by Daniel Silva
“Please accept my condolences, Signor Landau, but perhaps I should be talking to the police about Professor Stern and not to his brother.”
When Gabriel said he was conducting his own investigation, the concierge frowned thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of value, except that I’m quite certain Professor Stern’s death had nothing to do with his stay in Brenzone. You see, your brother spent most of his time at the convent.”
“The convent?”
The concierge stepped around the counter. “Follow me.”
He led Gabriel across the lobby and through a set of French doors. They crossed a terrace overlooking the lake and paused at the balustrade. A short distance away, perched on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the lake, was a crenellated castle.
“The Convent of the Sacred Heart. In the nineteenth century it was a sanatorium. The sisters took over the property before the First War and have been there ever since.”
“Do you know what my brother was doing there?”
“I’m afraid not. But why don’t you ask Mother Vincenza? She’s the Mother Superior. A lovely woman. I’m sure she’d be very happy to help you.”
“Do you have a telephone number?”
The hotelier shook his head. “No phone. The sisters take their privacy very seriously.”
A PAIR of towering cypress trees stood like sentinels on either side of the tall iron gate. As Gabriel pressed the bell, a cold wind rose from the lake and swirled in the courtyard, stirring the limbs of the olive trees. A moment later, an old man appeared, dressed in soiled coveralls. When Gabriel said he wished to have a brief word with Mother Vincenza, the old man nodded and disappeared into the convent. Returning a moment later, he unchained the gate and gestured for Gabriel to follow him.
The nun was waiting in the entrance hall. Her oval face was framed by a gray-and-white habit. A pair of thick glasses magnified a steadfast gaze. When Gabriel mentioned Benjamin’s name, her face broke into a wide genuine smile. “Yes, of course I remember him,” she said, seizing Gabriel’s hand. “Such a lovely man. So intelligent. I enjoyed the time we spent together.”
Then Gabriel told her the news. Mother Vincenza made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands beneath her chin. Her large eyes seemed on the verge of tears. She took Gabriel by the forearm. “Come with me. You must tell me everything.”
The sisters of Brenzone may have taken vows of poverty, but their convent surely occupied one of the most coveted properties in all of Italy. The common room into which Gabriel was shown was a large rectangular gallery with furniture arranged into several separate seating areas. Through the large windows, Gabriel could see a terrace and balustrade and a bright fingernail moon rising over the lake.
They sat in a pair of threadbare armchairs near the window. Mother Vincenza rang a small bell, and when a young nun appeared, the Mother Superior asked for coffee. The nun moved away so smoothly and silently that Gabriel wondered whether she had a set of casters beneath her habit.
Gabriel then told her about the murder of Benjamin. He carefully edited the account so as not to shock the religious woman seated before him. Even so, with each new revelation, Mother Vincenza sighed heavily and crossed herself slowly. By the time Gabriel finished, she was in a state of high distress. The tiny cup of sweetened espresso, brought by the silent young nun, seemed to calm her nerves.
“You knew Benjamin was a writer?” Gabriel asked.
“Of course. That’s why he was here in Brenzone.”
“He was working on a book?”
“Indeed.”
Mother Vincenza paused as the groundskeeper entered the room with a bundle of olive wood in his arms. “Thank you, Licio,” she said as the old man laid the wood in a basket by the fire and crept out again.
The nun continued: “If you are his brother, why do you not know the subject of this book?”
“For some reason, Benjamin was very secretive about his project. He kept the nature of it from his friends and family.” Gabriel recalled his conversation in Munich with Professor Berger. “Even the head of Benjamin’s department at Ludwig-Maximilian University didn’t know what he was working on.”
Mother Vincenza seemed to accept this explanation, because after a moment of careful appraisal she said, “Your brother was working on a book about the Jews who took refuge in Church properties during the war.”
Gabriel considered her statement for a moment. A book on Jews hiding in convents? He supposed it was possible, but it didn’t really sound like a subject Benjamin would embrace. Nor would it explain his unusual secrecy. He decided to play along.
“What brought him here?”
Mother Vincenza studied him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Finish your drink,” she said. “Then I’ll show you why your brother came to Brenzone.”
THEY DESCENDED the steep stone staircase by flashlight, the nun’s warm hand resting lightly on Gabriel’s forearm. At the base of the stairs the smell of damp greeted them, and Gabriel could see his breath. A narrow passageway lay before them, lined with arched portals. There was something of the catacombs in this place. Gabriel had a sudden vision of hunted souls moving about by torchlight and speaking in whispers.
Mother Vincenza led him along the passageway, pausing at each portal to play the beam of her flashlight over the interior of a cramped chamber. The stonework shone with damp, and the smell of the lake was overwhelming. Gabriel thought he could hear water lapping above their heads.
“It was the only place where the sisters thought the refugees would be safe,” the nun said finally, disturbing the silence. “As you can feel for yourself, it was bitterly cold in the winter. I’m afraid they suffered terribly, especially the children.”
“How many?”
“Usually about a dozen. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer.”
“Why fewer?”
“Some moved on to other conventi. One family tried to make it to Switzerland. They were caught at the border by a Swiss patrol and handed over to the Germans. I’m told they died at Auschwitz. I was just a little girl during the war, of course. My family lived in Turin.”
“It must have been very dangerous for the women living here.”
“Yes, very. In those days, Fascist gangs were roaming the country looking for Jews. Bribes were paid. Jews were denounced for money. Anyone who concealed Jews was subject to terrible reprisals. The sisters accepted these people at great risk to themselves.”
“So why did they do it?”
She smiled warmly and squeezed his arm. “There is a great tradition in the Church, Signor Landau. Priests and nuns feel a special duty to assist fugitives. To help those unjustly accused. The sisters of Brenzone helped the Jews out of Christian goodness. And they did it because the Holy Father told them to do it.”
“Pope Pius instructed the convents to take in Jews?”
The nun’s eyes widened. “Indeed. Convents, monasteries, schools, hospitals. All Church institutions and properties were ordered by the Holy Father to throw open their doors to the Jews.”
The beam of Mother Vincenza’s flashlight fell upon an obese rat. It scurried away, claws scratching against the stones, yellow eyes glowing.
“Thank you, Mother Vincenza,” Gabriel said. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
“As you wish.” The nun remained motionless, her unfaltering gaze lingering on him. “You should not be saddened by this place, Signor Landau. Because of the sisters of Brenzone, the people who took shelter here managed to survive. This is no place for tears. It is a place of joy. Of hope.”
When Gabriel made no response, Mother Vincenza turned and led him up the stairs. As she walked across the gravel forecourt, the night wind lifted the skirt of her habit.
“We’re about to sit down for our evening meal. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
“You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. Besides, I’ve taken enough of your time.”
“Not at all.”
&nbs
p; At the front gate Gabriel stopped and turned to face her. “Do you know the names of the people who took shelter here?” he asked suddenly.
The nun seemed surprised by his question. She studied him a moment, then shook her head deliberately. “I’m afraid the names have been lost over the years.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly.
“May I ask you one more question, Mother Vincenza?”
“Certainly.”
“Did the Vatican give you permission to speak with Benjamin?”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “I don’t need some bureaucrat in the Curia to tell me when to talk and when to keep silent. Only my God can tell me that, and God told me to talk to your brother about the Jews of Brenzone.”
MOTHER VINCENZA kept a small office on the second floor of the convent, in a pleasant room overlooking the lake. She closed and locked the door, then sat down at her modest desk and pulled open the top drawer. There, concealed behind a small cardboard box filled with pencils and paper clips, was a sleek cellular telephone. Technically, it was against the strict rules of the convent to keep such a device, but the man from the Vatican had assured her that, given the circumstances, it would not constitute a violation, moral or otherwise.
She powered on the phone, just as he had taught her, and carefully entered the number in Rome. After a few seconds of silence, she could hear a telephone ringing. This surprised her. A moment later, when a male voice came on the line, it surprised her even more.
“This is Mother Vincenza—”
“I know who this is,” the man said, his tone brusque and businesslike. Then she remembered his instructions about never using names on the telephone. She felt a fool.
“You asked me to call if anyone came to the convent to ask questions about the professor.” She hesitated, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing. “Someone came this afternoon.”
“What did he call himself?”
“Landau,” she said. “Ehud Landau, from Tel Aviv. He said he was the man’s brother.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s staying at the old hotel.”
“Can you find out?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Find out—then call me back.”
The connection went dead.
Mother Vincenza placed the telephone back in its hiding place and quietly closed the drawer.
GABRIEL DECIDED to spend the night in Brenzone and return to Venice first thing in the morning. After leaving the convent, he walked back to the hotel and took a room. The prospect of eating supper in the dreary hotel dining room depressed him, so he walked down to the lakeshore through the chill March evening and ate fish in a cheerful restaurant filled with townspeople. The white wine was local and very cold.
The images of the case flashed through his mind while he ate: The Odin Rune and the Three-Bladed Swastika painted on Benjamin’s wall; the blood on the floor where Benjamin had died; Detective Weiss tailing him through the streets of Munich; Mother Vincenza leading him down the stairs to the dank cellar of the convent by the lake.
Gabriel was convinced Benjamin had been killed by someone who wished to silence him. Only that would explain why his computer was missing and why his apartment contained no evidence at all that he was writing a book. If Gabriel could re-create Benjamin’s book—or at least the subject matter—he might be able to identify who killed him and why. Unfortunately, he had next to nothing—only an elderly nun who claimed Benjamin was working on a book about Jews taking refuge in Church properties during the war. Generally speaking, it was not the type of subject matter that could get a man killed.
He paid his check and started back to the hotel. He took his time, wandering the quiet streets of the old town, paying little attention to where he was going, following the narrow passageways wherever they happened to lead him. His thoughts mirrored his path through Brenzone. Instinctively, he approached the problem as though it were a restoration, as though Benjamin’s book were a painting that had suffered such heavy losses that it was little more than a bare canvas with a few swaths of color and a fragment of an underdrawing. If Benjamin were an Old Master painter, Gabriel would study all his similar works. He would analyze his technique and his influences at the time the work was painted. In short, he would absorb every possible detail about the artist, no matter how seemingly mundane, before setting to work on the canvas.
Thus far Gabriel had very little on which to base his restoration, but now, as he wandered the streets of Brenzone, he became aware of another salient detail.
For the second time in two days, he was being followed.
He turned a corner and walked past a row of shuttered shops. Glancing once over his shoulder, he spotted a man rounding the corner after him. He performed the same maneuver, and once again spotted his pursuer, a mere shadow in the darkened streets, thin and stooped, agile as an alley cat.
Gabriel slipped into the darkened foyer of a small apartment house and listened as the footfalls grew fainter, then ceased altogether. A moment later, he stepped back into the street and started back toward the hotel. His shadow was gone.
WHEN GABRIEL returned to the hotel, the concierge named Giancomo was still on duty behind his dais. He slid the key across the counter as though it were a priceless relic and asked about Gabriel’s meal.
“It was wonderful, thank you.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night you’ll try our own dining room.”
“Perhaps,” said Gabriel noncommittally, pocketing the key. “I’d like to see Benjamin’s bill from his stay here—especially the record of his telephone calls. It might be helpful.”
“Yes, I see your point, Signor Landau, but I’m afraid that would be a violation of the hotel’s strict privacy policy. I’m sure a man like you can understand that.”
Gabriel pointed out that since Benjamin was no longer living, concerns about his privacy were surely misplaced.
“I’m sorry, but the rules apply to the dead as well,” the concierge said. “Now, if the police requested such information, we would be obliged to hand it over.”
“The information is important to me,” Gabriel said. “I’d be willing to pay a surcharge in order to obtain it.”
“A surcharge? I see.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I believe the charge would be five hundred euros.” A pause to allow Gabriel to digest the sum. “A processing fee. In advance, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
Gabriel counted out the euro notes and laid them on the counter. Giancomo’s hand passed over the surface and the money disappeared.
“Go to your room, Signor Landau. I’ll print out the bill and bring it to you.”
Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He locked and chained the door, then walked to the window and peered out. The lake was shimmering in the moonlight. There was no one outside—at least no one he could see. He sat on the bed and began to undress.
An envelope appeared beneath the door and slid across the terra-cotta floor. Gabriel picked it up, lifted the flap, and removed the contents. He switched on the bedside lamp and examined the bill. During his two-day stay at the hotel, Benjamin had made only three telephone calls. Two were placed to his own apartment in Munich—to check messages on his answering machine, Gabriel reckoned—and the third to a number in London.
Gabriel lifted the receiver and dialed the number.
An answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the office of Peter Malone. I’m sorry, but I’m not available to take your call. If you’d like to leave a—”
Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Peter Malone? The British investigative reporter? Why would Benjamin be calling a man like him? Gabriel folded the bill and slipped it back into the envelope. He was about to drop it into Ehud Landau’s briefcase when the telephone rang.
He reached out, but hesitated. No one knew he was here—no one but th
e concierge and the man who’d followed Gabriel after dinner. Perhaps Malone had captured his number and was calling back. Better to know than remain ignorant, he thought. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear for a moment without speaking.
Finally: “Yes?”
“Mother Vincenza is lying to you, the same way she lied to your friend. Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you’ll know the truth about what happened at the convent.”
“Who is this?”
“Don’t come back. It’s not safe for you here.”
CLICK.
9
GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND
THE MAN WHO LIVED in the large chalet in the shadow of the Eiger was a private person, even by the exacting standards of the mountains of Inner Switzerland. He made it his business to learn what was being said about him and knew that in the bars and cafés of Grindelwald there was constant speculation about his occupation. Some thought him a successful private banker from Zurich; others believed him to be the owner of a large chemical concern headquartered in Zug. There was a theory he was born to wealth and had no career at all. There was baseless gossip he was an arms dealer or a money launderer. The girl who cleaned his chalet told of a kitchen filled with expensive copper pots and cooking implements of every kind. A rumor circulated that he was a chef or restaurateur. He liked that one the best. He always thought he might have enjoyed cooking for a living, had he not fallen into his current profession.
The limited amount of mail that arrived daily at his chalet bore the name Eric Lange. He spoke German with the accent of a Zuricher but with the sing-song cadence of those native to the valleys of Inner Switzerland. He did his shopping at the Migros supermarket in town and always paid in cash. He received no visitors and, despite his good looks, was never seen in the company of a woman. He was prone to long periods of absence. When asked for an explanation, he would murmur something about a business venture. When pressed to elaborate, his gray eyes would grow so suddenly cold that few possessed the courage to pursue the matter further.
