
    In another life, Father Luigi Donati must have been a track star or a footballer. With his long legs and lean build, he bounded up staircases three steps at a time and charged down hallways like a sprinter hurtling toward the finish line. Gabriel was doing all he could do just to keep the cleric in sight.
    It took less than two minutes to reach Cardinal Brindisi's apartment on the second floor of the palace. Several Swiss Guards were already there, along with a trio of Curial priests. The body of Father Mascone was slumped over the desk in the antechamber in a pool of blood.
    "My God, but this thing has gone too far," murmured Father I Donati. Then he bent over the body of the dead priest and administered last rites.
    Gabriel entered the study and found a nun bowed over the body : of Cardinal Brindisi. Father Donati followed a moment later, his, face ashen. He walked wearily across the room, then collapsed to the floor next to the nun, oblivious to the fact that he was kneeling; in blood.
    FROM HER position at the end of the colonnade, Katrine Boussard had seen everything: the arrival of the two men on motorcycle, the confrontation between the carabiniere and the priest who claimed to be the Pope's secretary, the mad race across the square. Clearly they knew something was taking place inside the palace. She started the