The Messenger

eyes still closed.
    “Yes, Holiness.”
    “Is it over?”
    Three bombs, three missiles—symbolic of the Holy Trinity, Gabriel reckoned. A calculated insult to the mushrikun .
    “Yes, Holiness. I believe it’s over.”
    “Where’s Luigi?”
    Gabriel looked toward the burning remains of the dais and saw Donati stagger out of the smoke, the body of a dead cardinal in his arms.
    “He’s alive, Holiness.”
    The Pope closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank God.”
    Gabriel felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He turned around and saw a quartet of men in blue suits, guns drawn. “Let go of him,” one of the men shouted. “We’ll take him from here.”
    Gabriel looked at the man for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I’ve got him,” he said, then he stood up and carried the Pope into the Apostolic Palace, surrounded by Swiss Guards.

    T HE APARTMENT HOUSE stood in a cobbled vicolo near the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Four floors in height, its faded tan exterior was hung with power and telephone lines and contained several large patches of exposed brickwork. On the ground floor was a small motorcycle repair shop that spilled into the street. To the right of the shop was a doorway leading to the flats above. Ibrahim el-Banna had the key in his pocket.
    The attack had commenced five minutes after el-Banna’s departure from the Vatican. On the Borgo Santo Spirito he had taken advantage of the panic to carefully remove his kufi and hang a large wooden cross round his neck. From there he had walked to the Janiculum Park and from the park down the hill to Trastevere. On the Via della Paglia a distraught woman had asked el-Banna for his blessing. He had bestowed it, imitating the words and gestures he’d seen at the Vatican, then immediately asked Allah to forgive his blasphemy.
    Now, safely inside the apartment house, he removed the offensive cross from his neck and mounted the dimly lit stairs. He had been ordered to come here by the Saudi who had conceived and planned the attack—the Saudi he knew only as Khalil. It was to be the first stop on a secret journey out of Europe and back to the Muslim world. He had hoped to return to his native Egypt, but Khalil had convinced him that he would never be safe there. The American lackey Mubarak will hand you over to the infidels in the blink of an eye , Khalil had said. There’s only one place on Earth where the infidels can’t get you .
    That place was Saudi Arabia, land of the Prophet, birthplace of Wahhabi Islam. Ibrahim el-Banna had been promised a new identity, a teaching position at the prestigious University of Medina, and a bank account with a half million dollars. The sanctuary was a reward from Prince Nabil, the Saudi interior minister. The money was a gift from the Saudi billionaire who had financed the operation.
    And so the Muslim cleric who climbed the steps of the Roman apartment house was a contented man. He had just helped carry off one of the most important acts of jihad in the long, glorious history of Islam. And now he was setting out for a new life in Saudi Arabia, where his words and beliefs could help inspire the next generation of Islamic warriors. Only Paradise would be sweeter.
    He reached the third-floor landing and went to the door of apartment 3A. When he inserted the key into the lock he felt a slight electric shock in his fingers. When he turned it, the door exploded. And then he felt nothing at all.

    A T THAT same moment, in the section of Washington known as Foggy Bottom, a woman woke from a nightmare. It was filled with the same imagery she saw every morning at this time. A flight attendant with her throat slashed. A handsome young passenger making one final phone call. An inferno. She rolled over and looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was six-thirty. She picked up the remote control, aimed it at her television, and pressed the power button. God no , she thought when she saw the Basilica in flames. Not again .

7.

Rome

    G ABRIEL REMAINED AT THE safe flat near the Church of the Trinità dei Monti for the next week. There were moments when it seemed as though none of it had really happened. But then he would wander out to the balcony and see the dome of the Basilica looming over the rooftops of the city, shattered and blackened by fire, as if God, in a moment of disapproval or carelessness, had reached down and destroyed the handiwork of his children. Gabriel, the restorer, wished it was only a painting—an