by Daniel Silva
“Define large.”
“Six figures or more.”
“How many names are we talking about?”
“One hundred and sixteen.”
Gershon swore softly. “Are you forgetting that I have pictures of you dressed as a priest?”
“I’ll make it up to you, Yuval.”
“Who are these guys?”
“The cardinals who will elect the next pope.”
Gabriel killed the connection and dialed Yossi Gavish, the chief of the Office’s analytical division. Born in Golder’s Green, educated at Oxford, he still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced British accent.
“Father Gabriel, I presume?”
“Check your in-box, my son.”
A moment passed. “It’s lovely, boss. But who is he?”
“He’s a lay member of something called the Order of St. Helena, but I have a feeling he might be one of us. Show it around the building, and send it to Berlin Station.”
“Why Berlin?”
“He speaks German with a Bavarian accent.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Gabriel hung up the phone and placed one more call. Chiara answered, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Somewhere safe.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Soon.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have to find something first.”
“Is it good?”
“Do you remember when Eli and I found the ruins of Solomon’s Temple?”
“How could I forget?”
“This might be better.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Close your eyes,” said Gabriel. “Let me listen to you sleep.”
GABRIEL SPENT THE NIGHT ON a cot inside the station and at half past seven the next morning rang General Cesare Ferrari. He informed the general that he needed to borrow the Art Squad’s formidable laboratory to test a document. He did not say what the document was or where he had found it.
“Why do you need our labs? Yours are the best in the world.”
“I don’t have time to send it to Israel.”
“What sort of tests are we talking about?”
“Analysis of the paper and ink. I’d also like you to establish the age.”
“It’s old, this document?”
“Several centuries,” said Gabriel.
“You’re sure it’s paper and not vellum?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I have a staff meeting at the palazzo at half past ten.” The palazzo was the Art Squad’s elegant cream-colored headquarters in the Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. “If, however, you were to wander into the back room of Caffè Greco at nine fifteen, you might find me enjoying a cappuccino and a cornetto. And by the way,” he said before ringing off, “I have something to show you as well.”
Gabriel arrived a few minutes early. General Ferrari had the back room to himself. From his old leather briefcase he removed a manila folder, and from the folder eight large photographs, which he arrayed on the table. The last depicted Gabriel removing the wallet from Niklaus Janson’s pocket.
“Since when does the commander of the Art Squad get to see surveillance photos from a murder investigation?”
“The chief of the Polizia wanted you to have a look at them. He was hoping you might be able to identify the assassin.”
The general laid another photograph on the table. A man in a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, right arm extended, a gun in his hand. A woman nearby had noticed the weapon and had opened her mouth to scream. Gabriel only wished he had seen it, too. Niklaus Janson might still be alive.
Gabriel examined the gunman’s clothing. “I don’t suppose you have one without the helmet.”
“I’m afraid not.” Ferrari returned the photographs to the manila folder. “Perhaps you should show me this document of yours.”
It was locked inside a stainless-steel attaché case. Gabriel removed it and handed it wordlessly across the table. The general scrutinized it through the protective plastic cover.
“The Gospel of Pilate?” He looked up at Gabriel. “Where did you get this?”
“The Vatican Secret Archives.”
“They gave it to you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Luigi and I broke into the Archives and took it.”
General Ferrari looked down at the document again. “I assume this has something to do with the Holy Father’s death.”
“Murder,” said Gabriel quietly.
General Ferrari’s expression remained unchanged.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised by the news, Cesare.”
“I assumed that Archbishop Donati was suspicious about the circumstances of the Holy Father’s death when he asked me to make contact with you in Venice.”
“Did he mention a missing Swiss Guard?”
“He might have. And a missing letter, too.” The general held the page aloft. “Is this the document Lucchesi wanted you to see?”
Gabriel nodded.
“In that case, there’s no need to test it. The Holy Father wouldn’t have tried to give it to you if it wasn’t genuine.”
“I’d feel better if I knew when it was written and where the paper and ink came from.”
The general raised it to the light of an overhead chandelier. “You’re right, it’s definitely paper.”
“How old could it be?”
“The first mills in Italy were established in Fabriano in the late thirteenth century, and during the fifteenth century paper gradually replaced vellum in bookbinding. There were mills in Florence, Treviso, Milan, Bologna, Parma, and your beloved Venice. We should be able to determine if this was produced in one of them. But it’s not something that can be done quickly.”
“How long will it take?”
“To do the job right … several weeks.”
“I’m going to need the results a bit sooner than that.”
The general sighed.
“If it wasn’t for you,” said Gabriel, “I’d still be in Venice with my family.”
“Me?” The general shook his head. “I was only the messenger. It was Pietro Lucchesi who summoned you.” He glanced at the manila folder. “Those photos are yours to keep. A small souvenir of your brief visit to our country. Don’t worry about the Polizia. I’ll think of something to say to them. I always do.”
With that, the general departed. Gabriel checked his phone and saw that he had received a text message from Christoph Bittel, his friend from the Swiss security service.
Call me as quickly as you can. It’s important.
Gabriel dialed.
Bittel answered instantly. “For God’s sake, what the hell took you so long?”
“Please tell me she’s all right.”
“Stefani Hoffmann? She’s fine. I’m calling about the man in that sketch of yours.”
“What about him?”
“It’s not something we should discuss on the phone. How quickly can you get to Zurich?”
34
SISTINE CHAPEL
FROM INSIDE THE SISTINE CHAPEL came the unholy clamor of hammering. Cardinal Domenico Albanese climbed the two shallow steps and entered. A newly installed wooden ramp sloped toward the opening in the transenna, the marble screen that divided the chapel in two. Beyond it stretched a temporary wooden floor covered in pale tan carpeting. Twelve long tables stood along the edges of the chapel, two rows of three on each side, covered in tan baize, with pleated skirts of magenta.
In the center of the space stood a small ornate table with thin curved legs. For now, the table was empty. But on Friday afternoon, when the cardinal-electors processed into the chapel to begin the conclave, there would be a Bible open to the first page of the Gospel of Matthew. Each cardinal, including Albanese, would lay his hand on the Gospel and swear an oath of s
ecrecy. He would also swear not to conspire with “any group of people or individuals” who might wish to intervene in the election of the next Roman pontiff. To break such a sacred vow would be a grievous sin. A cardinal sin, thought Albanese.
The sound of hammering intruded on his reverie. The workmen were constructing a camera platform near the stoves. The first hour of the conclave—the opening procession, the singing of “Veni Creator Spiritus,” the swearing of the oath—would be televised. After that, the master of pontifical liturgical celebrations would announce “Extra omnes,” and the doors would be closed and locked from the outside.
Inside, a first ballot would be taken, if only to get a sense of the room. The Scrutineers and Revisers would perform their due diligence, checking and rechecking the count. If the preconclave hype was to be believed, Cardinal José Maria Navarro would emerge as the early front runner. The ballots would then be burned in the older of the two stoves. The second stove would simultaneously release a chemically enhanced plume of black smoke. And thus the faithful gathered in St. Peter’s Square—and the unfaithful poised over their laptops in the press center—would learn that the Church of Rome was still without a pontiff.
Cardinal Navarro’s lead would shrink on the second ballot. And on the third, a new name would emerge: Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the archbishop of Vienna and a secret member of the Order of St. Helena. By the fifth ballot, Emmerich would be unstoppable. By the sixth, the papacy would be his. No, thought Albanese suddenly. The papacy would be the Order’s.
They planned to waste little time in undoing the modest reforms put in place by Lucchesi and Donati. All power would be centralized in the Apostolic Palace. All dissent would be ruthlessly repressed. There would be no more talk of women in the priesthood or allowing priests to marry. Nor would there be any heartfelt encyclicals about climate change, the poor, the rights of workers and immigrants, and the dangers posed by the rise of the far right in Western Europe. Indeed, the new secretary of state would forge close ties between the Holy See and the authoritarian leaders of Italy, Germany, Austria, and France—all doctrinaire Catholics who would serve as a bulwark against secularism, democratic socialism, and, of course, Islam.
Albanese moved toward the altar. Behind it was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, with its swirling cyclone of souls rising toward heaven or falling into the depths of hell. It never failed to stir Albanese. It was the reason he had become a priest, the fear that he would suffer for all eternity in the emptiness of the underworld.
That fear, after lying dormant within Albanese for many years, had risen again. It was true that Bishop Richter had granted him absolution for his role in the murder of Pietro Lucchesi. But in his heart Albanese did not believe such a mortal sin could truly be forgiven. Granted, it was Father Graf who had done the deed. But Albanese had been an accessory before and after the fact. He had played his role flawlessly, with one exception. He had failed to find the letter—the letter Lucchesi was writing to Gabriel Allon about the book he had found in the Secret Archives. The only explanation was that the Janson boy had taken it. Father Graf had killed him as well. Two murders. Two black marks on Albanese’s soul.
All the more reason why the conclave had to go precisely as planned. It was Albanese’s job to make certain the cardinal-electors who had accepted the Order’s money cast their ballots for Emmerich at the appropriate time. A sudden and decisive move toward the Austrian would raise suspicion of tampering. His support had to build gradually, ballot by ballot, so that nothing looked amiss. Once Emmerich was clad in white, the Order would face no threat of exposure. The Vatican was one of the world’s last absolute monarchies, a divine dictatorship. There would be no investigation, no exhumation of the dead pontiff’s body. It would almost be as though it had never happened.
Unless, thought Albanese, there was another unexpected development like the one that had occurred the previous morning at the Secret Archives. Gabriel Allon and Archbishop Donati had undoubtedly found something. What it was, Albanese could not say. He only knew that after leaving the Archives, Allon and Donati had traveled to Assisi, where they had met with a certain Father Robert Jordan, the Church’s foremost expert on the apocryphal gospels. Afterward, they had returned to Rome, where they had met with one Alessandro Ricci, the world’s foremost expert on the Order of St. Helena. It was hardly an encouraging sign.
“Truly magnificent, is it not?”
Albanese turned with a start.
“Forgive me,” said Bishop Richter. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Albanese addressed his superior general with a cool and distant formality. “Good morning, Excellency. What brings you to the Sistina?”
“I was told I might find the camerlengo here.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. In fact, I have rather good news.”
“What’s that?”
Richter smiled. “Gabriel Allon just left Rome.”
35
ZURICH
IT WAS HALF PAST FOUR when Gabriel arrived in Zurich. He rode in a taxi to the Paradeplatz, the St. Peter’s Square of Swiss banking, and then walked along the stately Bahnhofstrasse to the northern tip of the Zürichsee. A BMW sedan drew alongside him on the General-Guisan-Quai. Behind the wheel was Christoph Bittel. Bald and bespectacled, he looked like just another gnome heading home to the lakeside suburbs after a long day spent tabulating the hidden riches of Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.
Gabriel dropped into the passenger seat. “Where were we?”
“The man in the sketch.” Bittel eased into the rush-hour traffic. “I’m sorry it took me so long to make the connection. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Estermann,” said Bittel. “Andreas Estermann.”
AS GABRIEL SUSPECTED, ESTERMANN WAS a professional. For thirty years he had worked for the Bf V, Germany’s internal security service. Not surprisingly, the Bf V maintained close links with its sister service in Switzerland, the NDB. Early in his career, Bittel had traveled to Cologne to brief his German counterparts on Soviet espionage activity in Bern and Geneva. Estermann was his contact.
“When the meeting was over, he invited me for a drink. Which was odd.”
“Why?”
“Estermann doesn’t touch alcohol.”
“Does he have a problem?”
“He has lots of problems, but alcohol isn’t one of them.”
In the years that followed their first meeting, Bittel and Estermann bumped into each other from time to time, as practitioners of the secret trade are prone to do. Neither one of them was what you might describe as an action figure. They were not operatives, they were glorified policemen. They conducted investigations, wrote reports, and attended countless conferences where the primary challenge was keeping one’s eyes open. They shared lunches and dinners whenever their paths crossed. Estermann often funneled intelligence to Bittel outside normal channels. Bittel reciprocated whenever possible, but always with the approval of the top floor. His superiors considered Estermann a valuable asset.
“And then the planes crashed into the World Trade Center, and everything changed. Especially Estermann.”
“How so?”
“He had moved from counterintelligence to counterterrorism a couple of years before nine-eleven, just like me. He claimed he was on to the Hamburg Cell from the beginning. He swore he could have stopped the plot in its tracks if his superiors had allowed him to do his job properly.”
“Was any of it true?”
“That he could have single-handedly prevented the worst terrorist attack in history?” Bittel shook his head. “Maybe Gabriel Allon could have done it. But not Andreas Estermann.”
“How did he change?”
“He became incredibly bitter.”
“At whom?”
“Muslims.”
“Al-Qaeda?”
“Not just al-Qaeda. Estermann resented all Muslims, especially those wh
o lived in Germany. He was unable to separate the hard-core jihadist from the poor Moroccan or Turk who came to Europe looking for a better life. It got worse after the attack on the Vatican. He lost all perspective. I found his company difficult to bear.”
“But you maintained the relationship?”
“We’re a small service. Estermann was a force multiplier.” Bittel smiled. “Like you, Allon.”
He turned into the car park of a marina along the western shore of the lake. At the end of the breakwater was a café. They sat outside in the blustery evening air. Bittel ordered two beers and replied to several text messages he had received during the drive from downtown Zurich.
“Sorry. We’re a bit on edge at the moment.”
“About what?”
“The bombings in Germany.” Bittel peered at Gabriel over his phone. “You don’t happen to know who’s behind them, do you?”
“My analysts think we’re dealing with a new network.”
“Just what we needed.”
The waitress appeared with their drinks. She was a raven-haired woman of perhaps twenty-five, very beautiful, an Iraqi, perhaps a refugee from Syria. When she placed the bottle of beer in front of Gabriel, he thanked her in Arabic. A brief exchange of pleasantries followed. Then, smiling, the woman withdrew.
“What were you talking about?” asked Bittel.
“She was wondering why we were sitting out here by the lake instead of inside where it’s warm.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we were intelligence officers who didn’t like to speak in insecure rooms.”
Bittel made a face and drank some of his beer. “It’s a good thing Estermann didn’t see you talking to her like that. He doesn’t approve of being civil to Muslim immigrants. Nor does he approve of speaking their language.”
“How does he feel about Jews?”
Bittel picked at the label of his beer bottle.
“Go ahead, Bittel. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“He’s a bit of an anti-Semite.”
“What a shocker.”
“It tends to go hand in hand.”
