“He’s going to get an earful from Lucchesi.”
“He’s ready for it,” Carter said. “As for security, Secret Service is already making arrangements with the Italians to change the president’s travel plans. Coincidentally, they were thinking about it before they received my call. Rome is a mess. They’re expecting two million people in the streets today.”
“How are they going to get him into the Vatican?”
“The motorcade of visiting heads of state usually enters the Holy See through St. Anne’s Gate, then heads up the Via Belvedere to the San Damaso Courtyard. He’s met there by the commandant of the Swiss Guard and escorted into the Apostolic Palace. The bodyguards of the visiting heads of state have to stay down in the courtyard. Vatican protocol. The head of state goes up alone, protected only by the Guard. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Secret Service always stashes a couple of men in the official party-nice Catholic boys who want to meet the Holy Father.”
“So what sort of changes are you making?”
“The president is going to chopper to the Vatican and land on the Pope’s helipad.”
“It’s in the far western corner, right against the wall. If someone is waiting down on the Viale Vaticano with another missile…”
“Secret Service says the area can be secured.”
“How many nice Catholic boys are you going to stash in the president’s official delegation?”
“More than usual.” Carter looked at his watch again. “We should probably enter the airport a few minutes apart. Langley booked us in separate seats.”
“You’re ashamed of me, Adrian?”
“Never prouder, actually. You and your boys showed a lot of guts going into the chalet.”
“We didn’t have a choice, Adrian. We never have a choice.”
Carter closed his eyes for a moment. “You know, it’s possible bin Shafiq was just shooting off his mouth, or bluffing for some reason.”
“Why would he bluff, Adrian? He was going to kill her.”
37.
IT’S A GOOD THING your friend the monsignor asked us to give you a lift,” the Carabinieri captain said. “Otherwise you would have never made it from Fiumicino to the Vatican.”
Gabriel looked out the window of the helicopter. Rome lay beneath him. The Villa Borghese had been taken over as a staging area by the demonstrators and was now a sea of humanity. The first marchers were spilling from the bottom of the park into the Via Veneto.
“Can you keep them away from the Vatican?”
“We’re going to try.” The captain pointed out the window. “You see those barricades down there? Our plan is to herd them up the hill into the Janiculum Park. But we’re expecting two million protesters. If things get out of control…” He gave an Italianate shrug. “I’m glad I don’t do riot duty anymore. It could turn into a war zone down there.”
The helicopter turned and banked toward the city-state. The dome of the Basilica, partially concealed behind the enormous tarpaulins of the work crews, shone in the bright sunlight, while the Pope’s plea for peace fluttered from the façade in the gentle morning breeze. They swept low over the Viale Vaticano, staying over Italian airspace for as long as possible, then slipped over the wall and set down on the papal helipad. Donati, dressed in a black cassock and magenta sash, was waiting there, a plainclothes Swiss Guard at this side. The tall priest’s expression was grim as they shook hands briefly and set out across the Vatican Gardens toward the Apostolic Palace.
“How serious is it this time, Gabriel?”
“Very.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“The messenger,” said Gabriel. “The messenger.”
GABRIEL WAITED until they were upstairs in Donati’s third-floor office before telling him any more. Donati understood he was being given only part of the story. He was too concerned about the safety of his master to protest.
“I want you by his side until the president leaves the Vatican.”
This time Gabriel did not argue.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Donati said. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I honestly can’t remember.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time for sleep now,” Donati said, “but we have to do something about your appearance. I don’t suppose you brought a suit with you?”
“I wish I could explain to you just how ridiculous that question sounds.”
“You’re going to need some proper clothes. The papal protection detail of the Swiss Guard wear suits and ties. I’m sure the commandant can get you reasonably attired.”
“There’s something I need more than a blue suit, Luigi.”
“What’s that?”
Gabriel told him.
“The Swiss Guard can get you one of those, too.”
Donati picked up the phone and dialed.
THE SAME Swiss Guard who had been at Donati’s side on the helipad was waiting for Gabriel in the San Damaso Courtyard ten minutes later. He was equal to Gabriel in height, with square shoulders that filled out his suit jacket and the dense muscular neck of a rugby player. His blond hair was cropped nearly to the scalp of his bullet-shaped head, so that the wire leading into his earpiece was clearly visible.
“Have we met?” Gabriel asked the Guard in German as they set out down the Via Belvedere.
“No, sir.”
“You look familiar to me.”
“I was one of the Guards who helped you get the Holy Father into the Apostolic Palace after the attack.”
“I thought so,” said Gabriel. “What’s your name?”
“Lance Corporal Erich Müller, sir.”
“Which canton are you from, Lance Corporal?”
“Nidwalden, sir. It’s a demi-canton next to-”
“I know where it is,” Gabriel said.
“You know Switzerland, sir.”
“Very well.”
Just before reaching St. Anne’s Gate, they turned right and entered the Swiss Guard barracks. In the reception area a duty officer sat primly behind a half-moon desk. Before him was a bank of closed-circuit television monitors. On the wall behind him hung a crucifix and a row of flags representing each of Switzerland ’s twenty-six cantons. As Gabriel and Müller walked past, the duty officer made a notation in his logbook. “The Swiss Quarter is tightly controlled,” Müller said. “There are three different entry points, but this is the main one.”
They left the reception area and turned right. A long dark corridor stretched before them, lined with tiny cell-like quarters for the halberdiers. At the end of the corridor was an archway, and beyond the archway an interior stone courtyard, where a drill sergeant was putting six novices through their paces with wooden rifles. They entered the building on the other side of the courtyard and descended a flight of stone steps to the indoor firing range. It was silent and unoccupied.
“This is where we do our weapons training. The walls are supposed to be soundproof, but sometimes the neighbors complain about the noise.”
“The neighbors?”
“The Holy Father doesn’t seem to mind, but the cardinal secretary of state is not enamored with the sound of gunfire. We don’t shoot on Sundays or Catholic holy days.” Müller went over to a metal cabinet and opened the padlock. “Our standard-issue sidearm is a 9mm SIG-Sauer with a fifteen-shot magazine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel as he opened the doors of the cabinet. “It’s a Swiss-made weapon. Very accurate…and very powerful. Would you like to try it out?”
Gabriel nodded. Müller removed a gun, an empty magazine, and a full box of ammunition and carried them over to the range. He started to load the gun, but Gabriel stopped him. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you see to the target.” The Swiss Guard clipped a target to the line and ran it out halfway over the range. “Farther,” Gabriel said. “All the way to the end, please.” Müller did as he was told. By the time the target had reached the distant wall of the range, Gabriel had loaded fifteen rounds into the magazine and inserted it into the butt of the pistol. “You’re quick,” Müller remarked. “You must have good hands.”