The Order

by Daniel Silva

Wolf muted the volume. Then he reached for the phone and rang Otto Kessler, the general manager of Platinum Flight Support. After an exchange of pleasantries, Wolf asked if his plane was ready for departure.

  “Which plane, Herr Wolf?”

  “A man from my company was supposed to have called you.”

  Kessler assured Wolf that no one had contacted him. “You won’t have a problem getting a departure slot, though. There’s only one other private aircraft leaving this afternoon.”

  “And who might that be?” asked Wolf indifferently.

  “Martin Landesmann.”

  “The Martin Landesmann?”

  “It’s his plane, but I’m not sure he’ll be on board. It was empty when it arrived.”

  “Where is it going?”

  “Tel Aviv, with a brief stop in Rome.”

  Gabriel Allon …

  “And what time is Landesmann scheduled to depart?” asked Wolf.

  “Two o’clock, weather permitting. The snow is forecast to worsen later this afternoon. We’ve been told to expect a complete ground stop sometime around four.”

  Wolf rang off and immediately dialed Bishop Richter at the Order’s palazzo on the Janiculum Hill in Rome. “I trust you’ve seen the news, Excellency.”

  “A troubling development,” replied Richter with his typical understatement.

  “I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.”

  “How much worse?”

  “Germany is lost. At least for now. But the papacy is still within our reach. You must do everything in your power to keep our friend from the Society of Jesus away from the cardinals.”

  “He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Two million and one,” said Wolf.

  He hung up the phone and contemplated the river landscape hanging on the wall of his study. Painted by the Dutch Old Master Jan van Goyen, it had once belonged to a wealthy Viennese Jewish businessman named Samuel Feldman. Feldman had given it to Father Schiller, the founder of the Order, in exchange for a set of false baptismal certificates for himself and his family. Regrettably, the baptismal certificates had not arrived in time to prevent the deportation of Feldman and his kin to the Lublin district of German-occupied Poland, where they were murdered.

  Concealed behind the landscape was Wolf’s safe. He worked the tumbler—87, 94, 98—and opened the heavy stainless-steel door. Inside was two million euros in cash, fifty gold ingots, a seventy-year-old Luger pistol, and the last remaining copy of the Gospel of Pilate.

  Wolf removed only the gospel. He laid the book on his desk and opened it to the Roman prefect’s account of the arrest and execution of a Galilean troublemaker called Jesus of Nazareth. Ignoring the advice of Bishop Richter, Wolf had read the passage the night Father Graf brought the book from Rome. Much to his shame, he had read it many times since. Fortunately, his would be the last eyes to ever see it.

  He carried the book to the window of his study. It overlooked the front of the chalet and the long road running the length of his private valley. In the distance, faintly visible through the falling snow, was the Untersberg, the mountain where Frederick Barbarossa had awaited his legendary call to rise and restore the glory of Germany. Wolf had heard the same call. The fatherland was lost. At least for now … But perhaps there was still a chance to save his Church.

  The snow is forecast to worsen later this afternoon. We’ve been told to expect a complete ground stop sometime around four …

  Wolf checked the time. Then he dialed Karl Weber, his security chief. As always, Weber answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Herr Wolf?”

  “Andreas Estermann will be arriving any minute. He’s expecting me to meet him outside in the drive, but I’m afraid there’s been a change in plan.”

  MIKHAIL TURNED ONTO WOLF’S PRIVATE road and climbed steadily through a dense forest of spruce and birch. After a moment the trees broke and a valley opened before them, ringed on three sides by towering mountains. Clouds draped the highest peaks.

  Estermann gave an involuntary start when Gabriel drew his Beretta.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. Unless, of course, you give me the flimsiest of excuses.”

  “The guardhouse is on the left side of the road.”

  “Your point?”

  “I’m seated on the passenger side. If there’s an exchange of gunfire, I might be caught in the crossfire.”

  “Thus increasing my chances of survival.”

  Behind them, Yaakov flashed his headlamps.

  “What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.

  “I imagine he’d like to overtake us before we reach the checkpoint.”

  “What do you want me to do, boss?”

  “Can you shoot and drive at the same time?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “There is no pope right now, Mikhail. That’s why we’re about to have a conclave.”

  The guardhouse appeared before them, veiled by snowfall. Two security men in black ski jackets stood in the middle of the road, each holding an HK MP5 submachine pistol. They didn’t appear concerned by the two cars approaching at high speed. Nor did they give any indication that they were planning to move out of the way.

  “Shall I run them over?” asked Mikhail.

  “Why not?”

  Mikhail lowered the two windows on the passenger side of the car and put his foot to the floor. The two security men retreated to the shelter of the guardhouse. One waved cordially as the cars passed.

  “It looks as though your ruse worked, Allon. They’re supposed to stop every car.”

  Mikhail raised the windows. To their left, across a snow-covered meadow, an Airbus executive helicopter stood on its pad with the sadness of an abandoned toy. Wolf’s chalet appeared a moment later. A single figure stood in the drive. His black ski jacket was identical to the ones worn by the men at the checkpoint. His hands were empty.

  “That’s Weber,” said Estermann. “He’s got a nine-millimeter under his jacket.”

  “Is he right-handed or left?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It might determine whether he’s still alive thirty seconds from now.”

  Estermann frowned. “I believe he’s right-handed.”

  Mikhail braked to a halt and climbed out with the Uzi Pro in his hand. Behind them, Yaakov and Oded, both armed with Jericho pistols, leapt from the second car.

  Gabriel waited until Weber had been relieved of his weapon before joining them. Calmly, he approached the German security man and addressed him in the Berlin accent of his mother.

  “Herr Wolf was supposed to be waiting for us. It is urgent we leave for the airport at once.”

  “Herr Wolf asked me to show you inside.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs,” said Weber. “In the great hall.”

  46

  OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

  THE STAIRCASE WAS WIDE AND straight and covered by a bright red carpet. Weber led the way, hands in the air, Mikhail’s Uzi Pro pointed at the small of his back. Gabriel was flanked by Eli Lavon and Estermann. The German appeared decidedly uneasy.

  “Something bothering you, Estermann?”

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  “Maybe you should tell me now. I’m not crazy about surprises.”

  “Herr Wolf usually doesn’t entertain visitors in the great hall.”

  At the top of the stairs, Weber turned to the left and led them into an anteroom. He stopped outside a pair of ornate double doors. “This is as far as I’m allowed to go. Herr Wolf is waiting inside.”

  “Who else is in there?” asked Gabriel.

  “Only Herr Wolf.”

  Gabriel leveled the Beretta at Weber’s head. “You’re sure about that?”

  Weber nodded.

  Gabriel aimed the Beretta toward one of the armchairs. “Have a seat.”

  “It’s not permitted.”

  “It is now.”

 
Weber sat down. Oded lowered himself into the chair opposite, the Jericho .45 on his knee.

  Gabriel looked at Estermann. “What are you waiting for?”

  Estermann opened the double doors and led them inside.

  IT WAS A CAVERNOUS SPACE, about sixty feet by fifty. One wall was given over almost entirely to a panoramic window. The other three were hung with Gobelin tapestries and what appeared to be Old Master paintings. There was a monumental classicist china closet, an enormous clock crowned by an eagle, and a bust of Wagner that appeared to be the work of Arno Becker, the German architect and sculptor beloved by Hitler and the Nazi elite.

  There were two seating areas, one near the window and another in front of the fireplace. Gabriel crossed the room and joined Jonas Wolf before the hearth. The heat of the fire was volcanic. Atop the embers lay a book. Only the leather cover remained.

  “I suppose burning books comes naturally to someone like you.”

  Wolf was silent.

  “You’re not armed, are you, Wolf?”

  “A pistol.”

  “Would you get it for me, please?”

  Wolf reached beneath his cashmere blazer.

  “Slowly,” cautioned Gabriel.

  Wolf produced the weapon. It was an old Luger.

  “Do me a favor and toss it onto that chair over there.”

  Wolf did as he was told.

  Gabriel looked at the blackened remains of the book. “Is that the Gospel of Pilate?”

  “No, Allon. It was the gospel.”

  Gabriel placed the barrel of the Beretta against the nape of Wolf’s neck. Somehow he managed not to pull the trigger. “Do you mind if I have a look at it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Would you get it for me, please?”

  Wolf made no movement.

  Gabriel twisted the barrel of the Beretta. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

  Wolf reached for the fireplace tools.

  “No,” said Gabriel.

  Crouching, Wolf stretched a hand into the inferno. A foot to the backside was enough to send him headlong into the flames. By the time he managed to extricate himself, his mane of silver hair was a memory.

  Gabriel feigned indifference to his cries of pain. “What did it say, Wolf?”

  “I never read it,” he gasped.

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “It was heresy!”

  “How did you know if you didn’t read it?”

  Gabriel walked over to one of the paintings, a reclining nude in the manner of Titian. Next to it was another nude, this one by Bordone, one of Titian’s pupils. There was also a landscape by Spitzweg and Roman ruins by Panini. None of the paintings, however, was genuine. They were all twentieth-century copies.

  “Who did your work for you?”

  “A German art restorer named Gunther Haas.”

  “He’s a hack.”

  “He charged me a small fortune.”

  “Did he know where these paintings hung during the war?”

  “We never discussed it.”

  “I doubt Gunther would have cared much. He was always a bit of a Nazi.”

  Gabriel looked at Eli Lavon, who seemed to be locked in a staring contest with the Wagner bust. After a moment he placed a hand on the large wooden cabinet upon which it stood. “This is where the speakers for the projection system were hidden.” He pointed toward the wall above. “And the screen was behind that tapestry. He could raise it when he wanted to show a film to his guests.”

  Gabriel sidestepped a long rectangular table and stood before the massive window. “And this could be lowered, right, Eli? Unfortunately, when he drew up the plans for the Berghof, he put the garage directly beneath the great room. When the wind was right, the stench of petrol was unbearable.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Wolf. “I’m sure you didn’t make the same mistake.”

  “I have a separate garage,” boasted Wolf.

  “Where’s the button for the window?”

  “On the wall to the right.”

  Gabriel flipped the switch and the glass glided soundlessly into its pocket. Snow blew into the room. It was coming down harder now. He watched a plane rising slowly into the sky above Salzburg, then cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch.

  “You should probably be on your way, Allon. That Gulfstream you borrowed from Martin Landesmann is scheduled to leave for Rome at two.” Wolf conjured an arrogant smile. “It’s a forty-minute drive to the airport at least.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about staying long enough to watch the Bundespolizei put you in handcuffs. The German far right will never recover from this, Wolf. It’s over.”

  “That’s what they said about us after the war. But now we’re everywhere. The police, the intelligence and security services, the courts.”

  “But not the Reich Chancellery. And not the Apostolic Palace.”

  “I own that conclave.”

  “Not anymore.” Gabriel turned away from the open window and surveyed the room. It was beginning to make him feel ill. “This must have taken a great deal of work.”

  “The furnishings were the most difficult part. Everything had to be custom-made based on old photographs. The room is exactly the way it was, with the exception of that table. There was usually a vase of flowers in the center. I use it to display cherished photographs.”

  They were framed in silver and precisely arranged. Wolf with his beautiful wife. Wolf with his two sons. Wolf at the tiller of a sailboat. Wolf cutting the ceremonial ribbon at a new factory. Wolf kissing the ring of Bishop Hans Richter, superior general of the poisonous Order of St. Helena.

  One photograph was larger than the others, and its frame was more ornate. It was a photograph of Adolf Hitler sitting at the original table with a child, a boy of two or three, balanced on his knee. The retractable window was open. Hitler looked drawn and gray. The boy looked frightened. Only the man wearing the uniform of a senior SS officer appeared pleased. Smiling, he was standing with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back with obvious delight.

  “I assume you recognize the Führer,” said Wolf.

  “I recognize the SS officer, too.” Gabriel contemplated Wolf for a moment. “The resemblance is quite striking.”

  Gabriel returned the photograph to the table. Another plane was clawing its way skyward above Salzburg. He checked his wristwatch. It was approaching one o’clock. Time enough, he reckoned, for one last story.

  47

  OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

  ELI LAVON RECOGNIZED WOLF’S FATHER. He was Rudolf Fromm, a desk-murderer from Department IVB4 of the Reich Main Security Office, the division of the SS that carried out the Final Solution. Fromm was an Austrian by birth and a Roman Catholic by religion, as was his wife, Ingrid. They were both from Linz, the town along the Danube where Hitler was born. Wolf was their only child. His real name was Peter—Peter Wolfgang Fromm. The photograph was taken in 1945 during Hitler’s last visit to the Berghof. Wolf’s mother had been chatting off camera with Eva Braun when it was snapped. Exhausted, his hand trembling uncontrollably, Hitler had refused to pose for another.

  A month after the visit, with the Red Army closing in on Berlin, Rudolf Fromm stripped off his SS uniform and went into hiding. He managed to evade capture and in 1948, with the help of a priest from the Order of St. Helena, made his way to Rome. There he acquired a Red Cross identification card and passage on a ship bound from Genoa to Buenos Aires. Fromm’s son remained in Berlin with his mother until 1950, when she hanged herself in their squalid single-room apartment. Alone in the world, he was taken in by the same priest from the Order who had helped his father.

  He entered the Order’s seminary in Bergen and studied for the priesthood. At eighteen, however, he was visited by Father Schiller, who told him that God had other plans for the brilliant, handsome son of a Nazi war criminal. He left the seminary with a new name and entered Heidelberg University, where he studied mathematics. Father Schiller gave him the money to buy
his first company in 1964, and within a few years he was one of the richest men in Germany, the very embodiment of the country’s postwar economic miracle.

  “How much money did Father Schiller give you?”

  “I believe it was five million deutsche marks.” Wolf hauled himself into one of the chairs next to the fire. “Or perhaps it was ten. To be honest, I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  “Did he tell you where the money came from? That the Order had extorted it from terrified Jews like Samuel Feldman in Vienna and Emanuele Giordano in Rome?” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Now is the part when you tell me you’ve never heard of them.”

  “Why bother?”

  “I suppose some of their money was used to help men like your father escape.”

  “Rather ironic, don’t you think?” Wolf smiled. “My father handled the Feldman case personally. One member of the family slipped through his net. A daughter, I believe. Many years after the war, she told her sad story to a private Jewish investigator in Vienna. His name escapes me.”

  “I believe it was Eli Lavon.”

  “Yes, that’s it. He tried to extort money from Bishop Richter.” Wolf laughed bitterly. “A fool’s errand, if there ever was one. He got what he deserved, too.”

  “I take it you’re referring to the bomb that destroyed his office in Vienna.”

  Wolf nodded. “Two members of his staff were killed. Both Jews, of course.”

  Gabriel looked at his old friend. He had never once seen him commit an act of violence. But he was certain that Eli Lavon, if handed a loaded gun, would have used it to kill Jonas Wolf.

  The German was inspecting the burns on his right hand. “He was quite the tenacious character, this man Lavon. The stereotypical stiff-necked Jew. He spent several years trying to track down my father. He never found him, of course. He lived quite comfortably in Bariloche. I visited him every two or three years. Because our names were different, no one ever suspected we were related. He became quite devout in his old age. He was very contented.”

  “He had no regrets?”

  “For what?” Wolf shook his head. “My father was proud of what he did.”

  “I suppose you were proud, too.”