It took an experienced reporter to know the difference between truth and misinformation, to sift through the silt to find the nuggets of gold. With a bit of luck, he might have a piece ready by the weekend.

He spent a few minutes double-checking the quotes. He decided he would call Tom Graves, his editor at The Sunday Times, and reserve some space on the front page. He reached out for the telephone, but before he could lift the receiver from the cradle, he was flung backward by a blow to the chest. He looked down and saw a small, rapidly spreading circle of blood on his shirt. Then he looked up and saw the man, standing five feet from his desk, gray-blond hair, colorless eyes. Malone had been so engrossed in his work that he had failed to hear him enter the house.

"Why?" the reporter whispered, blood in his mouth.

The killer tilted his head, as though puzzled, and stepped around the desk. "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis," he said, fingers caressing the forehead. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Then he pointed the silenced gun at Malone's head and fired one last shot.

IN THE LEXICON of the Office, the device that the surveillance artist called Mordecai had placed in Malone's office was known as a "glass." Concealed within the electronics of the telephone, it provided coverage of Malone's calls as well as conversations taking place inside the room. It had allowed Mordecai to monitor Gabriel's conversation with Malone. He had also listened in as Malone sat at his desk after Gabriel's departure, tapping away at his computer. Shortly after nine o'clock, Mordecai heard murmuring in a language he could not understand. For the next five minutes, he was

treated to the sound of file drawers opening and closing. He assumed it was Malone, but when the front door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man emerged, Mordecai knew at once that something terrible had just taken place inside the house.

The man walked quickly down the steps and started across the square, directly toward the van. Mordecai panicked. The only weaponry he had was a directional microphone and a long-lens Nikon camera. It was the Nikon he reached for. As the man drew closer to the van, Mordecai raised it calmly to his eye and snapped off three quick shots.

The last one, he was convinced, was a keeper.

ROME

Vatican city state is the world's smallest country and also the most sparsely populated. More than four thousand people work there each day, yet only four hundred or so actually live behind the walls. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi was one of them. His private apartment in the Apostolic Palace was just one floor away from that of the Holy Father. While some prelates found life in the epicenter of Vatican power the equivalent of living in a gilded cage, Cardinal Brindisi truly relished it. His rooms were glorious, his commute was exceedingly short, and a staff of priests and nuns saw to his every need. If there was one drawback, it was the proximity of the papal household. While inside the palace, there was little the Cardinal could do to shield himself from the prying eyes of the Pope's secretaries. The back room at L'Eau Vive was suitable for many of the cardinal's private assignations, though others, like the one scheduled for this evening, had to be held under more secure circumstances.

A Mercedes sedan was waiting in the San Damaso Courtyard outside the entrance of the Apostolic Palace. Unlike lesser Curial cardinals, Brindisi did not have to endure the luck of the draw in the Vatican motor pool. A Mercedes sedan and a driver were permanently assigned to him, along with a Vigilanza security man. Brindisi climbed into the back, and the car pulled away. It moved slowly along the Via Belvedere--past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Swiss Guards' barracks--before slipping through St. Anne's Gate into Rome proper.

The car crossed the Piazza della Citta, then turned into the entrance of an underground parking garage. The building above was a Vatican-owned residential complex where many Curial cardinals lived. There were several others like it scattered around Rome.

The car braked to a halt next to a gray Fiat van. As Brindisi climbed out, the van's rear door swung open and a man lowered himself to the ground. Like Brindisi, he was cloaked in a cassock, with a crimson simar and fascia. But unlike the secretary of state, he had no right to wear it. He was not a cardinal; in fact, he was not even an ordained priest. Cardinal Brindisi did not know the man's name, only that he had worked briefly as an actor before coming to work for the Vigilanza.

Brindisi's stand-in stepped out of the shadows and paused for an instant before the cardinal. As always, Brindisi felt a chill at the back of his neck. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror. The features, the round eyeglasses, the gold pectoral cross--the man had even Earned to mimic the arrogant angle of Brindisi's zucchetto. A tepid smile flickered over the man's face, a precise imitation of Brindisi's own, then he said, "Good evening, Eminence."

"Good evening, Eminence," Cardinal Brindisi found himself repeating.

The impersonator nodded tersely, then climbed into the back of Brindisi's staff car and sped away. Father Mascone, Brindisi's private secretary, was waiting in the back of the van. "Please hurry, Eminence. It's not safe to stay here long."

The priest helped the cardinal into the back of the van and closed the door, then guided him onto an embroidered stool. The van sped back up the ramp and turned into the street. A moment later, it was heading across Rome toward the Tiber.

The priest unzipped a garment bag and removed several articles of clothing: a pair of gray trousers, a mock turtleneck pullover, an expensive tan blazer, a pair of black loafers. Cardinal Brindisi loosened his simar and began to undress. After a moment, he was naked except for his underwear and a spiked chain wrapped around his right thigh.

"Perhaps you should remove your cilice," the priest said. "It might show through your trousers."

Cardinal Brindisi shook his head. "My willingness to shed my vestments goes only so far, Father Mascone. I will wear my cilice tonight, regardless of whether or not it shows through"--he paused---"my trousers."

"Very well, Eminence."

With the priest's help, the cardinal quickly changed into the unfamiliar clothing. When he was fully dressed, he removed his distinctive spectacles and replaced them with a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses. The transformation was complete. He no longer looked like a prince of the church, but like a well-to-do Roman male of ill repute, perhaps a man who put himself about with younger women. Five minutes later, in a deserted square on the opposite side of the Tiber, the van came to a stop. The priest opened the door. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi made the sign of the cross and stepped out.

IN MANY WAYS, Rome is a company town. Under normal circumstances, Marco Brindisi could not walk the Via Veneto without being recognized, even dressed in the simple black cassock of a parish priest. Tonight, however, he moved unnoticed, slicing his way through the buzzing crowds and past overflowing cafes as though he were just another Roman in search of a good meal and pleasant company.

The glory days of the Via Veneto had long since faded. It was still a lovely boulevard lined with plane trees, exclusive shops, and expensive restaurants, but the intellectuals and movie stars had long ago moved on in search of undiscovered delights. Now the crowd was mainly tourists and businessmen and pretty Italian teenagers careening about on motor scooters.

Marco Brindisi had never been seduced by the Via Veneto's dolce vita, even in the sixties, when he was a young Curial bureaucrat fresh from his Umbrian hill town, and it seemed even less appealing now. The snatches of table conversation drifting past his ears seemed so utterly trivial. He knew that some cardinals--indeed, even some popes--liked to walk about Rome in mufti to see how the other half lived. Brindisi had no desire to see how the other half 'lived. With few exceptions, he found the other half to be an immoral and uncouth rabble who would be far better off if they listened more to the teachings of the Church and less to the incessant blare of their televisions.