The Messenger

commission searching for ways to improve relations between the Christian and Islamic worlds. There are twelve members in all, an ecumenical team of six Christian scholars and six Muslim scholars representing the various Islamic sects and schools of Islamic law. Ibrahim el-Banna is a professor of Islamic jurisprudence at Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He’s also among the most respected scholars of the Hanafi school of Islamic law in the world. Hanafi is predominant among—”
    “Sunni Muslims,” Gabriel said, pointedly finishing Angelli’s sentence for him. “Don’t you know that Al-Azhar is a hotbed of Islamic militancy? It’s been thoroughly penetrated by the forces of al-Qaeda and the Muslim Brotherhood.”
    “It is also one of the oldest and most prestigious schools of Islamic theology and law in the world. Professor el-Banna was chosen for the position because of his moderate views. He’s met several times with the Holy Father himself. On two occasions they were alone together.”
    “Where does the commission meet?”
    “Professor el-Banna has an office in a building near the Piazza Santa Marta, not far from the Arch of Bells.”
    Gabriel looked at his watch: 11:55… There was no way to talk to Donati. He would be downstairs with the Pope by now, preparing to enter the square. He thought of the instructions he’d given him the previous night in the Via Belvedere. Make a general nuisance of yourself. If you see a problem, address it. He got to his feet and looked at Angelli.
    “I’d like to have a word with the imam.”
    Angelli hesitated. “The initiative is very important to the Holy Father. If you level an accusation against Professor el-Banna without just cause, he will take great offense and the commission’s work will be placed in jeopardy.”
    “Better an irate imam than a dead Pope. What’s the quickest way to the Piazza Santa Marta?”
    “We’ll take the shortcut,” Angelli said. “Through the Basilica.”

    T HEY SLIPPED THROUGH the passage from the Scala Regia into the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, then hurried diagonally across the vast nave. Beneath the Monument to Alexander VII was a doorway leading into the Piazza Santa Marta. As they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, a roar of wild applause rose from St. Peter’s Square. The Pope had arrived for the General Audience. Angelli led Gabriel across the small piazza and into a gloomy-looking Baroque office building. In the lobby a nun sat motionless behind a reception table. She gave Gabriel and Angelli a disapproving look as they burst inside.
    “Ibrahim el-Banna,” said Luca Angelli without elaboration.
    The nun blinked twice rapidly. “Room four-twelve.”
    They mounted the stairs, Angelli leading the way, Gabriel at his heels. When another swell of applause rose from the square, Gabriel gave Angelli a jab in the kidneys, and the Vatican security man began taking the steps two at a time. When they arrived at Room 412 they found the door was closed. Gabriel reached for the latch, but Angelli stayed his hand and knocked firmly but politely.
    “Professor el-Banna? Professor el-Banna? Are you there?”
    Greeted by silence, Gabriel pushed Angelli aside and examined the ancient lock. With the slender metal pick in his wallet he could have coaxed it open in a matter of seconds, but another roar of approval from the square reminded him there wasn’t time. He seized hold of the latch with both hands and drove his shoulder into the door. It held fast. He threw his body against the door a second time, then a third. On the fourth attempt, Angelli joined him. The wood of the doorjamb splintered, and they tumbled inside.
    The room was empty. Not just empty, thought Gabriel. Abandoned. There were no books or files, no pens or loose papers. Just a single lettersized envelope, positioned in the precise center of the desk. Angelli reached for the light switch, but Gabriel shouted at him not to touch it, then pushed the Italian back into the corridor. He drew a pen from his coat pocket and used it as a probe to examine the density of the envelope’s contents. When he was reasonably certain it contained nothing but paper, he picked it up and carefully lifted the flap. Inside was a single sheet, folded in thirds. Handwritten, Arabic script:

We declare war on you, the Crusaders, with the destruction of your infidel temple to polytheism and the death of your so-called Supreme Pontiff, this man in white who you treat as though he