THEY CROSSED the Valley of Hinnom and labored up the slope of the hill to the eastern wall of the Old City. The footpath at the base of the wall was in shadow. They followed it southward, toward the Church of the Dormition, then rounded the corner and slipped through the Zion Gate. On the Jewish Quarter Road, Donati produced a slip of paper from the pocket of his clerical suit. “The Holy Father would like me to leave this in the Western Wall.”

They followed a cluster of haredim down Tif’eret Yisra’el. Donati, in his black clothing, looked as though he might be part of the group. At the end of the street they descended the wide stone steps that led to the plaza in front of the wall. A long line stretched from the security kiosk. Gabriel, after murmuring something to a female border police officer, led Donati around the metal detectors and into the square.

“Don’t you do anything like a normal person?”

“You go ahead,” Gabriel said. “I’ll wait here.”

Donati turned and inadvertently headed toward the women’s side of the wall. Gabriel, with a discreet cluck of his tongue, guided him to the portion reserved for men. Donati selected a kippah from the public basket and placed it precariously atop his head. He stood before the wall a moment in silent prayer, then slipped the small scroll of paper into a crevice in the tan Herodian stone.

“What did it say?” Gabriel asked, when Donati returned.

“It was a plea for peace.”

“You should have left it up there,” Gabriel said, pointing in the direction of the Al-Aqsa mosque.

“You’ve changed,” Donati said. “The man I met three years ago would never have said that.”

“We’ve all changed, Luigi. There’s not much of a peace camp in this country anymore, only a security camp. Arafat didn’t count on that when he unleashed the suicide bombers.”

“Arafat is gone now.”

“Yes, but the damage he left behind will take at least a generation to repair.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the wounds of the second intifada will never heal.”

“And so the killing will go on? Surely you can’t contemplate a future like that.”

“Of course we can, Luigi. That’s the way it’s always been in this place.”

They left the Jewish Quarter and walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Gabriel waited in the courtyard while Donati, after fending off a freelance Palestinian tour guide, went inside. He returned ten minutes later. “It’s dark,” he said. “And a little disappointing, to be honest with you.”

“I’m afraid that’s what everyone says.”

They left the courtyard and walked in the Via Dolorosa. A group of American pilgrims, led by a brown-cassocked monk clutching a red helium balloon, hustled toward them from the opposite direction. Donati watched the spectacle with a bemused expression on his face.