His dreamlike trance was shattered by an image on RAI: Pope Paul VII, entering the Great Synagogue of Rome. Brindisi saw a different image: Beckett standing on his altar at Canterbury. The murder of a meddlesome priest.
Send forth your knights, Carlo. Cut him down.
Cardinal Marco Brindisi turned up the volume and waited for news of a pope’s death.
T
HE
R
OME CENTRAL SYNAGOGUE
: Eastern and ornate, stirring in restless anticipation. Gabriel took his place at the front of the synagogue, his right shoulder facing the
bimah,
his hands behind his back, pressed against the cool marble wall. Father Donati stood next to him, tense and irritable. The vantage point provided him perfect sight lines around the interior of the chamber. A few feet away sat a group of Curial cardinals, dazzling in crimson cassocks, listening intently as the chief rabbi made his introductory remarks. Just beyond the cardinals stirred the fidgety denizens of the Vatican press corps. The head of the press office, Rudolf Gertz, appeared nauseated. The rest of the seats were filled with ordinary members of Rome’s Jewish community. As the Pope finally rose to speak, a palpable sense of electricity filled the hall.
Gabriel resisted the temptation to look at him. Instead, his eyes scanned the synagogue, looking for someone or something that seemed out of place. Karl Brunner, standing a few feet from Gabriel, was doing the same thing. Their eyes met briefly. Brunner, Gabriel decided, was no threat to the Pope.
The Pope expressed his gratitude to the rabbi and the community at large for inviting him to speak here this day. Then he remarked on the beauty of the synagogue and of the Jewish faith, stressing the common heritage of Christians and Jews. In a term borrowed from his predecessor, he referred to Jews as the elder brothers of Roman Catholics. It is a special relationship, this bond between siblings, the Pope said—one that can pull apart if not tended to properly. Too often over the past two thousand years, the siblings had quarreled, with disastrous consequences for the Jewish people. He spoke without a text or notes. His audience was spellbound.
“In April 1986, my predecessor, Pope John Paul the Second, came to this synagogue to bridge the divide between our two communities and to begin a process of healing. Over these past years, much has been accomplished.” The Pope paused for a moment, the silence hanging heavy in the hall. “But much work remains to be done.”
A round of warm applause swept over the synagogue. The cardinals joined in. Father Donati elbowed Gabriel and leaned close to his ear. “Watch them,” he said, pointing to the men in red. “We’ll see if they’re clapping in a few minutes.”
But Gabriel kept his eyes on the crowd as the Pope resumed. “My brothers and sisters, God took John Paul from us before he could complete his work. I intend to continue where he left off. I intend to shoulder his burden and carry it home for him.”
Again the Pope was interrupted by applause.
How brilliant,
Gabriel thought. He was portraying his initiative as merely a continuation of the Pole’s legacy rather than something radically new. Gabriel realized that the man who liked to portray himself as a simple Venetian priest was a shrewd tactician and political operator.
“The first steps of the journey of reconciliation were easy compared with the difficult ones that lie before us. The last steps will be hardest of all. Along the way, we may be tempted to turn back. We must not. We must complete this journey, for Catholics and Jews alike.”
Father Donati touched Gabriel’s arm. “Here we go.”
“In both our religions, we believe that forgiveness does not come easily. We Roman Catholics must make an honest confession if we are to receive absolution. If we have murdered a man, we cannot confess to taking the Lord’s name in vain and expect to be forgiven.” The Pope smiled, and laughter rippled through the synagogue. Gabriel noticed that several of the cardinals seemed not to find the remark humorous. “On Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, Jews must seek out those they have wronged, make an honest confession of sin, and seek forgiveness. We Catholics must do the same. But if we are to make an honest confession of sin, we must first know the truth. That is why I am here today.”
The Pope paused for a moment. Gabriel could see him looking at Father Donati, as if gathering strength, as if saying there was no turning back now. Father Donati nodded, and the Pope turned once more to the audience. Gabriel did the same thing, but for a very different reason. He was looking for a man with a gun.
“This morning, in this magnificent synagogue, I am announcing a new review of the Church’s relationship with the Jewish people and the Church’s actions during the Second World War, the darkest period in Jewish history, the time in which six million were lost to the fires of the Shoah. Unlike previous examinations of this terrible time,
all
relevant documents contained in the Vatican Secret Archives, regardless of their age, will be made available to a panel of scholars for review and evaluation.”
The Vatican press corps was in tumult. A few of the reporters were whispering into cellular phones; the rest were scribbling wildly on notepads. Rudolf Gertz sat with his arms folded and his chin resting on his chest. Evidently, His Holiness had neglected to tell his chief spokesman that he intended to make a bit of news today. The Pope had already entered uncharted territory. Now he was about to go even further.
“The Holocaust was not a Catholic crime,” he resumed, “but far too many Catholics, lay and religious alike, took part in the murder of Jews for us to ignore. We must acknowledge this sin, and we must beg forgiveness.”
There was no applause now, just stunned and reverential silence. To Gabriel, it seemed that no one seated in the synagogue could believe that words such as these were being spoken by a Roman pontiff.
“The Holocaust was not a Catholic crime, but the Church sowed the seeds of the poisonous vine known as anti-Semitism and provided the water and nourishment those seeds needed to take root and thrive in Europe. We must acknowledge this sin, and we must beg forgiveness.”
Gabriel thought he could detect unrest among the cardinals. Dark looks, heads shaking, shoulders rising and falling. He looked at Father Donati and whispered, “Which one is Cardinal Brindisi?”
The priest shook his head. “He’s not here today.”
“Why not?”
“He said he was under the weather. Truth is, he’d rather be burned at the stake than listen to this speech.”
The Pope pressed on. “The Church could not have halted the Shoah, but it is quite possible we could have lessened its severity for many more Jews. We should have put geopolitical interests aside and shouted our condemnation from the top of our mighty basilica. We should have excommunicated those members of our Church who were among the murderers and the enablers. After the war, we should have spent more time caring for the victims instead of tending to the perpetrators, many of whom found sanctuary in this blessed city on their way to exile in distant lands.”
The Pope spread his arms wide. “For these sins, and others soon to be revealed, we offer our confession, and we beg your forgiveness. There are no words to describe the depth of our grief. In your hour of greatest need, when the forces of Nazi Germany pulled you from your houses in the very streets surrounding this synagogue, you cried out for help, but your pleas were met by silence. And so today, as I plead for forgiveness, I will do it in the same manner. In silence.”
Pope Paul VII lowered his head, folded his hands beneath his pectoral cross, and closed his eyes. Gabriel looked at the Pope in disbelief, then glanced around the synagogue. He was not alone. Mouths hung open throughout the audience, including the usually cynical press corps. Two of the cardinals had joined the Pope in prayer, but the rest seemed as stunned as everyone else.
For Gabriel, the sight of the Pope in silent prayer on the altar of the synagogue meant something else. He had spoken. His initiative could not be undone, even if he were not alive to see it through. If Crux Vera had intended to kill him, they would have done so
before
he made his remarks. Killing him after the fact would only make him a martyr. The Pope was safe, at least for the time being. Gabriel had only one concern now—getting him safely back inside the papal apartments.
A movement caught Gabriel’s eye—an arm in motion—but it was only Karl Brunner, raising his right hand and touching his earpiece. Immediately his demeanor changed. His shoulders squared, and he seemed to be leaning forward on the balls of his feet. Blood rushed to his face, and his eyes were suddenly alive and on the move. He raised his wrist to his lips and mouthed a few words into the microphone concealed in his shirt cuff. Then he took a quick step toward Father Donati.
The priest leaned forward and said, “Is something wrong, Karl?”
“There’s an intruder at the Vatican.”
AFTER LEAVING
the papal apartments, Eric Lange walked downstairs one level to the office of the Vatican Secretary of State. In the antechamber he encountered Father Mascone, Cardinal Brindisi’s trusted private secretary.
Lange said, “I’d like to see the cardinal, please.”
“That’s impossible.” Father Mascone shuffled some papers and bristled visibly. “Just who in God’s name do you think you are marching in here and making demands like that?”
Lange reached into his pocket and in a fluid motion withdrew the silenced Stechkin. Father Mascone murmured, “Mother Mary, pray for me.”
Lange shot him through the center of the forehead and walked quickly around the desk.
GABRIEL AND
Father Donati scampered down the steps of the synagogue. The papal limousine stood outside, glistening from a light drizzle, surrounded by several
carabinieri
straddling idle motorcycles. Father Donati approached the closest officer and said, “There’s an emergency at the Vatican. We need a motorbike.”
The
carabiniere
shook his head. “I can’t, Father Donati. It’s completely against regulations. I could be fired if I let you take my motorcycle.”
Gabriel put a hand on the officer’s shoulder. In Italian, he said: “
Il papa
has personally dispatched us on this mission. Do you really wish to refuse a direct request from His Holiness?”
The
carabiniere
quickly dismounted the motorcycle.
Gabriel took the handlebars and swung his leg over the saddle. Father Donati climbed on the back.
“Can you drive one of these things?”
“Hold on.”
Gabriel turned onto the deserted Lungotevere and opened the throttle full. As he raced north toward the Vatican, he could hear Father Donati reciting the Lord’s Prayer in his ear.
MARCO BRINDISI
stood in the center of the room before a bank of television screens. His arms were spread wide, his palms were open, his face seemed to have drained of blood. In his rage, the red zucchetto had fallen from his pate and lay on the carpet at his feet.
“Will no one silence this heretic?” the cardinal screamed. “Damn you, Carlo! Cut him down! Where is your man?”
“I’m right here,” Eric Lange said calmly.
Cardinal Brindisi turned his head a few degrees and took note of the man in a humble clerical suit who had slipped silently into his office.
“Who are you?”
Lange’s arm swung up, the Stechkin in his hand.
“Would you like to make a last confession, Eminence?”
The cardinal narrowed his eyes. “May the fires of Hell consume your soul.”
He closed his eyes and prepared himself for death.
Lange indulged him.
He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The Stechkin spit fire but emitted no sound. Three shots struck the cardinal in the chest, forming a perfect triangle over his heart.
As the cardinal collapsed onto his back, Lange stepped forward and stared into the lifeless eyes. He placed the tip of the silencer against the prelate’s temple and fired one last shot.
Then he turned and walked calmly out.
I
T TOOK THREE MINUTES
for Gabriel to reach the entrance of St. Peter’s Square. As he skidded to a halt at the metal barricades, a startled
carabiniere
leveled his automatic weapon and braced himself for assault. Father Donati waved his Vatican badge.