Moscow Rules (7 page)

shielded from Gabriel’s view. Gabriel looked toward the opposite side of the nave and saw Lavon

standing near the entrance of the Vatican Grottoes. Their eyes met briefly; Lavon nodded once. Gabriel

took one final look at the soaring Dome, then set off toward the spot where the Russian was waiting for

him.

The sculpture of Pius XII is a curious one. The right hand is raised in blessing, but the head is turned

a few degrees to the right, a somewhat defensive pose that makes it appear as if the wartime pontiff is

attempting to ward off a blow. Even more curious, however, was the scene Gabriel encountered as he

entered the enclave where the statue is located. Boris Ostrovsky was on his knees before the pedestal,

with his face lifted sharply toward the ceiling and his hands raised to his neck. A few feet away, three

African nuns were conversing softly in French, as though there was nothing unusual about the sight of a

man kneeling in fervent veneration before the statue of so great a pope.

Gabriel slipped past the nuns and moved quickly to Ostrovsky’s side. His eyes were bulging and

frozen in terror, and his hands were locked around his own throat, as though he were attempting to

strangle himself. He wasn’t, of course; he was only trying to breathe. Ostrovsky’s affliction wasn’t

natural. In fact, Gabriel was quite certain the Russian had been poisoned. Somehow, somewhere, an

assassin had managed to get to him, despite all their precautions.

Gabriel eased Ostrovsky to the floor and spoke quietly into his ear while attempting to pry loose his

hands. The nuns gathered round and began to pray, along with a crowd of curious bystanders. Within thirty

seconds, the first officers of the Vigilanza, the Vatican ’s police force, arrived to investigate. By then,

Gabriel was no longer there. He was walking calmly down the steps of the Basilica, with his sunglasses

on his face and Eli Lavon at his side. “He was clean,” Lavon was saying. “I’m telling you, Gabriel, he

was clean.”

8 VATICAN CITY

It took just one hour for the death in St. Peter’s to reach the airwaves of Italy and another hour for the

first report to appear in a roundup of European news on the BBC. By eight o’clock, the corpse had a

name; by nine, an occupation.

At 9:30 P.M. Rome time, global interest in Ostrovsky’s death increased dramatically when a

spokesman for the Vatican Press Office issued a terse statement suggesting the Russian journalist

appeared to have died as a result of foul play. The announcement ignited a frenzy of activity in

newsrooms around the world, it being an otherwise rather slow day, and by midnight there were satellite

broadcast trucks lining the Via della Conciliazione from the Tiber to St. Peter’s Square. Experts were

brought in to analyze every possible angle, real or imagined: experts on the police and security forces of

the Vatican; experts on the perils facing Russian journalists; experts on the Basilica itself, which had been

sealed off and declared a crime scene. An American cable channel even interviewed the author of a book

about Pius XII, before whose statue Ostrovsky had died. The scholar was engaged in idle speculation

about a possible link between the dead Russian journalist and the controversial pope as Gabriel parked

his motorbike on a quiet side street near the Vatican walls and made his way toward St. Anne’s Gate.

A young priest was standing just inside the gate, chatting with a Swiss Guard dressed in a simple

blue night uniform. The priest greeted Gabriel with a nod, then turned and escorted him silently up the Via

Belvedere. They entered the Apostolic Palace through the San Damaso Courtyard and stepped into a

waiting elevator that bore them slowly up to the third floor. Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to

His Holiness Pope Paul VII, was waiting in the frescoed loggia. He was six inches taller than Gabriel and

blessed with the dark good looks of an Italian film star. His handmade black cassock hung gracefully from

his slender frame, and his gold wristwatch glinted in the restrained light as he banished the young priest

with a curt wave.

“Please tell me you didn’t actually kill a man in my Basilica,” Donati murmured after the young

priest had receded into the shadows.

“I didn’t kill anyone, Luigi.”

The monsignor frowned, then handed Gabriel a manila file folder stamped with the insignia of the

Vigilanza. Gabriel lifted the cover and saw himself, cradling the dying figure of Boris Ostrovsky. There

were other photos beneath: Gabriel walking away as the onlookers gathered round; Gabriel slipping out

the Filarete Door; Gabriel at the side of Eli Lavon as they hurried together across St. Peter’s Square. He

closed the file and held it out toward Donati like an offertory.

“They’re yours to keep, Gabriel. Think of them as a souvenir of your visit to the Vatican.”

“I assume the Vigilanza has another set?”

Donati gave a slow nod of his head.

“I would be eternally grateful if you would be so kind as to drop those prints in the nearest pontifical

shredder.”

“I will,” Donati said icily. “
After
you tell me everything you know about what transpired here this

afternoon.”

“I know very little, actually.”

“Why don’t we start with something simple, then? For example, what in God’s name were you doing

there?”

Donati removed a cigarette from his elegant gold case, tapped it impatiently against the cover, then

ignited it with an executive gold lighter. There was little clerical in his demeanor; not for the first time,

Gabriel had to remind himself that the tall, cassocked figure standing before him was actually a priest.

Brilliant, uncompromising, and notoriously short of temper, Donati was one of the most powerful private

secretaries in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. He ran the Vatican like a prime minister or CEO

of a Fortune 500 company, a management style that had won him few friends behind the walls of the

Vatican. The Vatican press corps called him a clerical Rasputin, the true power behind the papal throne,

while his legion of enemies in the Roman Curia often referred to him as “the Black Pope,” an unflattering

reference to Donati’s Jesuit past. Their loathing of Donati had diminished some during the past year. After

all, there were few men who could say they had actually stepped in front of a bullet meant for the

Supreme Pontiff.

“It might be in your interests, Monsignor Donati, to limit your exposure to certain facts surrounding

the circumstances of Ostrovsky’s death.” Gabriel’s tone was lawyerly. “Otherwise, you might find

yourself in a ticklish situation when the investigators start asking questions.”

“I’ve been in ticklish situations before.” Donati blew a stream of smoke toward the high ceiling and

gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “We
both
have. Just tell me everything you know and let me worry about

how to handle the questions from the investigators.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to confession, Luigi.”

“Try it,” Donati said. “It’s good for the soul.”

Gabriel may have harbored serious doubts about the benefits of confession, but he had none when it

came to the trustworthiness of Luigi Donati. Their bond had been forged in secrecy and was drenched in

blood, some of it their own. The former Jesuit knew how to keep a secret. He was also skilled at telling

the occasional untruth, as long as it was in the service of a noble cause. And so, as they walked the silent

halls of the Apostolic Palace together, Gabriel told him everything, beginning with his summons to Assisi

and ending with Ostrovsky’s death.

“Do I have to remind you that we had an agreement? We asked the Italian authorities to allow you to

reside in the country under a false identity. We gave you work and accommodations-very pleasant

accommodations, I might add. In exchange for this, we asked only that you refrain from any and all work

for your former employer.”

Gabriel offered an uninspired version of the “Navot defense”-that it was not really an operation,

only a conversation. Donati dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“You gave us your word, Gabriel, and you broke it.”

“We had no choice. Ostrovsky said he would only talk to me.”

“Then you should have picked somewhere else to meet him other than
my
Basilica. You’ve laid a

potential scandal on our doorstep and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

“The difficult questions will be directed toward Moscow, not the Vatican.”

“Let’s hope you’re correct. I’m obviously no expert, but it appears Ostrovsky was poisoned by

someone.” Donati paused. “Someone who apparently didn’t want him talking to
you
.”

“I concur.”

“Because he’s a Russian, and because the Russians have a history of this sort of thing, there’s bound

to be speculation about a Kremlin connection.”

“It’s already begun, Luigi. A hundred reporters are camped at the edge of St. Peter’s Square saying

that very thing.”

“What do you believe?”

“Ostrovsky told us he was afraid of the
siloviki
. It’s the word Russians use to describe the gang of

former KGB men who’ve set up shop inside the Kremlin. He also told us that the information he had

concerned a grave threat to the West and to Israel.”

“What sort of threat?”

“He didn’t get a chance to tell us that.”

Donati clasped his hands behind his back thoughtfully and looked down at the marble floor. “For the

moment, Ostrovsky’s death is a matter for the police and security services of the Vatican, but it is unlikely

to remain so. I anticipate pressure will build rather quickly for us to grant the Italian authorities primacy

in the investigation. Fortunately, murder is not a common occurrence at the Vatican -except when you

come to town, of course. We simply don’t have the technical expertise necessary to carry out an inquiry of

this complexity, especially if sophisticated poisons or toxins are involved.”

“How long before you’ll have to let the Italians take over?”

“If I had to guess, the request will be on my desk by tomorrow. If we refuse, we’ll be accused of

engaging in a cover-up. The press will spin wild theories about dark forces at play behind the walls of the

Vatican. Which brings us back to the photographs of you inside the Basilica at the time of Ostrovsky’s

death.”

“What about them?”

“Dropping the prints into the pontifical shredder is only a temporary solution. As you might expect,

the images are stored permanently in the memory of our computers. And don’t even think about asking me

to delete them. I won’t countenance the destruction of evidence- not with the Italians about to take over the

case.”

“No one is going to recognize me from those images, Luigi. There’s only one way the Italians will

find out I was here.”

“Don’t worry, Gabriel. Your secret is safe with us. Three people know of your involvement: the

Holy Father, myself, and the Vigilanza detective who’s leading our investigation. I’ve sworn him to

secrecy and he’s agreed to remain silent. He’s what we Italians call an
uomo di fiducia:
a man of trust.

He used to work for the Polizia di Stato.”

“If it’s all right with you, Luigi, I’d like to have a brief word with the inspector.”

“About what?”

“It’s possible the security cameras in the Basilica picked up someone other than me.”

“Who?”

“The man who killed Boris Ostrovsky, of course.”

9 VATICAN CITY

Gabriel did not require an escort to find the Vatican Central Security Office. Unfortunately, he knew

the way. It was there, shortly before the attack on St. Peter’s Basilica, that he had engaged in a frantic

search for evidence of an al-Qaeda infiltrator at the Vatican. Had he been able to start a few minutes

sooner, he might have prevented the deadliest single act of Islamic terrorism since 9/11.

Ispettore Mateo Cassani, a trim figure in a well-cut dark suit, was waiting in the reception foyer. He

regarded Gabriel with a pair of weary, bloodshot eyes, then extended his hand. “Welcome back, Signore.

Come with me, please.”

They headed down a narrow corridor and paused briefly in an open doorway. Inside, two uniformed

Vigilanza officers were seated before a wall of video monitors. Gabriel quickly scanned the images: St.

Anne’s Gate, the Arch of Bells, St. Peter’s Square, the San Damaso Courtyard, the Vatican Gardens, the

interior of the Basilica.

“This is our main observation room. It also serves as our command center in times of crisis, such as

the morning of the attack. Everything is recorded and stored digitally. For all eternity,” he added with a

tired smile. “Just like the Holy Mother Church.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Don’t worry, Signore. I know who you are, and I know exactly what you did the day those terrorists

attacked this place. The Church lost four cardinals and eight bishops in a matter of seconds. And if it

wasn’t for you, we might have lost a pope as well.”

They left the observation room and entered a cramped office overlooking the darkened Belvedere