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Carabinieri, and Martino Bellano, deputy chief of the Italian security service.
    Gabriel passed around the photographs and briefed them in his Venetian-accented Italian. His presentation was more sanitized than the one he had given Donati in Jerusalem that morning, and the name Ali Massoudi was not spoken. Still, his tone left little doubt that Israeli intelligence regarded the threat as credible and that steps needed to be taken to safeguard the pontiff and the territory of the Holy See. When he finished speaking, the faces of the security men were somber, but there was no visible sense of panic. They had been through this many times, and together they had put in place automatic procedures for elevating the security around the Vatican and the Holy Father when it was deemed necessary. Gabriel listened while the three men reviewed those procedures now. During a pause in their conversation, he carefully cleared his throat.
    “You wish to suggest something?” Donati asked.
    “Perhaps it might be wise to move tomorrow’s ceremony indoors—to the Papal Audience Chamber.”
    “The Holy Father is announcing the beatification of a Portuguese nun tomorrow,” Donati said. “We’re expecting several thousand Portuguese pilgrims, along with the usual crowds. If we move the audience into the chamber, many of those will have to be turned away.”
    “Better to turn away a few pilgrims than expose the Holy Father unnecessarily.”
    The Pope looked at Gabriel. “Do you have specific credible evidence that the terrorists intend to strike tomorrow ?”
    “No, Holiness. Operational intelligence of that nature is very difficult to come by.”
    “If we move the audience into the chamber, and turn away good people, then the terrorists have won, have they not?”
    “Sometimes it is better to give an opponent a small victory than suffer a devastating defeat yourself.”
    “Your people are famous for living their lives normally in the face of terrorist threats.”
    “We still take sensible precautions,” Gabriel said. “For example, one cannot enter most public places in my country without being searched.”
    “So search the pilgrims and take other sensible precautions,” the Pope replied, “but I’ll be in St. Peter’s Square tomorrow afternoon, where I belong. And it’s your job to make certain nothing happens.”

    I T WAS JUST after ten o’clock when Donati escorted Gabriel down the flight of steps that led from the Apostolic Palace to the Via Belvedere. A light mist was falling; Gabriel zipped his jacket and hitched his overnight bag over his shoulder. Donati, coatless, seemed not to notice the weather. His eyes remained on the paving stones as they walked past the Vatican central post office toward St. Anne’s Gate.
    “Are you sure I can’t offer you a lift?”
    “Until this morning, I thought I might never be allowed to set foot here again. I think I’ll use the opportunity to take a walk.”
    “If the Italian police arrest you before you reach your flat, tell them to give me a call. His Holiness will vouch for your fine character.” They walked in silence for a moment. “Why don’t you come back for good?”
    “To Italy? I’m afraid Shamron has other plans for me.”
    “We miss you,” Donati said. “So does Tiepolo.”
    Francesco Tiepolo, a friend of the Pope and Donati, owned the most successful restoration firm in the Veneto. Gabriel had restored two of Bellini’s greatest altarpieces for him. Nearly two, he thought. Tiepolo had had to finish Bellini’s San Giovanni Crisostomo altarpiece after Gabriel’s flight from Venice.
    “Something tells me Tiepolo will survive without me.”
    “And Chiara?”
    Gabriel, with his moody silence, made it clear he had no desire to discuss with the Pope’s private secretary the state of his tangled love life. Donati adroitly changed the subject.
    “I’m sorry if you felt the Holy Father was putting you on the spot. I’m afraid he’s lost much of his old