|
|
Executive Times |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
2006 Book Reviews |
|||
|
|
The
Messenger by Daniel Silva |
|||
|
Rating: |
*** |
|||
|
|
(Recommended) |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Infidels Daniel Silva
reprises protagonist Gabriel Allon in his latest
novel, The
Messenger. Fans will be familiar with many other characters we’ve come to
know from Silva’s earlier novels, although The
Messenger stands well on its own. Silva pulls stories from the news, and
puts his characters in place to carry out the action: Al-Qaeda terrorist
attacks; Saudi financing of terrorism; It was a
rather ordinary office for so powerful a man. The Oriental carpet was faded
and timeworn, and the curtains were heavy and drab. As Gabriel and Donati entered
the room, the small figure in white seated behind the large austere desk was
gazing intently at the screen of a television. A scene of violence played
there: fire and smoke, bloodstained survivors pulling at their hair and
weeping over the tattered bodies of the dead Pope Paul VII, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, successor to
St. Peter, pressed the Power button on his remote control, and the image
turned to black. “Gabriel,” he said. “It’s so good to see you again.” The Pope rose slowly to his feet and extended a small
hand—not with the fisherman’s ring facing upward,
the way he did toward most people, but with the palm sideways. The grip was
still strong, and the eyes that gazed fondly up at Gabriel were still vibrant
and clear. Gabriel had forgotten how diminutive Pietro
Lucchesi really was. He thought of the afternoon Lucchesi had emerged from the conclave, an elfin figure,
swimming in the hastily prepared cassock and barely visible over the
balustrade of the Basilica’s great loggia. A commentator for Italian
television had proclaimed him Pietro the
Improbable. Cardinal Marco Brindisi, the
reactionary secretary of state who had assumed he would be the one to emerge from the conclave dressed in white,
had acidly referred to Lucchesi as “Pope Accidental
I.” For Gabriel, though, it was another image of Pietro Lucchesi that he would
always think of first, the sight of him standing on the bimah
of the Great Synagogue of Rome, speaking words no pope had ever spoken
before. “For these sins, and others
soon to be revealed, we offer our confession, and we beg your forgiveness.
There are no words to describe the depth of our grief. In your hour of
greatest need, when the forces of Nazi The Pope retook his seat and looked at the television
screen, as if the images of distant mayhem could still be seen there. “I
warned him not to do it, but he didn’t listen to me. Now he intends to come
to Gabriel looked to Donati for an
explanation. “The White House informed us last night that the president
will be coming here early next year for a tour of European capitals. The
president’s men are hoping to project a warmer, less confrontational image
and repair some of the damage over the decision to go to war in “A war I steadfastly opposed,” the Pope said. “Is he coming to the “He’s coming to “He wouldn’t dream of coming to Donati motioned for Gabriel to sit, then settled himself in the chair next to him. “The
president is a man who appreciates straight talk, as our American friends
like to say. He’ll listen to what you have to say, Holiness.” “He should have listened to me the first time. I made it very clear to him when he came to the The Pope, having finished his homily, looked at his small
audience for reaction His eyes moved back and forth several times before
settling on Gabriel’s face. “Something tells me you wish to take issue with
something I’ve said.” “You are a
man of great eloquence, Holiness.” “You are
among family, Gabriel. Speak your mind.” “The
forces of radical Islam have declared war on us— “Resist
the terrorists with justice and opportunity rather than violence and
bloodshed. When statesmen resort to violence, it is humanity that suffers.” “You seem
to believe that the problem of terrorism and radical Islam can be swept away
if they were more like us—that if poverty, illiteracy, and tyranny weren’t so
prevalent in the Muslim world, there would be no young men willing to sacrifice
their lives in order to maim and kill others. But they’ve seen the way we
live, and they want nothing of it. They’ve seen our democracy, and they
reject it. They view democracy as a religion that runs counter to the central
tenets of Islam, and therefore they will resist it with a sacred rage. How do
we deliver justice and prosperity to these men of Islam who believe only in
death?” “It certainly cannot
be imposed on them by the barrel of a white man’s gun.” “I agree, Holiness. Only when Islam reforms itself will
there be social justice and true prosperity within the Arab world. But in
the meantime we cannot sit idly by and do nothing while the jihadists plot our destruction. That, Holiness, is
immoral, too.” The Pope rose from his desk and pushed open the large
window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. Night had fallen. “I was right about the war, Gabriel, and I’m right about
the future that awaits us all—Muslim, Christian, and Jew—if we do not choose
another path. But who’s going to listen to me? I’m just an old man in a
cassock who lives in a gilded cage. Even my own parishioners don’t listen to
me anymore. In Gabriel was silent. The Pope said, “Luigi tells me you’ve
uncovered evidence of a plot against my life. Another plot,” he added with a sad smile. “I’m afraid so, Holiness.” “Isn’t it ironic? I’m the one who tried to prevent the war
in Most evenings Pope Paul VII
and Monsignor Donati dined alone in the private
papal apartments with one or two invited guests for company. Donati tended to keep the mood deliberately light and
relaxed, and talk of work was generally restricted to the sort of Curial
gossip that the Pope secretly loved. On that evening, however, the
atmosphere in the papal dining room was decidedly different. The hastily
assembled guest list consisted not of old friends but of men responsible for
protecting the pontiff’s life: Colonel Karl Brunner, commandant of the
Pontifical Swiss Guard, General Carlo Marchese of
the Carabinieri, and Martino Bellano,
deputy chief of the Italian security service. Gabriel passed around the photographs and briefed them in
his Venetian-accented Italian. His presentation was more sanitized than the
one he had given Donati in “You wish to suggest
something?” Donati asked. “Perhaps it might be
wise to move tomorrow’s ceremony indoors-to the Papal Audience Chamber.” “The Holy Father is
announcing the beatification of a Portuguese nun tomorrow,” Donati said. “We’re expecting several thousand Portuguese
pilgrims, along with the usual crowds. If we move the audience into the chamber,
many of those will have to be turned away.” “Better to turn away a
few pilgrims than expose the Holy Father unnecessarily.” The Pope looked at
Gabriel. “Do you have specific credible evidence that the terrorists intend
to strike tomorrow?” “No, Holiness.
Operational intelligence of that nature is very difficult to come by.” “If we move the
audience into the chamber, and turn away good people, then the terrorists
have won, have they not?” “Sometimes it is
better to give an opponent a small victory than suffer a devastating defeat
yourself.” “Your people are
famous for living their lives normally in the face of terrorist threats.” “We still take
sensible precautions,” Gabriel said. “For example, one cannot enter most
public places in my country without being searched.” “So search the
pilgrims and take other sensible precautions,” the Pope replied, “but I’ll be
in St. Peter’s Square tomorrow afternoon, where I belong. And it’s your job to make certain nothing
happens.” It was just after ten
o’clock when Donati escorted Gabriel down the
flight of steps that led from the “Are you sure I can’t offer you a lift?” “Until this morning, I thought I might never be allowed to
set foot here again. I think I’ll use the opportunity to take a walk.” “If the Italian police arrest you before you reach your
flat, tell them to give me a call. His Holiness will vouch for your fine
character.” They walked in silence for a moment. “Why don’t you come back for
good?” “To “We miss you,” Donati said. “So
does Tiepolo.” Francesco Tiepolo, a friend of
the Pope and Donati, owned the most successful
restoration firm in the “Something tells me Tiepolo will
survive without me.” “And Chiara?” Gabriel, with his moody silence, made it clear he had no
desire to discuss with the Pope’s private secretary the state of his tangled
love life. Donati adroitly changed the subject. “I’m sorry if you felt the Holy Father was putting you on
the spot. I’m afraid he’s lost much of his old forbearance. It happens to all
of them a few years into their papacy. When one is regarded as the Vicar of
Christ, it’s difficult not to become the slightest
bit overbearing.” “He’s still the gentle soul I met three years ago, Luigi.
Just a bit older.” “He wasn’t a young man when he got the job. The cardinals
wanted a caretaker Pope, someone to keep the throne of St. Peter warm while
the reformers and the reactionaries sorted out their differences. My master
never had any intention of being a mere caretaker, as you well know. He has
much work to do before he dies—things that aren’t necessarily going to make
the reactionaries happy. Obviously, I don’t want his papacy cut short.” “Nor do I.” “Which
is why you’re the perfect man to be at his side tomorrow during the general
audience.” “The Swiss Guard and
their helpers from the Carabinieri are more than
capable of looking after your master.” “They’re very good,
but they’ve never experienced an actual terrorist attack.” Few people have,”
Gabriel said. “And usually they don’t live to tell about it.” Donati looked at Gabriel. “You have,” he said. “You’ve seen the
terrorists up close. And you’ve seen the look in a man’s eyes as he was about
to press the button on his detonator.” They stopped a few
yards from St. Anne’s Gate. On the left was the round, butter-colored “What do you want me
to do, Luigi?” “I leave that in your
capable hands. Make a general nuisance of yourself. If you see a problem,
address it.” “On whose authority?” “Mine,” Donati said resolutely. He
reached into the pocket of his cassock and produced a laminated card, which
he handed to Gabriel. It was a Vatican ID badge with Security Office
markings. “It will get you anywhere in the “I already have,” said
Gabriel, then he dropped the badge into his coat pocket and slipped into the
street. Donati waited at St. Anne’s Gate until
Gabriel had disappeared into the darkness, then he turned and headed back to
the palace. And though he would not realize it until later, he was murmuring
the words of the Hail Mary. Gabriel crossed the He hiked up the rest of the steps to the Church of the Trinitadci Monti. The apartment
house was not fifty yards from the church, on the Via Gregoriana.
It had two bedrooms and a small terrace. Gabriel retrieved the Beretta from
the pantry, then went into the larger of the two
bedrooms. The telephone, like all safe-flat telephones, had no ringer, only a
red light to indicate incoming calls. Gabriel, lying in bed in the clothes
he’d donned to meet the prime minister, picked up the receiver and dialed a
number in He removed his clothing and pillowed his head, but as he
was sliding toward sleep the room was suddenly illuminated by a flash of
lightning. Instinctively he began to count to calculate the proximity of the
strike. He saw a skinny black-haired boy with eyes as green as emeralds
chasing lightning in the hills above More strikes followed in quick succession, and rain
hammered against the bedroom window. Gabriel tried to sleep but could not. He
switched on the bedside lamp, opened the file containing the photographs
taken from Alt Massoudi’s computer, and worked his
way through them slowly, committing each image to memory. An hour later he
switched off the light and, in his mind, flipped through the images once
more. Lightning flashed over the bell towers of the church. Gabriel closed
his eyes and counted. Silva is a master thriller-maker, and The Messenger
fits well into his growing shelf of entertaining novels. Steve Hopkins,
October 25, 2006 |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the November 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Messenger.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
