The Confessor

ribs, abrasions and lacerations over much of his body. Emergency surgery relieved the life-threatening pressure caused by swelling of the brain, but he remained deep in a coma. Because of the terrible wounds on his back, he was placed on his stomach, his head turned toward the window. An oxygen mask obscured the swollen face. The eyelids, darkened by bruises, remained tightly closed.
    There was a great deal of evidence to suggest he was a man of some importance. Father Luigi Donati, the papal secretary, called several times a day to check on his progress. A pair of bodyguards stood watch outside his door. Then there was the striking fact that he was in the room at all, for the suite on the eleventh floor of the Gemelli is reserved for only one man: the Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.
    For the first four days, there were only two visitors: a tall, striking woman with long curly hair and black eyes, and an old man with a face like desert stone. The girl spoke Italian, the old man did not. The nursing staff assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that he was the patient's father. The visitors made a base camp in the sitting room and never left.
    The old man seemed concerned about the patient's right hand, which struck the nursing staff as odd, since his other injuries were much more serious. A radiologist was summoned. X-rays were taken. An orthopedic specialist concluded that the hand had come through the accident remarkably intact, though she did take note of a deep scar in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger, a recent wound that had never healed properly.
    On the fifth day, a prie-dieu was placed at the bedside. The Pope arrived at dusk, accompanied by Father Donati and a single Swiss Guard. He spent an hour kneeling over the unconscious man, his eyes closed in prayer. When he was finished, he reached down and gently stroked the hand.
    As the Pope rose to his feet, his gaze fell upon the large carved-wood crucifix above the bed. He stared at it for a moment before extending his fingers and making the sign of the cross. Then he leaned close to Father Donati and whispered into his ear. The priest reached over the bed and gently removed the crucifix from the wall.
    Twenty-four hours after the Pope's visit, the right hand began to move; the same motion, over and over again; a tap followed by three swift stroking movements. Tap, strode, strode, strode.. . Tap, strode, strode, strode . ,.
    This development caused much debate among the team of doctors. Some dismissed it as spasmodic in nature. Others feared it was the result of a seizure. The tall girl with black eyes told them it was neither spasm or seizure. "He's just painting," she assured them. "He's coming back to us soon."
    The next day, one week after his arrival, the patient with no name briefly regained consciousness. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the sunlight, and looked quizzically at the old man's face, as if he did not recognize him.
    it a ' 5 »
    An?
    "We've been worried about you." "I hurt everywhere." "I don't doubt it."
    He raised his eyes toward the window. "Yerushalayim?" "Rome." "Where?" The
    old man told him. The injured man smiled weakly beneath the oxygen mask.
    "Where's . . . Chiara?"
    »
    "She's here. She never left." "Did I... get him?"
    But before Shamron could answer, Gabriel's eyes closed and he was gone once more.
    VENICE
    It would be A months before Gabriel was fit enough to return to Venice. They settled in a canal house in Cannaregio, with four floors and a tiny dock with a skiff. The entrance, flanked by a pair of ceramic pots overflowing with geraniums, opened onto a quiet courtyard that smelled of rosemary. The security system, installed by an obscure electronics firm based in Tel Aviv, was worthy of the Accademia.
    Gabriel was in no condition to resume his battle with the Bellini. His vision remained blurred, and he could not stand for long without becoming dizzy. Most nights, he was awakened by a pounding headache. Seeing his back for the first time, Francesco Tiepolo thought he looked like a man who had been flayed. Tiepolo appealed to the superintendent in charge of Venice's churches to delay the reopening of San Zaccaria for another month so that Signor Delvecchio could recover from his unfortunate motorcycle accident. The
    superintendent suggested in turn that Tiepolo scale the scaffolding himself and finish the Bellini on time. The tourists are coming, Francesco! Am I supposed to hang a sign on the