Unfortunately for those drafted onto his team, better health brought the return of his fiery temper, and he drove himself and his underlings to the point of exhaustion. No lead, no piece of gossip,
was deemed too small to ignore. There was a suspected sighting of the Leopard in Paris and another in Helsinki. There was a report that Czech police suspected the Leopard was behind a murder in Prague. His name surfaced in Moscow in connection with the murder of a senior intelligence official. An Office agent in Baghdad heard rumors that the Leopard had just signed a contract to work for the Iraqi secret service.
The clues were tantalizing, but eventually they all proved fruitless. In spite of the setbacks, the old man pleaded with his team not to lose faith. Shamron had his own theory about how the Leopard would be found. It was money that fueled him, Shamron told his team, and it would be money that would bring him down.
One warm evening in the last days of May, a soccer ball bounded toward Gabriel as he walked in the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo with Chiara. He released her hand and lunged toward the moving ball with three swift steps. "Gabriel! Your head!" she shouted, but he did not listen. He drew back his foot and met the ball with a solid thump that echoed off the facade of the synagogue. It sailed through the air in a graceful arc and landed in the hands of a boy, about twelve years old, with a kippah clipped to his head of curly hair. The child stared at Gabriel for a moment, then smiled and ran off to rejoin his friends. Returning home, Gabriel telephoned Francesco Tiepolo and told him he was ready to go back to work.
HIS PLATFORM was as he had left it: his brushes and his palette, his pigment and his medium. He had the church to himself. The others--Adriana, Antonio Politi, and the rest of the San Zaccaria team--had completed their work and moved on long ago. Chiara never left the church while Gabriel was inside. With his back to the door, framed by the majestic altarpiece, he made an inviting target, so she sat at the base of his scaffolding while he worked, her dark eyes fixed on the door. She made only one demand--that he remove the shroud--and uncharacteristically he agreed.
He worked long hours, longer than he would have preferred under normal circumstances, but he was determined to finish as quickly as possible. Tiepolo stopped by once a day to bring food and check on his progress. Some days he would linger for a few minutes to keep Chiara company. Once he even hauled his lumbering frame up the scaffolding to consult with Gabriel on a difficult section of the apse.
Gabriel worked with renewed confidence. He had spent so much time studying Bellini and his works that some days he could almost feel the presence of the master standing next to him, telling him what to do next. He worked from the center outward--the Madonna and child, the saints and the donors, the intricate background. He thought about the case in much the same way. As he worked, he was troubled by two questions that ran incessantly through his subconscious. Who had given Benjamin the documents on the Garda covenant in the first place? And why?
ONE AFTERNOON late in June, Chiara looked up and saw him standing on the edge of the scaffolding, right hand on his chin, left hand supporting his right elbow, head tilted slightly down. He stood motionless for a long time, ten minutes by Chiara's watch, his eyes traveling the length and breadth of the towering canvas. Chiara took the scaffolding in hand and shook it once, the way Tiepolo always did. Gabriel looked down at her and smiled.
"Is it finished, Signor Delvecchio?"
"Almost," said he distantly. "I just need to talk to him one more time."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
But Gabriel made no reply. Instead, he knelt down and spent the next several minutes cleaning his brushes and palette and packing away his pigments and medium in a flat rectangular case. He climbed off the scaffolding, took Chiara by the hand, and walked out of the church for the last time. On the way home, they stopped by Tiepolo's office in San Marco. Gabriel told him that he needed to see the Holy Father. By the time they arrived home in Cannaregio, a message was waiting on the answering machine.
Bronze Doors, tomorrow evening, eight o'clock. Don't be late.
VATICAN CITY
Gabriel crossed St. Peter's square at dusk. Father Donati met him at the Bronze Doors. He shook Gabriel's hand solemnly and remarked that he looked much better than he had the last time they had met. "The Holy Father is expecting you," Father Donati said. "It's best not to keep him waiting."
The priest led Gabriel up the Scala Regia. A five-minute walk along an~archipelago of looming corridors and darkened courtyards brought them to the Vatican Gardens. In the dusty sienna light it was easy to spot the Pope. He was walking along a footpath near the Ethiopian College, his white soutane glowing like an acetylene torch.
Father Donati left Gabriel at the Pope's side and drifted slowly back toward the palace. The Pope took Gabriel's arm and led him along the pathway. The evening air was warm and soft and heavy with the scent of pine.
"I'm pleased to see you looking so well," the Pope said. "You've made a remarkable recovery."
"Shamron is convinced it was your prayers that brought me out of the coma. He says hell testify to the miracle of the Gemelli Clinic at your beatification proceedings."
"I'm not sure how many in the Church will support my canonization after the commission has finished its work." He chuckled and squeezed Gabriel's bicep. "Are you pleased with the restoration of the San Zaccaria altarpiece?"
"Yes, Holiness. Thank you for intervening on my behalf."
"It was the only just solution. You started the restoration. It was fitting that you complete it. Besides, that altarpiece is one of my favorite paintings. It needed the hands of the great Mario Delvecchio."
The Pope guided Gabriel onto a narrow pathway leading toward the Vatican walls. "Come," he said. "I want to show you something." They headed directly toward the spire of Vatican Radio's transmission tower. At the wall, they mounted a flight of stone steps and climbed up to the parapet. The city lay before them, rustling and stirring, dusty and dirty, eternal Rome. From this angle, in this light, it was not so different from Jerusalem. All that was missing was the cry of the muezzin, calling the faithful to evening prayer. Then Gabriel's eye traveled down the length of the Tiber, to the synagogue at the entrance of the old ghetto, and he realized why the Pope had brought him here.
"You have a question you wish to ask me, Gabriel?"
"I do, Holiness."
"I suspect you want to know how your friend Benjamin Stern got the documents about the covenant at Garda in the first place."
"You're a very wise man, Holiness."
"Am I? Look at what I have wrought."
The Pope was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the towering synagogue. Finally he turned to Gabriel. "Will you be my confessor, Gabriel--metaphorically speaking, of course?"
"I'll be whatever you want me to be, Holiness."
"Do you know about the seal of confession? What I tell you here tonight must never be repeated. For a second time, I place my life in your hands." He looked away. "The question is, whose hands are they? Are they the hands of Gabriel Allon? Or are they the hands of Mario Delvecchio, the restorer?"
"Which would you prefer?"
The Pope looked across the river once more, toward the synagogue, and leaving Gabriel's question unanswered, he began to speak.
THE POPE told Gabriel of the conclave, the terrible night of agony at the Dormitory of St. Martha, when, like Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, he had begged God to let this cup pass from his lips. How could a man with knowledge of the terrible secret of the Garda covenant be chosen to lead the Church? What would he do with such knowledge ? The night before the final session of the conclave, he summoned Father Donati to his room and told the priest he would refuse the papacy if chosen. Then, for the first time, he told his trusted aide what had happened at the convent by the lake that night in 1942.