"The Messenger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Silva Daniel)5.BY SUNRISE THE RAIN was gone. Gabriel left the safe flat early and headed back to the Vatican through the empty streets. As he crossed the river, dusty pink light lay on the umbrella pine atop the Janiculum Hill, but St. Peter’s Square was in shadow and lamps still burned in the Colonnade. A café was open not far from the entrance of the Vatican Press Office. Gabriel drank two cups of cappuccino at a sidewalk table and read the morning newspapers. None of the major Rome dailies seemed to know that the Pope’s private secretary had made a brief visit to Jerusalem yesterday-or that last night the Vatican and Italian security chiefs had gathered in the papal dining room to discuss a terrorist threat against the Holy Father’s life. By eight o’clock, preparations were under way in St. Peter’s Square for the general audience. Vatican work crews were erecting folding chairs and temporary metal dividers in the esplanade in front of the Basilica, and security personnel were placing magnetometers along the Colonnade. Gabriel left the café and stood along the steel barricade separating the territory of the Holy See from Italian soil. He acted in a deliberately tense and agitated manner, made several glances at his wristwatch, and paid particular attention to the operation of the magnetometers. In short, he engaged in all the behaviors that the Carabinieri and Vigilanza, the Vatican police force, should have been looking for. It took ten minutes for a uniformed carabiniere to approach him and ask for identification. Gabriel, in perfect Italian, informed the officer that he was attached to the Vatican Security Office. “My apologies,” the carabiniere said, and moved off. “Wait,” Gabriel said. The carabiniere stopped and turned around. “Aren’t you going to ask to see my identification?” The carabiniere held out his hand. He gave the ID badge a bored glance, then handed it back. “Don’t trust anyone,” Gabriel said. “Ask for identification, and if it doesn’t look right, call your superior.” Gabriel turned and walked over to St. Anne’s Gate, where a flock of nuns in gray habits was being admitted simply by saying “Annona,” the name of the Vatican supermarket. He tried the same tactic and, like the nuns, was waved onto Vatican territory. Just inside the gate he withdrew his Vatican ID badge and chastised the Swiss Guard in the Berlin-accented German he had acquired from his mother. Then he went back into the street. A moment later there came an elderly priest with very white hair who informed the Swiss Guard he was going to the Vatican pharmacy. The Guard detained the priest at the gate until he could produce ID from the pocket of his cassock. Gabriel decided to check security at the other main entrance of the Vatican, the Arch of Bells. He arrived five minutes later, just in time to see a Curial cardinal and his two aides passing through the arch without so much as a glance from the Swiss Guard standing at attention near his weather shelter. Gabriel held his badge in front of the Guard’s eyes. “Why didn’t you ask that cardinal for some identification?” “His red hat and pectoral cross are his identification.” “Not today,” Gabriel said. “Check everyone’s ID.” He turned and walked along the outer edge of the Colonnade, pondering the scenes he had just witnessed. St. Peter’s Square, for all its vastness, was largely secure. But if there was a chink in the Vatican ’s armor, it was the relatively large number of people who were allowed free movement HE CROSSED the square to the Bronze Doors. There were no magic words to gain admittance to what was essentially the front door of the Apostolic Palace. Gabriel’s badge was examined outside by a Swiss Guard in full dress uniform and a second time inside the foyer by a Guard in plain clothes. His Security Office clearance allowed him to enter the palace without signing in at the Permissions Desk, but he was required to surrender his firearm, which he did with a certain reluctance. The marble steps of the Scala Regia rose before him, shimmering in the glow of the vast iron lamps. Gabriel climbed them to the Cortile di San Damaso and crossed the courtyard to the other side, where a waiting elevator bore him upward to the third floor. He paused briefly in the loggia to admire the Raphael fresco, then hurried along the wide corridor to the papal apartments. Donati, wearing a cassock with a magenta sash, was seated behind the desk in his small office adjacent to the Pope’s. Gabriel slipped inside and closed the door. “How many people Gabriel frowned. “Forgive me,” Donati said. “It’s an old Vatican joke. The answer is about twelve hundred. That includes the priests and prelates who work in the Secretariat of State and the various congregations and councils, along with their lay support staff. Then there are the laypeople who make the place run: the tour guides, the street sweepers, the maintenance people and gardeners, the clerks in places like the post office, the pharmacy, and the supermarket. And then there’s the security staff, of course.” Gabriel held up his Vatican ID badge. “And they all get one of these?” “Not everyone can get into the Apostolic Palace, but they all have credentials that get them beyond the public sections of the Vatican.” “You mean the square and the Basilica?” “Correct.” “What kind of background check do you perform on them?” “I take it you’re not referring to the cardinals, bishops, “We’ll leave them aside.” Gabriel frowned, then added, “For now.” “Jobs at the Vatican are highly coveted. The salaries aren’t terribly high, but all our employees have shopping privileges at the pharmacy and the supermarket. The prices are subsidized and much lower than those at Italian markets. The same is true for the prices at our gas station. Aside from that, the hours are reasonable, vacations are long, and the fringe benefits are quite good.” “What about a background check for the people who get those jobs?” “The jobs are so coveted-and there are so few of them-that they almost always go to someone with a family connection, so the background check is fairly cursory.” “I was afraid of that,” Gabriel said. “And what about people like me? People with temporary credentials?” “You’re asking how many?” Donati shrugged. “At any given time, I’d say there are several hundred people with temporary access to the Vatican.” “How does the system work?” “They’re usually assigned to one of the various pontifical councils or commissions as support staff or professional consultants. The prefect or an undersecretary vouch for the character of the individual, and the Vatican Security Office issues the badges.” “Does the Security Office keep all the paperwork?” “Of course.” Gabriel lifted the receiver of the telephone and held it out to Donati. TWENTY MINUTES ELAPSED before Donati’s phone rang again. He listened in silence, then replaced the receiver and looked at Gabriel, who was standing in the window overlooking the square, watching the crowds streaming into the square. “They’re starting to pull the paperwork now.” “ “It required authorization from the chief. He was in a meeting. They’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes.” Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly ten-thirty. “Move it indoors,” he said. “The Holy Father won’t hear of it.” Donati joined Gabriel at the window. “Besides, it’s too late. The guests have started to arrive.” THEY SETTLED HIM in a tiny cell with a sooty window overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard and gave him a boyish-looking ex-carabiniere named Luca Angelli to fetch the files. He limited his search to laypersons only. Even Gabriel, a man of boundless suspicion, could not imagine a scenario under which a Catholic priest could be recruited, knowingly or unwittingly, to the cause of al-Qaeda. He also struck from his list members of the Swiss Guard and Vigilanza. The ranks of the Vigilanza were filled largely by former officers of the Carabinieri and Polizia di Stato. As for the Swiss Guard, they were drawn exclusively from Catholic families in Switzerland and most came from the German- and French-speaking cantons in the mountainous heart of the country, hardly a stronghold of Islamic extremism. He started with the lay employees of the Vatican city-state itself. To limit the parameters of his search he reviewed only the files of those who had been hired in the previous five years. That alone took him nearly thirty minutes. When he was finished he set aside a half dozen files for further evaluation-a clerk in the Vatican pharmacy, a gardener, two stock boys in the Annona, a janitor in the Vatican museum, and a woman who worked in one of the Vatican gift shops-and gave the rest back to Angelli. The next files to arrive were for the lay employees attached to various congregations of the Roman Curia. The congregations were the approximate equivalent of government ministries and dealt with central areas of Church governance, such as doctrine, faith, the clergy, saints, and Catholic education. Each congregation was led by a cardinal, and each cardinal had several bishops and “What’s left?” “The pontifical commissions and councils,” said Angelli. “And the other offices.” “Other offices?” “The Administration of the Patrimony of the Holy See, the Prefecture of the Economic Affairs of the Holy See-” “I get it,” Gabriel said. “How many files?” Angelli held up his hands to indicate that the pile was well over a foot high. Gabriel looked at his watch: 11:20 “Bring them.” ANGELLI STARTED WITH the pontifical commissions. Gabriel pulled two more files for further review, a consultant to the Commission for Sacred Archaeology, and an Argentine scholar attached to the Pontifical Commission for Latin America. He gave the rest back to Angelli and looked at his watch: 11:45 “Skip the financial departments,” Gabriel said. “Bring me the files for the pontifical councils.” Angelli returned a moment later with a six-inch stack of manila folders. Gabriel reviewed them in the order Angelli handed them over. The Pontifical Council for the Laity…The Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity…The Pontifical Council for the Family…The Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace…The Pontifical Council for the Pastoral Care of Migrants and Itinerant People…The Pontifical Council for Legislative Texts… Gabriel held up his hand. He had found what he was looking for. HE READ FOR a moment, then looked up sharply. “Does this man really have access to the Vatican?” Angelli bent his thin body at the waist and peered over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Professor Ibrahim el-Banna? He’s been here for more than a year now.” “Doing what?” “He’s a member of a special 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: “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.” THEY 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: Gabriel ran down the stairs, Angelli at his back. |
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