He had made good on his threat not to accompany the Pope on this disgraceful journey. As a result he was now supposed to be working on a benign-sounding letter of resignation, one that would cause the Holy See no embarrassment and raise no uncomfortable questions for the rabble in the Vatican press corps to ponder in their infantile columns. Had he any intention of resigning, his letter would have stressed a deep desire to return to pastoral duties, to tend to a flock, to baptize the young and anoint the sick. Any Vaticamsti with a bit of intelligence would recognize such a letter as deception on a grand scale. Marco Brindisi had been raised, educated, and nurtured to wield bureaucratic power within the Curia. The notion that he would willingly yield his authority was patently absurd. No one would believe such a letter, and the cardinal had no intention of writing it. Besides, he thought, the man who had ordered him to write it did not have long to live.

Had he started a letter of resignation, it would have raised uncomfortable questions in the days after the Pope's assassination. Had the two most powerful men in the Church experienced a falling out in recent weeks? Did the Cardinal Secretary of State have something to gain by the Pope's death? No letter of resignation, no questions. Indeed, thanks to a series of well-placed leaks, Cardinal Brindisi would be portrayed as the Pope's closest friend and confidant in the Curia, a man who admired the Pope immensely and was much beloved in return. These press clippings would capture the attention of the cardinals when they gathered for the next conclave. So would Marco Brindisi's smooth and adept handling of Church affairs in the traumatic days after the Pope's assassination. At such a time, the conclave would be reluctant to turn to an outsider. A man of the Curia would be the next pope, and the Curial candidate of choice would be Secretary of State Marco Brindisi.

 His dreamlike trance was shattered by an image on RAI: Pope Paul VII, entering the Great Synagogue of Rome. Brindisi saw a different image: Beckett standing on his altar at Canterbury. The murder of a meddlesome priest.

Send forth your knights, Carlo. Cut him down.

Cardinal Marco Brindisi turned up the volume and waited for news of a pope's death.

ROME

The Rome central synagogue eastern and ornate, stirring in restless anticipation. Gabriel took his place at the front of the synagogue, his right shoulder facing the bimah, his hands behind his back, pressed against the cool marble wall. Father Donati stood next-to him, tense and irritable. The vantage point provided him perfect sightlines around the interior of the chamber. A few feet away sat a group of Curial cardinals, dazzling in crimson cassocks, listening intently as the chief rabbi made his introductory remarks. Just beyond the cardinals stirred the fidgety denizens of the Vatican press corps. The head of the press office, Rudolf Gertz, appeared nauseated. The rest of the seats were filled with ordinary members of Rome's Jewish community. As the Pope finally rose to speak, a palpable sense of electricity filled the hall.

Gabriel resisted the temptation to look at him. Instead, his eyes scanned the synagogue, looking for someone or something that

 seemed out of place. Karl Brunner, standing a few feet from Gabriel, was doing the same thing. Their eyes met briefly. Brunner, Gabriel decided, was no threat to the Pope.

The Pope expressed his gratitude to the rabbi and the community at large for inviting him to speak here this day. Then he remarked on the beauty of the synagogue and of the Jewish faith, stressing the common heritage of Christians and Jews. In a term borrowed from his predecessor, he referred to Jews as the elder brothers of Roman Catholics. It is a special relationship, this bond between siblings, the Pope said--one that can pull apart if not tended to properly. Too often over the past two thousand years, the siblings had quarreled, with disastrous consequences for the Jewish people. He spoke without a text or notes. His audience was spellbound.

"In April 1986, my predecessor, Pope John Paul the Second, came to this synagogue to bridge the divide between our two communities and to begin a process of healing. Over these past years, much has been accomplished." The Pope paused for a moment, the silence hanging heavy in the hall. "But much work remains to be done."

A round of warm applause swept over the synagogue. The cardinals joined in. Father Donati elbowed Gabriel and leaned close to his ear. "Watch them," he said, pointing to the men in red. "We'll see if they're clapping in a few minutes."

But Gabriel kept his eyes on the crowd as the Pope resumed. "My brothers and sisters, God took John Paul from us before he could complete his work. I intend to continue where he left off. I intend to shoulder his burden and carry it home for him."

Again the Pope was interrupted by applause. How brilliant. Gabriel thought. He was portraying his initiative as merely a continuation of the Pole's legacy rather than something radically new.

Gabriel realized that the man who liked to portray himself as a simple Venetian priest was a shrewd tactician and political operator.

"The first steps of the journey of reconciliation were easy compared with the difficult ones that lie before us. The last steps will be hardest of all. Along the way, we may be tempted to turn back. We must not. We must complete this journey, for Catholics and Jews alike."

Father Donati touched Gabriel's arm. "Here we go."

"In both our religions, we believe that forgiveness does not come easily. We Roman Catholics must make an honest confession if we are to receive absolution. If we have murdered a man, we cannot confess to taking the Lord's name in vain and expect to be forgiven." The Pope smiled, and laughter rippled through the synagogue. Gabriel noticed that several of the cardinals seemed not to find the remark humorous. "On Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, Jews must seek out those they have wronged, make an honest confession of sin, and seek forgiveness. We Catholics must do the same. But if we are to make an honest confession of sin, we must first know the truth. That is why I am here today."

The Pope paused for a moment. Gabriel could see him looking at Father Donati, as if gathering strength, as if saying there was no turning-back now. Father Donati nodded, and the Pope turned once more to the audience. Gabriel did the same thing, but for a very different reason. He was looking for a man with a gun.

"This morning, in this magnificent synagogue, I am announcing a new review of the Church's relationship with the Jewish people and the Church's actions during the Second World War, the darkest period in Jewish history, the time in which six million were lost to the fires of the Shoah. Unlike previous examinations of this

 terrible time, all relevant documents contained in the Vatican Secret Archives, regardless of their age, will be made available to a panel of scholars for review and evaluation."

The Vatican press corps was in tumult. A few of the reporters were whispering into cellular phones; the rest were scribbling wildly on notepads. Rudolf Gertz sat with his arms folded and his chin resting on his chest. Evidently, His Holiness had neglected to tell his chief spokesman that he intended to make a bit of news today. The Pope had already entered uncharted territory. Now he was about to go even further.

"The Holocaust was not a Catholic crime," he resumed, "but far too many Catholics, lay and religious alike, took part in the murder of Jews for us to ignore. We must acknowledge this sin, and we must beg forgiveness."

There was no applause now, just stunned and reverential silence. To Gabriel, it seemed that no one seated in the synagogue could believe that words such as these were being spoken by a Roman pontiff.