Free The Messenger by Daniel Silva Page A

traffic. “Is this a promotion you sought for yourself, or is this the work of Shamron?”
    “Some have greatness thrust upon them, Holiness.”
    The Pope smiled, the first Gabriel had seen on his face since his arrival in Rome. “May I give you a small piece of advice?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “Use your power wisely. Even though you will find yourself in a position to punish your enemies, use your power to pursue peace at every turn. Seek justice rather than vengeance.”
    Gabriel was tempted to remind the Pope that he was only a secret servant of the State, that decisions of war and peace were in the hands of men far more powerful than he. Instead he assured the Pope that he would take his advice to heart.
    “Will you search for the men who attacked the Vatican?”
    “It’s not our fight—not yet, at least.”
    “Something tells me it will be soon.”
    The Pope was watching the traffic below him with a childlike fascination.
    “It was my idea to put the dove of peace on the shroud covering the façade of the Basilica. I’m sure you find the sentiment hopelessly naïve. You probably consider me naïve as well.”
    “I wouldn’t want to live in this world without men such as you, Holiness.”
    Gabriel made no attempt to hide the next glance at his watch.
    “Your plane awaits you?” the Pope asked.
    “Yes, Holiness.”
    “Come,” he said. “I’ll see you out.”
    Gabriel started toward the steps, but the Pope remained at the parapet. “Francesco Tiepolo called me this morning from Venice. He sends his regards.” He turned and looked at Gabriel. “So does Chiara.”
    Gabriel was silent.
    “She says she wants to see you before you go home to Israel. She was wondering whether you might stop in Venice on your way out of the country.” The Pope took Gabriel by the elbow and, smiling, led him down the steps. “I realize I have very little experience when it comes to matters of the heart, but will you allow an old man to give you one more piece of advice?”

8.

Venice

    I T WAS A SMALL terra-cotta church, built for a poor parish in the sestiere of Cannaregio. The plot of land had been too cramped for a proper church square, and so the main entrance opened directly onto the busy Salizzada San Giovanni Crisostomo. Gabriel had once carried a key to the church in his pocket. Now he entered like an ordinary tourist and paused for a moment in the vestibule, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light while a breath of cool air, scented with candle wax and incense, brushed against his cheek. He thought of the last time he had set foot in the church. It was the night Shamron had come to Venice to tell Gabriel that he had been discovered by his enemies and that it was time for him to come home again. There’ll be no trace of you here , Shamron had said. It will be as though you never existed .
    He crossed the intimate nave to the Chapel of St. Jerome on the right side of the church. The altarpiece was concealed by heavy shadow. Gabriel dropped a coin into the light meter, and the lamps flickered into life, illuminating the last great work by Giovanni Bellini. He stood for a moment, right hand pressed to his chin, head tilted slightly to one side, examining the painting in raked lighting. Francesco Tiepolo had done a fine job finishing it for him. Indeed it was nearly impossible for Gabriel to tell where his inpainting left off and Tiepolo’s began. Hardly surprising, he thought. They had both served their apprenticeships with the master Venetian restorer Umberto Conti.
    The meter ran out, and the lights switched off automatically, plunging the painting into darkness again. Gabriel went back into the street and made his way westward across Cannaregio until he came to an iron bridge, the only one in all of Venice. In the Middle Ages there had been a gate in the center of the bridge, and at night a Christian watchman had stood guard so that those imprisoned on the other side could not escape. He crossed the bridge