The Messenger

white man’s gun.”
    “I agree, Holiness. Only when Islam reforms itself will there be social justice and true prosperity within the Arab world. But in the meantime we cannot sit idly by and do nothing while the jihadists plot our destruction. That, Holiness, is immoral, too.”
    The Pope rose from his desk and pushed open the large window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. Night had fallen. Rome stirred beneath his feet.
    “I was right about the war, Gabriel, and I’m right about the future that awaits us all—Muslim, Christian, and Jew—if we do not choose another path. But who’s going to listen to me? I’m just an old man in a cassock who lives in a gilded cage. Even my own parishioners don’t listen to me anymore. In Europe we are living as if God does not exist. Anti-Americanism is our only religion now.” He turned and looked at Gabriel. “And anti-Semitism.”
    Gabriel was silent. The Pope said, “Luigi tells me you’ve uncovered evidence of a plot against my life. Another plot,” he added with a sad smile.
    “I’m afraid so, Holiness.”
    “Isn’t it ironic? I’m the one who tried to prevent the war in Iraq. I’m the one who has tried to build a bridge between Christians and Muslims, and yet I’m the one they want to kill.” The Pope looked out his window. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps they don’t want a bridge after all.”

    M OST EVENINGS Pope Paul VII and Monsignor Donati dined alone in the private papal apartments with one or two invited guests for company. Donati tended to keep the mood deliberately light and relaxed, and talk of work was generally restricted to the sort of Curial gossip that the Pope secretly loved. On that evening, however, the atmosphere in the papal dining room was decidedly different. The hastily assembled guest list consisted not of old friends but of men responsible for protecting the pontiff’s life: Colonel Karl Brunner, commandant of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, General Carlo Marchese of the Carabinieri, and Martino Bellano, deputy chief of the Italian security service.
    Gabriel passed around the photographs and briefed them in his Venetian-accented Italian. His presentation was more sanitized than the one he had given Donati in Jerusalem that morning, and the name Ali Massoudi was not spoken. Still, his tone left little doubt that Israeli intelligence regarded the threat as credible and that steps needed to be taken to safeguard the pontiff and the territory of the Holy See. When he finished speaking, the faces of the security men were somber, but there was no visible sense of panic. They had been through this many times, and together they had put in place automatic procedures for elevating the security around the Vatican and the Holy Father when it was deemed necessary. Gabriel listened while the three men reviewed those procedures now. During a pause in their conversation, he carefully cleared his throat.
    “You wish to suggest something?” Donati asked.
    “Perhaps it might be wise to move tomorrow’s ceremony indoors—to the Papal Audience Chamber.”
    “The Holy Father is announcing the beatification of a Portuguese nun tomorrow,” Donati said. “We’re expecting several thousand Portuguese pilgrims, along with the usual crowds. If we move the audience into the chamber, many of those will have to be turned away.”
    “Better to turn away a few pilgrims than expose the Holy Father unnecessarily.”
    The Pope looked at Gabriel. “Do you have specific credible evidence that the terrorists intend to strike tomorrow ?”
    “No, Holiness. Operational intelligence of that nature is very difficult to come by.”
    “If we move the audience into the chamber, and turn away good people, then the terrorists have won, have they not?”
    “Sometimes it is better to give an opponent a small victory than suffer a devastating defeat yourself.”
    “Your people are famous for living their lives normally in the face of terrorist threats.”
    “We still take sensible precautions,” Gabriel said. “For example, one cannot enter most public places in my country without being searched.”
    “So search the pilgrims and take other sensible precautions,” the Pope replied, “but I’ll be in St. Peter’s Square tomorrow afternoon, where I belong. And it’s your job to make certain nothing happens.”

    I T WAS JUST after ten o’clock when Donati escorted Gabriel down the flight of steps that led from the Apostolic Palace to the Via Belvedere. A