by Daniel Silva
“No,” she said. “Some parts are too private.”
Donati let it go. For now. “Colonel Metzler told me he spoke to you.”
“He called me the day after the Holy Father died. He said Niklaus had left the barracks without authorization. He asked whether I’d spoken to him. I told him I hadn’t, which was true at the time.”
“Was Metzler the only person who contacted you?”
“No. I heard from someone else the next day.”
“Who?”
“Herr Bauer. The man from Vatican intelligence.”
There it was again, thought Donati. Vatican intelligence …
“Did Herr Bauer show you any identification?”
She shook her head.
“Did he say what division of Vatican intelligence he worked for?”
“Papal security.”
“First name?”
“Maximillian.”
“Swiss?”
“German. Probably from Bavaria, judging by the accent.”
“He phoned you?”
“No. He showed up at the restaurant unannounced, like you and Herr Kiever.”
“What did he want?”
“The same thing Metzler wanted. Where was Niklaus?”
“And when you told him you didn’t know?”
“I’m not sure he believed me.”
“Describe him, please.”
It was Gabriel who had posed the question. Stefani Hoffmann lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
“Tall, well dressed, late forties, maybe early fifties.”
With his expression, Gabriel made it clear her answer was a disappointment. “Come now, Stefani. You can do better than that. You’re an artist, after all.”
“I’m a contemporary painter who reveres Rothko and Pollock. Portraits aren’t my specialty.”
“But surely you could produce one in a pinch.”
“Not a good one. And not from memory.”
“Perhaps I can be of help.”
“How?”
“Bring me your sketchpad and a box of acrylic pencils, and I’ll show you.”
THEY WORKED WITHOUT PAUSE FOR the better part of the next hour, side by side at the kitchen table, with Donati watching anxiously over their shoulders. As Gabriel suspected, Stefani Hoffmann’s memory of the man she knew as Maximillian Bauer was far sharper than even she had imagined. All it took were the right sort of questions posed by an expert draftsman and student of human anatomy—a gifted restorer who could mimic the brushstrokes of Bellini and Titian and Tintoretto, a healer who had repaired the tattered face of Mary and the pierced hand of Christ.
It was a noble face she described. High cheekbones, a slender nose, a refined chin, a thin mouth that did not smile easily, all crowned by a shock of gray-blond hair. He was a worthy opponent, thought Gabriel. A man not to be trifled with. A man who never lost at games of chance.
“So much for the occasional watercolor on holiday,” said Stefani Hoffmann. “You’re obviously a professional. But I’m afraid the eyes are all wrong.”
“I drew the eyes the way you described them.”
“Not quite.”
She took the pad and on a blank page sketched a pair of humorless eyes set deeply beneath the ledge of a prominent brow. Gabriel then sketched the rest of the face around them.
“That’s him. That’s the man who came to see me.”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder at Donati. “Do you recognize him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Stefani Hoffmann took the sketch from Gabriel and deepened the lines around the mouth. “Now it’s perfect,” she said. “But what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to find out who he really is.”
She looked up from the sketchpad. “But who are you?”
“I’m an associate of the archbishop.”
“Are you a priest?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “I’m a professional.”
WHICH LEFT ONLY THE LETTER. The letter in which Niklaus Janson had described the Order of St. Helena as evil. Three times Donati asked to see it. Three times Stefani Hoffmann refused. The letter was of an intensely personal nature, written by an emotionally distressed man whom she had known since childhood. A man who had been publicly murdered on the most famous bridge in Italy. She would not show such a letter to her closest friend and confidante, she insisted, let alone a Roman Catholic archbishop.
“In that case,” said Donati, “might I at least see the picture?”
“Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane? You don’t get enough of that sort of thing at the Vatican?”
“I have my reasons.”
It was propped against the wall behind Stefani Hoffmann’s chair, still entombed in a shallow cardboard box. Donati checked the waybill. It was from a DHS Express near Roma Termini. Niklaus must have shipped it before boarding the train to Florence.
Donati removed the picture from the box and freed it from its cocoon of bubble wrap. It was about fourteen inches by twelve. The illustration itself was a rather shopworn depiction of Jesus on the night before his torture and execution at the hands of the Romans. The frame, museum glass, and matting were of high quality.
“Bishop Richter gave it to him the day he swore his oath of allegiance to the Order,” explained Stefani Hoffmann. “If you turn it over, you’ll see the Order’s coat of arms.”
Donati was still staring at the image of Jesus.
“Don’t tell me you actually like it.”
“It’s not exactly Michelangelo,” he admitted. “But it’s nearly identical to a picture that hung in my parents’ bedroom in the little house in Umbria where I was raised.”
Donati did not tell Stefani Hoffmann that after his mother’s death he found several thousand euros hidden inside the picture. His mother, justifiably, had distrusted Italian banks.
He turned over the picture. The Order of St. Helena’s coat of arms was embossed on the back of the matting, which was held in place by four metal brackets. One of the clasps, however, was loose.
Donati removed the other three and attempted to pry away the matting. Failing, he turned over the frame and allowed the weight of the glass panel to do the task for him.
It landed on the tabletop without shattering. Donati separated the matting from the picture and found a cream-colored envelope, also of high quality. It, too, was decorated with a coat of arms.
The private papal armorial of His Holiness Pope Paul VII.
Donati lifted the flap. Inside were three sheets of rich stationery, almost like fine linen. He read the first lines. Then he returned the letter to the envelope and pushed it across the table toward Gabriel.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I believe this belongs to you.”
19
LES ARMURES, GENEVA
IT WAS APPROACHING NINE O’CLOCK by the time Gabriel and Donati arrived in Geneva, too late to make the last flight to Rome. They checked into adjacent rooms at a small hotel near the St. Pierre Cathedral and then walked to Les Armures, a wood-paneled restaurant in the Old Town. After placing his order, Gabriel rang a friend who worked for the NDB, Switzerland’s small but capable foreign intelligence and internal security service. The friend, whose name was Christoph Bittel, was the head of the counterterrorism division. He answered guardedly. Gabriel had a long and distinguished track record in Switzerland. Bittel was still cleaning up the mess from his last visit.
“Where are you?”
Gabriel answered truthfully.
“I’d order the veal cutlet if I were you.”
“I just did.”
“How long have you been in the country?”
“A few hours.”
“I don’t suppose you arrived on a valid passport?”
“Define valid.”
Bittel sighed before inquiring as to the reason for Gabriel’s call.
“I’d like you to place a Swiss citizen under protective surveillance.”
“How unusual. What’s the Swiss citiz
en’s name?”
Gabriel told him, then recited her address and place of work.
“Is she an ISIS terrorist? A Russian assassin?”
“No, Bittel. She’s a painter.”
“Anyone in particular you’re worried about?”
“I’ll send you a composite. But whatever you do, don’t give the job to that kid who watched my back in Bern a couple of years ago.”
“He’s one of my best men.”
“He’s also a former Swiss Guard.”
“Does this have something to do with Florence?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The Polizia di Stato just released the name of the victim in that shooting last night. He was a Swiss Guard. Come to think of it, he was from Rechthalten, too.”
Gabriel killed the connection and checked the website of Corriere della Sera, Italy’s premier newspaper. Donati went straight to the Twitter feed of the Vatican Press Office. There was a brief bollettino, five minutes old. It expressed the Holy See’s shock and sorrow over the senseless and random act of gun violence that had claimed the life of Lance Corporal Niklaus Janson of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. It made no mention of the fact that Janson was on duty outside the papal apartments the night of the Holy Father’s death. Nor did it explain why he was in Florence while his comrades were working overtime in preparation for the conclave.
“It’s a masterpiece of curial doublespeak,” said Donati. “On its face, the statement is entirely accurate. But the lies of omission are glaring. Clearly, Cardinal Albanese has no intention of allowing Niklaus’s murder to delay the opening of the conclave.”
“Perhaps we can convince him to see the error of his ways.”
“With what? A tawdry tale of sex and secretive religious orders, told by a woman who was bitter over the dissolution of her engagement to a handsome young Swiss Guard?”
“You don’t believe her story?”
“I believe every word of it. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s pure hearsay, or that every element can be denied.”
“Except for this.” Gabriel displayed the envelope. The high-quality cream-colored envelope embossed with the private papal armorial of His Holiness Pope Paul VII. “Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know what was in this letter?”
“I didn’t.”
Gabriel removed the three sheets of stationery from the envelope. The letter had been composed in pale blue ink. The salutation was informal. First name only. Dear Gabriel … There were no preliminaries or pleasantries.
While researching in the Vatican Secret Archives, I came upon a most remarkable book …
The book, he continued, had been given to him by a member of the Archives staff, without the knowledge of the prefetto. It was stored in what was known as the collezione, a secret archive within the Secret Archives, located on the lower level of the Manuscript Depository. The material in the collezione was highly sensitive. Some of the books and files were political and administrative in nature. Others were doctrinal. None were referenced in the one thousand directories and catalogues housed in the Index Room. Indeed, nowhere within the Archives was there a written inventory of the material. The knowledge was passed down through the centuries verbally, prefetto to prefetto.
The letter did not identify the book in question, only that it had been suppressed by the Church during the Middle Ages and had circulated secretly until the Renaissance, when it was finally hunted out of existence. The copy contained in the Secret Archives was thought to be the last. The Holy Father had concluded it was authentic and accurate in its depiction of an important historical event. It was his intention to place the book in Gabriel’s hands at the earliest possible date. Gabriel would be free to do with it as he pleased. His Holiness asked only that he treat the material with the utmost sensitivity. The book would ignite a global sensation. Its unveiling would have to be carefully managed. Otherwise, the Holy Father warned, it would be dismissed as a hoax.
The letter was unfinished. The final sentence was a fragment, the last word incomplete. Archi … Gabriel reckoned the Holy Father had been interrupted midsentence by the appearance of his killer. Donati did not disagree. His prime suspect was Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese, prefetto of the Vatican Secret Archives. Gabriel politely informed Donati that he was mistaken.
“Then why did Albanese lie to me about his earlier visit to the appartamento?”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t involved in the Holy Father’s murder. But he wasn’t the actual killer. He was only the bagman.” Gabriel held up the letter. “Can we stipulate that the existence of this letter in Stefani Hoffmann’s home is proof that Niklaus Janson did not tell her everything that happened that night?”
“So stipulated.”
Gabriel lowered the letter. “When Albanese arrived at nine thirty, the Holy Father was already dead. That’s when he removed the book from the papal study. He came back to the papal apartments at ten o’clock and carried the Holy Father’s body from the study into the bedroom.”
“But why didn’t he remove the letter when he removed the book?”
“Because it wasn’t there. It was in Niklaus Janson’s pocket. He removed it before Albanese arrived the first time.”
“Why?”
“If I had to guess, Niklaus was feeling guilty about letting the murderer into the papal apartments. After the killer left, he went inside to investigate. That was when he found the Holy Father dead and an unfinished letter lying on the desk blotter.”
“Why would Niklaus Janson have let a murderer into the papal apartments? He loved the Holy Father.”
“That’s the easy part. The killer was someone he knew. Someone he trusted.” Gabriel paused. “Someone he was sworn to obey.”
Donati made no reply.
“Did Veronica tell you that Janson and Father Graf were involved in a sexual relationship?”
Donati hesitated, then nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t think it was true.” He paused. “Until tonight.”
“Who are they, Luigi?”
“The Order of St. Helena?”
“Yes.”
“They’re trouble,” said Donati. “Pure, unadulterated, undiluted, irredeemable trouble.”
20
LES ARMURES, GENEVA
THEN AGAIN, DONATI ADDED, the Order of St. Helena had been trouble from the beginning—the year of our Lord 1928, the midpoint between the end of the first world war and the beginning of the second, a time of great social and political upheaval and uncertainty over the future. In the southern German state of Bavaria, an obscure priest named Father Ulrich Schiller came to believe that only Roman Catholicism, in partnership with monarchs and political leaders from the extreme right, could save Europe from the godless Bolsheviks. He established his first seminary in the town of Bergen in Upper Bavaria and quietly recruited a network of like-minded political leaders and businessmen that stretched westward to Spain and Portugal and eastward to the doorstep of the Soviet Union. The lay membership of the Order soon dwarfed its priestly cast and was the true source of its power and influence. The names were kept secret. Inside the Order, only Father Schiller had access to the directory.
“It was a leather-bound ledger,” said Donati. “Quite beautiful, apparently. Father Schiller entered the names himself, along with the secret contact information. Each member was assigned a number and swore an oath, not to the Church but to the Order. It was all very political and quasi-military. The Order wasn’t terribly concerned with doctrine during those early years. They saw themselves first and foremost as holy warriors, prepared to do battle with the enemies of Christ and Roman Catholicism.”
“What was the origin of the name?”
“Father Schiller made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the early twenties. He prayed for hours on end in the Garden of Gethsemane and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It’s built on the site where Helena, the mother of Constantine, was said to have found t
he exact spot where Jesus was crucified and buried.”
“Yes, I know,” said Gabriel. “I happen to live not far from there.”
“Forgive me,” replied Donati.
Father Schiller, he continued, was obsessed with the Crucifixion. He flogged himself daily, and during the holy season of Lent, he pierced his palms with a nail and slept wearing a crown of thorns. His devotion to the memory of Christ’s suffering and death went hand in hand with his hatred of Jews, whom he viewed as the murderers of God.
“We’re not talking about doctrinal anti-Judaism. Father Schiller was a rabid anti-Semite. Even during the earliest years of the Zionist movement, he was alarmed by the prospect of Jews controlling the sacred Christian sites of Jerusalem.”
It was only natural, Donati resumed, that a man such as Father Schiller would find common cause with the Austrian corporal who seized power in Germany in 1933. Father Schiller was not an ordinary member of the Nazi party; he wore a coveted golden party badge. In his 1936 book The Doctrine of National Socialism, he argued that Adolf Hitler and the Nazis offered the surest path to a Christian Europe. Hitler read the book and admired it greatly. He kept a copy at his mountain retreat in the Obersalzberg near Berchtesgaden. During a contentious meeting with the archbishop of Munich, he cited Father Schiller’s book as proof that Catholics and Nazis could work together to defend Germany against the Bolsheviks and the Jews.
“Hitler once remarked to Father Schiller that when it came to the Jews, he was merely carrying out the same policy the Church had adopted fifteen hundred years earlier. Father Schiller did not dispute Hitler’s interpretation of Catholic history.”
“Do I have to ask how the Order conducted itself during the war?”
“I’m afraid it remained loyal to Hitler even after it became clear he was determined to murder every last Jew in Europe. Priests from the Order traveled with SS Einsatzgruppen units in the Baltics and the Ukraine and granted the murderers absolution each night when the killing was done. French members of the Order sided with Vichy, and in Italy they supported Mussolini to the bitter end. The Order also had ties to the clerical fascists in Slovakia and Croatia. The conduct of those two regimes is an indelible stain on the history of the Church.”
