Donati looked out the window once again, at the walls of the Old City. “Ironic, isn’t it? My first visit to this holy city of yours, and this is the reason for it.”

“You’ve really never been?”

Donati slowly shook his head.

“Care to have a look at where it all started?”

Donati smiled. “Actually, I’d like nothing better.”

THEY CROSSED the Valley of Hinnom and labored up the slope of the hill to the eastern wall of the Old City. The footpath at the base of the wall was in shadow. They followed it southward, toward the Church of the Dormition, then rounded the corner and slipped through the Zion Gate. On the Jewish Quarter Road, Donati produced a slip of paper from the pocket of his clerical suit. “The Holy Father would like me to leave this in the Western Wall.”

They followed a cluster of haredim down Tif’eret Yisra’el. Donati, in his black clothing, looked as though he might be part of the group. At the end of the street they descended the wide stone steps that led to the plaza in front of the wall. A long line stretched from the security kiosk. Gabriel, after murmuring something to a female border police officer, led Donati around the metal detectors and into the square.

“Don’t you do anything like a normal person?”

“You go ahead,” Gabriel said. “I’ll wait here.”

Donati turned and inadvertently headed toward the women’s side of the wall. Gabriel, with a discreet cluck of his tongue, guided him to the portion reserved for men. Donati selected a kippah from the public basket and placed it precariously atop his head. He stood before the wall a moment in silent prayer, then slipped the small scroll of paper into a crevice in the tan Herodian stone.

“What did it say?” Gabriel asked, when Donati returned.

“It was a plea for peace.”

“You should have left it up there,” Gabriel said, pointing in the direction of the Al-Aqsa mosque.

“You’ve changed,” Donati said. “The man I met three years ago would never have said that.”

“We’ve all changed, Luigi. There’s not much of a peace camp in this country anymore, only a security camp. Arafat didn’t count on that when he unleashed the suicide bombers.”

“Arafat is gone now.”

“Yes, but the damage he left behind will take at least a generation to repair.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the wounds of the second intifada will never heal.”

“And so the killing will go on? Surely you can’t contemplate a future like that.”

“Of course we can, Luigi. That’s the way it’s always been in this place.”

They left the Jewish Quarter and walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Gabriel waited in the courtyard while Donati, after fending off a freelance Palestinian tour guide, went inside. He returned ten minutes later. “It’s dark,” he said. “And a little disappointing, to be honest with you.”

“I’m afraid that’s what everyone says.”

They left the courtyard and walked in the Via Dolorosa. A group of American pilgrims, led by a brown-cassocked monk clutching a red helium balloon, hustled toward them from the opposite direction. Donati watched the spectacle with a bemused expression on his face.

“Do you still believe?” Gabriel asked suddenly.

Donati took a moment before answering. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, my personal faith is something of a complex matter. But I do believe in the power of the Roman Catholic Church to be a force for good in a world filled with evil. And I believe in this Pope.”

“So you’re a faithless man at the side of a man of great faith.”

“Well put,” Donati said. “And what about you? Do you still believe? Did you ever?”

Gabriel stopped walking. “The Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amalekites, the Moabites-they’re all gone. But for some reason we’re still here. Was it because God made a covenant with Abraham four thousand years ago? Who’s to say?”

“‘I will bless you greatly and make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands of the seashore,’” Donati said, quoting the twenty-second chapter of Genesis.

“‘And your descendants shall come to possess the gates of your enemies,’” Gabriel said, finishing the passage for him. “And now my enemy wants those gates back, and he’s willing to do anything, including sacrifice his own son, to get them back.”

Donati smiled at Gabriel’s clever interpretation of Scripture. “We’re not so different, you and I. We’ve both given our lives over to higher powers. For me, it’s the Church. For you, it’s your people.” He paused. “And the land.”

They walked farther along the Via Dolorosa, into the Muslim Quarter. When the street was enveloped in shadow, Gabriel pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead. Palestinian shopkeepers eyed him curiously from their crowded stalls.

“Is it all right for you to be here?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“I take it you’re armed.”

Gabriel allowed his silence to serve as an answer. As they walked on Donati’s gaze was on the cobblestones, and his dark brow was furrowed in concentration.

“If I know Ali Massoudi is dead, is it safe to assume his comrades know he’s dead, too?”

“Of course.”

“Do they also know his computer contained those photographs? And that it fell into your hands?”

“It’s possible.”

“Might that encourage them to accelerate their plans?”

“Or it might cause them to postpone the operation until you and the Italians let your guard down again.”

They passed through Damascus Gate. Gabriel lowered his sunglasses as they entered the crowded, cacophonous market square beyond the walls.

“There’s something you should know about those photos,” Donati said. “They were all taken during the Holy Father’s general audience, when he greets pilgrims from around the world in St. Peter’s Square.”

Gabriel stopped walking and gazed at the golden Dome of the Rock, floating above the stone walls. “The general audience takes place on Wednesdays, does it not?”

“That’s correct.”

Gabriel looked at Donati and said, “Today is Tuesday.”

Donati looked at his wristwatch. “Will you give me a ride back to the airport? If we hurry, we can be in Rome in time for supper.”

“We?”

“We’ll stop at your apartment on the way out of town so you can pack a bag,” Donati said. “It’s been stormy in Rome. Make sure you pack a raincoat.”

He would have to bring more than a raincoat, Gabriel thought as he led Donati through the crowded market. He was going to need a false passport, too.

IT WAS A RATHER ordinary office for so powerful a man. The Oriental carpet was faded and timeworn, and the curtains were heavy and drab. As Gabriel and Donati entered the room, the small figure in white seated behind the large austere desk was gazing intently at the screen of a television. A scene of violence played there: fire and smoke, bloodstained survivors pulling at their hair and weeping over the tattered bodies of the dead. Pope Paul VII, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, successor to St. Peter, pressed the Power button on his remote control, and the image turned to black. “Gabriel,” he said. “It’s so good to see you again.”

The Pope rose slowly to his feet and extended a small hand-not with the fisherman’s ring facing upward, the way he did toward most people, but with the palm sideways. The grip was still strong, and the eyes that gazed fondly up at Gabriel were still vibrant and clear. Gabriel had forgotten how diminutive Pietro Lucchesi really was. He thought of the afternoon Lucchesi had emerged from the conclave, an elfin figure, swimming in the hastily prepared cassock and barely visible over the balustrade of the Basilica’s great loggia. A commentator for Italian television had proclaimed him Pietro the Improbable. Cardinal Marco Brindisi, the reactionary secretary of state who had assumed he would be the one to emerge from the conclave dressed in white, had acidly referred to Lucchesi as “Pope Accidental I.”