“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
He offered Gabriel protection for his ears and eyes.
“No thanks.”
“Rules of the range, sir.”
Gabriel turned without warning and opened fire. He kept firing until the gun was empty. Müller reeled in the target while Gabriel ejected the empty magazine and picked up his brass.
“Jesus Christ.”
All fifteen shots were grouped in the center of the target’s face.
“Do you want to shoot again?” Müller asked.
“I’m fine.”
“How about a shoulder holster?”
“That’s what pants are for.”
“Let me get you an extra magazine.”
“Give me two, please. And an extra box of ammo.”
HE COLLECTED a parcel of clothing from the commandant’s office, then hurried back to the Apostolic Palace. Upstairs on the third floor, Donati showed him to a small guest apartment with a private bathroom and shower. “I stole that razor from the Holy Father,” Donati said. “The towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”
The president wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. Gabriel took his time shaving, then spent several minutes standing beneath the showerhead. The clothing that had been scrounged up by the Swiss Guard fit him surprisingly well, and by eleven o’clock he was walking down the frescoed corridor toward the Pope’s private apartment, looking as well as could be expected.
He had made one additional request of Donati before going to the Swiss Guard barracks: a copy of the final report, prepared jointly by the Italian and Vatican security services, on the October attack. He read it over a cappuccino and cornetto in the Pope’s private dining room, then spent a few minutes flipping round the dial on the Pope’s television, looking for any word of eleven dead bodies found in a Swiss chalet. There was no mention on any of the international news channels. He supposed Carter’s team had completed its task.
Donati came for him at 11:45. They walked to the Belvedere Palace and found an empty office with a good view of the Gardens. A moment later the trees began to twist and writhe, then two enormous twin-rotor helicopters came into view and descended toward the helipad in the far corner of the city-state. Gabriel felt a bit of tension drain from his body as he saw the first helicopter slip safely below the treetops. Five minutes later they caught their first glimpse of the American president, striding confidently toward the palace, surrounded by several dozen heavily armed, nervous-looking Secret Service agents.
“The agents will have to wait down in the Garden,” Donati said. “The Americans don’t like it, but those are the rules of protocol. Do you know they actually try to slip Secret Service agents into the official delegation?”
“You don’t say.”
Donati looked at Gabriel. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “We should get back to the Apostolic Palace. I’d like to be there before the president arrives.”
Donati turned and led the way.
THEY REACHED the Sala Clementina, a soaring frescoed receiving room one floor below the Pope’s private apartments, five minutes before the president. The Holy Father had not yet arrived. There was a detachment of ceremonial Swiss Guard standing outside the wide entranceway and several more in plainclothes waiting inside. Two ornate chairs stood at one end of the long rectangular room; at the other was a pack of reporters, photographers, and cameramen. Their collective mood was more disagreeable than usual. The equipment searches and security checks conducted by the Swiss Guard and Secret Service had been far more invasive than usual, and three European camera crews were refused entry because of minor discrepancies concerning their credentials. The press would be allowed to record the first moments of the historic meeting and broadcast the images live to the world, then they would be shepherded out.
Donati went back into the corridor to wait for the Holy Father. Gabriel looked around a moment longer, then went to the front of the room and positioned himself a few feet from the chair reserved for the Pope. For the next two minutes his eyes roamed over the pack of journalists, looking for any signs of agitation or a face that seemed in any way out of place. Then he did the same to the delegation of Curial prelates standing to his left.
Shortly before noon the white-cassocked figure of the Holy Father entered the room, accompanied by Donati, his cardinal secretary of state, and four plainclothes Swiss Guards. Erich Müller, the Guard who had given Gabriel his weapon, was among them. His eyes settled briefly on Gabriel, whom he acknowledged with a quick nod. The Pope walked the length of the room and stopped in front of his ornate chair. Donati, tall and striking in his tailored black cassock and magenta sash, stood at his master’s side. He looked briefly at Gabriel, then lifted his gaze toward the entranceway as the president of the United States strode through.
Gabriel quickly scrutinized the president’s official delegation. Four Secret Service agents were among them, he reckoned, maybe two or three more. Then his gaze began to sweep the room like a searchlight: the reporters, the Curial prelates, the Swiss Guards, the president and the Holy Father. They were shaking hands now, smiling warmly at each other in the blinding white light of the flashing cameras.
The swiftness of it caught even Gabriel by surprise. Indeed were it not for Donati, he thought later, he might never have seen it coming. Donati’s eyes widened suddenly, then he made a sudden lateral movement toward the president. Gabriel turned and saw the gun. The weapon was a SIG-Sauer 9mm-and the hand holding it belonged to Lance Corporal Erich Müller.
Gabriel drew his own gun and started firing, but not before Müller managed to squeeze off two shots. He did not hear the screaming or notice the flashing of the camera lights. He just kept firing until the Swiss Guard lay dead on the marble floor. The Secret Service agents concealed within the American delegation seized the president and hustled him toward the door. Pietro Lucchesi, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, and successor to St. Peter, fell to his knees and began to pray over the fallen body of a tall priest in a black cassock.
38.
THERE ARE ROOMS ON the eleventh floor of the Gemelli Clinic that few people know. Spare and spartan, they are the rooms of a priest. In one there is a hospital bed. In another there are couches and chairs. The third contains a private chapel. In the hallway outside the entrance is a desk for the guards. Someone stands watch always, even when the rooms are empty.
Though the hospital bed is reserved for the leader of the world’s one billion Roman Catholics, on that evening it was occupied by the leader’s trusted private secretary. The street below his window was filled with thousands of faithful. At nine o’clock they had fallen silent to listen to the first bollettino from the Vatican Press Office. Monsignor Luigi Donati, it said, had undergone seven hours of surgery to repair the damage inflicted by two 9mm rounds. The monsignor’s condition was described as “extremely grave,” and the bollettino made clear that his survival was very much in doubt. It concluded by saying that the Holy Father was at his side and planned to remain there for the foreseeable future. It did not mention the fact that Gabriel was there, too.
They were seated together on a couch in the sitting room. On the other side of an open connecting door lay Donati, pale and unconscious. A team of doctors and nurses stood round him, their expressions grim. The Holy Father’s eyes were closed and he was working the beads of a rosary. A broad smear of blood stained the front of his white cassock. He had refused to change out of it. Gabriel, looking at him now, thought of Shamron and his torn leather jacket. He hoped the Holy Father didn’t blame himself for what had happened today.