The Vigilanza man had a hunch. He climbed off the motorino and entered the pensione. The night manager looked up from a pornographic magazine.

"Is there a man named Heinrich Siedler staying in this hotel?"

The night manager shrugged his heavy shoulders. The Vigilanza officer slid a pair of euro notes across the counter and watched them disappear into the manager's grubby paw.

"Yes, I believe we have a man called Siedler staying here. Let me check." He made a vast show of consulting the registry book. "Ah,

yes, Siedler."

The man from the Vatican pulled a photograph from the pocket of his leather jacket and laid it on the counter. This produced a noncommittal frown from the night manager. His face brightened at the appearance of more money.

"Yes, that's him. That's Siedler."

The Vigilanza man scooped up the picture. "What room?"

THE APARTMENT on the Via Pinciana was too large for an old man living alone: vaulted ceilings, a spacious sitting room, a broad terrace with a sweeping view of the Villa Borghese. On nights when

Carlo Casagrande was tormented by memories of his wife and daughter, it seemed as cavernous as the Basilica. Had he still been a mere carabinieri general, the flat would have been well beyond his reach, but because the building was owned by the Vatican, Casagrande paid nothing. He felt no guilt about living well on the donations of the faithful. The flat served not only as his residence, but as his primary office as well. As a result, he took precautions that his neighbors did not. There was a Vigilanza man permanently at his door and another in a car parked on the Via Pinciana. Once a week, a team from the Vatican Security Office scoured the flat to make sure it was free of listening devices.

He answered the telephone on the first ring and immediately recognized the voice of the Vigilanza man assigned to the Rossi case. He listened in silence while the officer filed his report, then severed the connection and dialed a number.

"I need to speak to Bartoletti. It's an emergency."

"I'm afraid the director is unavailable at this time."

"This is Carlo Casagrande. Make him available."

"Yes, General Casagrande. Please hold."

A moment later, Bartoletti came on the line. Casagrande wasted no time on pleasantries.

"We have received information that the papal assassin is staying in room twenty-two of the Pensione Abruzzi in the San Lorenzo Quarter. We have reason to believe he is armed and very dangerous."

Bartoletti hung up. Casagrande lit a cigarette and began the wait.

In Paris, Eric Lange brought his cellular phone to his ear and heard the voice of Rashid Husseini.

"I think we may have found your man."

 "Where is he?"

"Your Italian detective has been acting peculiar all day. He just went inside a pensione called the Abruzzi--a real shithole near the train station."

"What street?"

"The Via Gioberti."

Lange looked at his watch. There was no way to get to Rome tonight. He'd have to leave in the morning. "Keep him under surveillance," he said. "Call me if he moves."

"Right."

Lange rang off, then dialed Air France reservations and booked a seat on the seven-fifteen flight.

ROME

Rossi pressed the gun against Gabriel's forehead and tore the packing tape from his mouth.

"Who are you?"

Greeted by silence, the policeman ground the barrel painfully into Gabriel's temple.

"I'm a friend of Benjamin Stern."

"Christ! That explains why they're looking for you."

"Who?"

"Everyone! Polizia di Stato. The carabinieri. They've even got the SISDE after you."

With the gun still firmly in place, Rossi removed a slip of facsimile paper from his jacket pocket and held it before Gabriel's eyes. Gabriel squinted in the harsh light. It was a photograph, grainy and obviously shot with a telephoto lens, but clear enough for him to See that the face of the subject was his own. He looked at the clothing

 he was wearing and realized it was the clothing of Ehud Landau. He searched his memory. Munich . . . the Olympic Village. .. Weiss must have been following him then too.

The photograph rose like a curtain and Gabriel found himself staring once more into the face of Alessio Rossi. The detective smelled of sweat and cigarettes. His shirt collar was damp and grimy. Gabriel had seen men under pressure before. Rossi was on the edge.

"This photo has been sent to every police station within a hundred miles of Rome. The Vatican Security Office says you've been stalking the Holy Father."

"It's not true."

The Italian finally lowered the gun. The spot on Gabriel's temple where the barrel had been pressed throbbed for several seconds. Rossi turned the light toward the wall and kept the gun in his right hand, resting against his thigh.

"How did you get my name?"

Gabriel answered truthfully.

"They killed Malone too," Rossi said. "You're next, my friend. When they find you, they're going to kill you."

"Who's they?"

"Take my advice, Herr Siedler, or whatever the fuck your name is. Get out of Italy. If you can leave tonight, so much the better.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what you know."

The Italian tilted his head. "You're not really in a position to make demands, are you? I came here for one reason--to try to save your life. If you ignore my warning, that's your business."

"I need to know what you know."

"You need to leave Italy."

"Benjamin Stern was my friend," Gabriel said. "I need your help."

Rossi eyed Gabriel a moment, his gaze tense, then he rose and walked into the bathroom. Gabriel heard water running into the basin. Rossi returned a moment later holding a wet towel. He rolled Gabriel onto his side, unbound his wrists, and gave him the damp cloth. Gabriel cleaned the blood from the side of his neck while Rossi walked to the window and parted the pair of gauzy curtains.

"Who do you work for?" he asked, staring into the street.

"Under the circumstances, it's probably better that I don't answer that."

"Jesus Christ," Rossi murmured. "What on earth have I gotten myself into?"

The detective pulled a chair close to the window and took another long look into the street. Then he switched off the light and told Gabriel the story from the beginning.

Monsignor Cessare felici, an elderly and long-retired priest, went missing from his room at the College of San Giovanni Evangelista one evening in June. When the monsignor didn't return by the following evening, his colleagues decided it was time to report the matter to the police. Because the college did not have Vatican territorial status, jurisdiction fell to Italian authorities. Inspector Alessio Rossi of the Polizia di Stato was assigned the case and went to the college early that evening.

Rossi had investigated crimes involving the clergy before and had seen the rooms of priests. Monsignor Felici's struck him as inordinately spartan. No personal papers of any kind, no diary, no letters

 from friends or family. Just a couple of threadbare cassocks, an extra pair of shoes, some underwear and socks. A well-fingered rosary.

A cilice.

Rossi interviewed twenty people that first night. They all told similar stories. The day of his disappearance, the old monsignor had taken his usual afternoon stroll in the garden before going to the chapel for prayer and meditation. When he didn't appear for supper, the seminarians and other priests assumed he was tired or not feeling well. No one bothered to check on him until late that evening, when they discovered that he was gone.

The head of the college provided Rossi with a recent photograph of the monsignor, along with a brief biography. Felici was no pastoral priest. He'd spent virtually his entire career working inside the Vatican as a functionary in the Curia. His last assignment, according to the dean, was a staff position at the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. He'd been retired for twenty years.