Shamron peered into his coffee for a moment. “Charity,” he said, his tone disdainful. “A lovely word, isn’t it? But Saudi charity has always been a two-edged sword. The Muslim World League, the International Islamic Relief Organization, the al-Haramayn Islamic Foundation, the Benevolence International Foundation-they are to Saudi Arabia what the Comintern was to the old Soviet Union. A means of propagating the faith. Islam. And not just any form of Islam. Saudi Arabia ’s puritanical brand of Islam. Wahhabism. The charities build mosques and Islamic centers around the world and madrassas that churn out the Wahhabi militants of tomorrow. And they also give money directly to the terrorists, including our friends in Hamas. The engines of America run on Saudi oil, but the networks of global Islamic terrorism run largely on Saudi money.”

“Charity is the third pillar of Islam,” Gabriel said. “Zakat.”

“And a noble quality,” Shamron said, “except when the zakat ends up in the hands of murderers.”

“Do you think Ali Massoudi was connected to the Saudis by more than money?”

“We may never know because the great professor is no longer with us. But whomever he was working for clearly has his sights set on the Vatican -and someone needs to tell them.”

“I suspect you have someone in mind for the job.”

“Consider it your first assignment as chief of Special Ops,” Shamron said. “The prime minister wants you to step into the breach. Immediately.”

“And Amos?”

“Amos has another name in mind, but the prime minister and I have made it clear to him who we want in the job.”

“My own record is hardly free of scandal, and unfortunately the world now knows about it.”

“The Gare de Lyon affair?” Shamron shrugged. “You were lured into it by a clever opponent. Besides, I’ve always believed that a career free of controversy is not a proper career at all. The prime minister shares that view.”

“Maybe that’s because he’s been involved in a few scandals of his own.” Gabriel exhaled heavily and looked down at the photographs once more. “There are risks to sending me to Rome. If the French find out I’m on Italian soil-”

“There’s no need for you to go to Rome,” Shamron said, cutting him off. “ Rome is coming to you.”

“Donati?”

Shamron nodded.

“How much did you tell him?”

“Enough for him to ask Alitalia if he could borrow a plane for a few hours,” Shamron said. “He’ll be here first thing in the morning. Show him the photographs. Tell him as much as you need to in order to impress upon him that we think the threat is credible.”

“And if he asks for help?”

Shamron shrugged. “Give him whatever he needs.”

MONSIGNOR LUIGI DONATI, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, was waiting for Gabriel in the lobby of the King David Hotel at eleven the following morning. He was tall and lean and handsome as an Italian movie idol. The cut of his black clerical suit and Roman collar suggested that the monsignor, while chaste, was not without personal vanity-as did the expensive Swiss watch on his wrist and the gold fountain pen lodged in his breast pocket. His dark eyes radiated a fierce and uncompromising intelligence, while the stubborn set of his jaw revealed that he was a dangerous man to cross. The Vatican press corps had described him as a clerical Rasputin, the power behind the papal throne. His enemies within the Roman Curia often referred to Donati as “the Black Pope,” an unflattering reference to his Jesuit past.

It had been three years since their first meeting. Gabriel had been investigating the murder of an Israeli scholar living in Munich, a former Office agent named Benjamin Stern. The trail of clues had led Gabriel to the Vatican and into Donati’s capable hands, and together they had destroyed a grave threat to the papacy. A year later Donati had helped Gabriel find evidence in a Church archive that allowed him to identify and capture Erich Radek, a Nazi war criminal living in Vienna. But the bond between Gabriel and Donati extended far beyond two men. Donati’s master, Pope Paul VII, was closer to Israel than any of his predecessors and had taken monumental steps to improve relations between Catholics and Jews. Keeping him alive was one of Shamron’s highest priorities.

When Donati spotted Gabriel coming across the lobby, he smiled warmly and extended a long, dark hand. “It’s good to see you, my friend. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

“Have you checked into your room?”

Donati held up the key.

“Let’s go upstairs. There’s something you need to see.”

They walked to the elevators and entered a waiting carriage. Gabriel knew, even before Donati reached out for the panel of call buttons, that he would press the one for the sixth floor-just as he knew that the key in Donati’s hand opened the door to Room 616. The spacious suite overlooking the Old City walls was permanently reserved for Office use. Along with the usual luxury amenities, it contained a built-in audio recording system, which could be engaged by a tiny switch concealed beneath the bathroom sink. Gabriel made certain the system was turned off before showing the photographs to Donati. The priest’s face showed no emotion as he regarded each image carefully, but a moment later, as he stood at the window gazing out toward the Dome of the Rock sparkling in the distance, Gabriel noticed the muscles of his jaw alternatively clenching and unclenching with stress.

“We’ve been through this many times before, Gabriel-the Millennium, the Jubilee, nearly every Christmas and Easter. Sometimes the warnings are delivered to us by the Italian security services, and sometimes they come from our friends in the Central Intelligence Agency. Each time, we respond by clamping down on security, until the threat is deemed to have subsided. Thus far, nothing has materialized. The Basilica is still standing. And so, too, I’m pleased to say, is the Holy Father.”

“Just because they haven’t succeeded doesn’t mean they aren’t trying, Luigi. The Wahhabi-inspired terrorists of al-Qaeda and its affiliates regard everyone who doesn’t adhere to its brand of Islam as kafur and mushrikun, worthy only of death. Kafur are infidels, and mushrikun are polytheists. They regard even Sunni and Shiite Muslims as mushrikun, but to their way of thinking, there’s no bigger symbol of polytheism than the Vatican and the Holy Father.”

“I understand all that, but as you say at your Passover seder, why is this night different from all other nights?”

“You’re asking me why you should take this threat seriously?”

“Precisely.”

“Because of the messenger,” Gabriel said. “The man on whose computer we found these photographs.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

Donati turned slowly away from the window and regarded Gabriel imperiously. “I’ve laid bare some of the darkest secrets of the Roman Catholic Church to you. The least you can do in return is tell me where you got the photographs.”

Gabriel hesitated. “Are you familiar with the name Ali Massoudi?’

“Professor Ali Massoudi?” Donati’s expression darkened. “Wasn’t he killed in London a couple of nights ago?”

“He wasn’t killed,” Gabriel said. “He died in an accident.”

“Dear God, please tell me you didn’t push him in front of that truck, Gabriel.”

“Save your sorrow for someone worthy of it. We know Massoudi was a terrorist recruiter. And based on what we found on his laptop, he might have been a planner as well.”

“Too bad he’s dead. We could have put him on the rack and tortured him until he told us what we wanted to hear.” Donati looked down at his hands. “Forgive my sarcastic tone, Gabriel, but I’m not a great supporter of this war on terror we’re engaged in. Nor for that matter is the Holy Father.”