It was an old drawing room, long and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and Oriental carpets. In the center of the room were two antique library tables, one for Malone, another for his research assistants. Malone switched off the computer and sat down in one of the wing chairs next to the gas fire, motioning for Gabriel to do the same.
“I must say it is rather bizarre to actually be in the same room with you. I’ve heard so much about your exploits that I feel I actually know you. You’re quite the legend. Black September, Abu Jihad, and countless others in between. Have you killed anyone lately?”
When Gabriel did not rise to the bait, Malone carried on. “While I find you morbidly fascinating, I must admit that I find the things you’ve done to be morally repugnant. In my opinion, a state which resorts to assassination as a matter of policy is no better than the enemy it’s trying to defeat. In many respects, it’s worse. You’re a murderer in my book, just so you understand where I’m coming from.”
Gabriel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake by coming here. He had learned long ago that arguments like this could never be won. He’d had too many just like it with himself. He sat very still, gazing at Peter Malone through his dark glasses, waiting for him to come to the point. Malone crossed his legs and picked a bit of lint from his trousers. It was a gesture that betrayed anxiety. This pleased Gabriel.
“Perhaps we should finalize the details of our arrangement before we proceed,” Malone said. “I will tell you what I know about Benjamin Stern’s murder. In return, you’ll grant me an interview. Obviously, I’ve written about intelligence matters before, and I know the rules. I will do nothing to reveal your true identity, nor will I write anything that will compromise current operations. Do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
Malone spent a moment gazing up at the recessed lighting, then looked down at Gabriel. “You’re right about Benjamin. I was working with him on his book. Our partnership was supposed to be confidential. I’m surprised you were able to find me.”
“Why did Benjamin come to you?”
Malone stood up and walked over to the bookshelves. He removed a volume and handed it to Gabriel. CRUX VERA: THE KGB OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.
“Benjamin had something big—something dealing with the Vatican and the war.”
Gabriel held up the book. “Something dealing with Crux Vera?”
Malone nodded. “Your friend was a brilliant academic, but he didn’t know the first thing about investigating a story. He asked me if I would work for him as a consultant and investigator in all matters dealing with Crux Vera. I agreed, and we negotiated compensation. The money was to be paid half in advance and half on completion and acceptance of the manuscript. Needless to say, I only received the first payment.”
“What did he have?”
“Unfortunately, I wasn’t privy to that information. Your friend played things very close to the vest. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was one of your crowd.”
“What did he want from you?”
“Access to material I’d gathered while writing the Crux Vera book. Also, he wanted me to try to track down two priests who worked at the Vatican during the war.”
“What were their names?”
“Monsignors Cesare Felici and Tomaso Manzini.”
“Did you ever find them?”
“I tried,” Malone said. “What I discovered is that they were both missing and presumed dead. And there’s something even more interesting than that. The detective from the Rome headquarters of the Polizia di Stato who was investigating the cases was removed by his superiors and reassigned.”
“Do you know the investigator’s name?”
“Alessio Rossi. But for God’s sake, don’t tell him I gave you his name. I have a reputation to protect.”
“If you know so much, why haven’t you written anything?”
“What I have now is a series of murders and disappearances which I believe are linked, yet I haven’t a shred of hard evidence conclusively linking them in any way. The last thing I want to do is accuse the Vatican, or someone close to the Vatican, of murder without a damned solid case. Besides, no decent editor would touch it.”
“But you have a theory about who might be behind it.”
“What you have to remember is that we’re talking about the Vatican,” Malone said. “Men linked to that venerable institution have been involved in intrigues and plots for nearly two millennia. They play the game better than anyone, and in the past, religious fervor and battles over doctrine have induced them to commit the mortal sin of murder. The Church is riddled with secret societies and cliques who might be involved in something like this.”
“Who?” Gabriel repeated.
Peter Malone flashed a television smile. “In my humble opinion, you hold the answer in your hand.”
Gabriel looked down. CRUX VERA: THE KGB OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.
MALONE LEFT the room, returning a moment later with a bottle of Médoc and a pair of large crystal goblets. He poured two generous measures and handed one to Gabriel.
“Do you speak Latin?”
“Actually, we speak another ancient language.”
Malone grinned at Gabriel over his wineglass and continued on. “Crux Vera is Latin for the True Cross. It is also the name of an ultrasecret order within the Roman Catholic Church, a sort of church within a church. If you look in the Annuario Pontificio, the Vatican yearbook, you’ll find no mention of Crux Vera. If you ask the Vatican press office, you will be told that it is a fabrication, a sort of blood libel spread by the enemies of the Church in order to discredit it. But if you ask me, Crux Vera does exist, and I proved it in that book, regardless of what the Vatican says. I believe the tentacles of Crux Vera reach to the highest levels of the Vatican, and that its adherents occupy positions of power and influence around the globe.”
“What is it exactly?”
“The group was created during the Spanish Civil War by an anti-Communist priest named Juan Antonio Rodriguez. Monsignor Rodriguez was very selective about the type of people he permitted to join. The vast majority of his recruits were laymen. Most were wealthy or politically connected: bankers, lawyers, industrialists, government ministers, spies, and secret policemen. You see, Rodriguez was never interested in the business of saving souls. In his opinion, that sort of thing could be left to ordinary parish priests. Rodriguez was interested in only one thing: protecting the Roman Catholic Church from its mortal enemies.”
“And who were they?”
“The Bolsheviks,” Malone said, then quickly added: “And the Jews, of course. Crux Vera spread quickly across Europe throughout the thirties. It established beachheads in France, Italy, Germany, the Balkans, and the Roman Curia itself. During the war, members of Crux Vera worked in the papal household and the Secretariat of State. As Crux Vera expanded, so did Monsignor Rodriguez’s mission. He was no longer satisfied simply with protecting the Church from its enemies. He wanted to return the Church to the position of absolute power and supremacy that it enjoyed during the Middle Ages. That remains the core mission of Crux Vera to this day: reversing the defeats of the Reformation and the Enlightenment and making the state subservient to the Church once again. They also want to undo what they view as the heretical reforms of the Second Vatican Council: Vatican Two.”
“How do they intend to do that?”
“Crux Vera may have loathed the KGB, but in many ways, it is an exact replica; hence the title of my book. It wages a secret war against those it deems enemies and acts like a secret police force within the Church, enforcing strict adherence to doctrine and crushing dissent. Oh, the dissidents and reformers are allowed to vent their spleen now and again, but if they ever pose a real threat, Crux Vera will step in and help them see the light.”
“And if they refuse to yield?”
“Let’s just say that several people who have run afoul of Crux Vera have died under less-than-clear circumstances. Prelates who have
dared to oppose Crux Vera have fallen victim to sudden heart attacks. Journalists who have tried to investigate the order have disappeared or committed suicide. So have members of Crux Vera who’ve tried to leave.”
“How does a religious order justify the use of violence?”
“The priests of Crux Vera aren’t the ones who are resorting to violence. The priests give guidance, but it’s the laymen who actually do the dirty work. Inside the order, they’re known as milites Christi—the soldiers of Christ. They’re encouraged to engage in pillería, or dirty tricks, to achieve the goals of the order. Pillería can be anything from blackmail to murder. And when the act is done, the priests provide absolution in the secrecy of the confessional. By the way, milites Christi aren’t permitted to confess to anyone but a Crux Vera priest. That way, unpleasant secrets stay inside the family.”
“How do they feel about the current pope?”
“From what I hear, they’re lukewarm, to say the least. Pope Paul VII talks about rebirth and renewal. To Crux Vera, those words mean reform and liberalization, and they get nervous.”
“What makes you think Crux Vera was involved in Benjamin’s murder?”
“They might have had a motive. If there’s one thing Crux Vera detests, it’s revelations of the Vatican’s dirty laundry. The order sees itself first and foremost as a guardian of the Church. If your friend had proof of something damaging, he would have fallen into the category of enemy. And Crux Vera would have seen it as their duty to deal with him harshly—for the greater good of the Church, of course.”
Malone finished his glass of wine and poured himself another. Gabriel’s glass remained untouched. “If you’ve been talking to people, asking questions, poking your nose into affairs that don’t concern you, it’s quite possible you’ve already appeared on Crux Vera’s radar. If they think you pose a threat, they won’t hesitate to kill you.”
“I appreciate your candor.”
“And we had a deal.” Malone picked up a notepad and a pen and suddenly the roles were reversed. “It’s my turn to ask the questions now.”
“Just remember the rules. If you betray me—”
“Don’t worry; I’m also aware of the fact that Crux Vera is not the only secret organization to engage in pillería.” Malone licked his forefinger and turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “My God, I have so many questions, I don’t know where to begin.”
GABRIEL SPENT the next two hours unenthusiastically holding up his end of the bargain. Finally, he saw himself out the front door of Peter Malone’s house and struck out across Cadogan Square in a steady rain. On Sloane Street, he pulled his cellular phone from his pocket and dialed Mordecai in the surveillance van. “Keep monitoring him,” Gabriel said. “If he goes anywhere, go with him.”
PETER MALONE sat before the computer in his upstairs office, feverishly typing up his notes. He could not quite believe his good fortune. He had learned long ago that success was the result of a volatile combination of hard work and pure luck. Sometimes good stories just fell into one’s lap. The difference between an average journalist and a great one is what he did next.
After an hour of steady work, his handwritten notes had been transformed into a pair of organized memos. The first dealt with the exploits of the agent code-named Sword. The second was an account of their discussion regarding Benjamin Stern. Whether it was his intention or not, the Israeli had just given Malone the hook he needed for his story. Israeli intelligence was investigating the murder of prominent historian Benjamin Stern. He would ring Tel Aviv in the morning, secure the mandatory denial from the drones at headquarters, then stitch together the other mysterious details he knew about the case. He had not told the Israeli everything he knew about Stern’s murder, just as he was quite certain the Israeli had not shared all of his knowledge. That’s the way the game was played. It took an experienced reporter to know the difference between truth and misinformation, to sift through the silt to find the nuggets of gold. With a bit of luck, he might have a piece ready by the weekend.
He spent a few minutes double-checking the quotes. He decided he would call Tom Graves, his editor at The Sunday Times, and reserve some space on the front page. He reached out for the telephone, but before he could lift the receiver from the cradle, he was flung backward by a blow to the chest. He looked down and saw a small, rapidly spreading circle of blood on his shirt. Then he looked up and saw the man, standing five feet from his desk, gray-blond hair, colorless eyes. Malone had been so engrossed in his work that he had failed to hear him enter the house.
“Why?” the reporter whispered, blood in his mouth.
The killer tilted his head, as though puzzled, and stepped around the desk. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis,” he said, fingers caressing the forehead. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
Then he pointed the silenced gun at Malone’s head and fired one last shot.
IN THE lexicon of the Office, the device that the surveillance artist called Mordecai had placed in Malone’s office was known as a “glass.” Concealed within the electronics of the telephone, it provided coverage of Malone’s calls as well as conversations taking place inside the room. It had allowed Mordecai to monitor Gabriel’s conversation with Malone. He had also listened in as Malone sat at his desk after Gabriel’s departure, tapping away at his computer.
Shortly after nine o’clock, Mordecai heard murmuring in a language he could not understand. For the next five minutes, he was treated to the sound of file drawers opening and closing. He assumed it was Malone, but when the front door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man emerged, Mordecai knew at once that something terrible had just taken place inside the house.
The man walked quickly down the steps and started across the square, directly toward the van. Mordecai panicked. The only weaponry he had was a directional microphone and a long-lens Nikon camera. It was the Nikon he reached for. As the man drew closer to the van, Mordecai raised it calmly to his eye and snapped off three quick shots.
The last one, he was convinced, was a keeper.
14
ROME
VATICAN CITY STATE is the world’s smallest country and also the most sparsely populated. More than four thousand people work there each day, yet only four hundred or so actually live behind the walls. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi was one of them. His private apartment in the Apostolic Palace was just one floor away from that of the Holy Father. While some prelates found life in the epicenter of Vatican power the equivalent of living in a gilded cage, Cardinal Brindisi truly relished it. His rooms were glorious, his commute was exceedingly short, and a staff of priests and nuns saw to his every need. If there was one drawback, it was the proximity of the papal household. While inside the palace, there was little the Cardinal could do to shield himself from the prying eyes of the Pope’s secretaries. The back room at L’Eau Vive was suitable for many of the cardinal’s private assignations, though others, like the one scheduled for this evening, had to be held under more secure circumstances.
A Mercedes sedan was waiting in the San Damaso Courtyard outside the entrance of the Apostolic Palace. Unlike lesser Curial cardinals, Brindisi did not have to endure the luck of the draw in the Vatican motor pool. A Mercedes sedan and a driver were permanently assigned to him, along with a Vigilanza security man. Brindisi climbed into the back, and the car pulled away. It moved slowly along the Via Belvedere—past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Swiss Guards’ barracks—before slipping through St. Anne’s Gate into Rome proper.
The car crossed the Piazza della Città, then turned into the entrance of an underground parking garage. The building above was a Vatican-owned residential complex where many Curial cardinals lived. There were several others like it scattered around Rome.
The car braked to a halt next to a gray Fiat van. As Brindisi climbed out, the van’s rear door swung open and a man lowered himself to the ground. Like Brindisi, he was cloaked in a cassock, with a crimson simar and fascia. Bu
t unlike the secretary of state, he had no right to wear it. He was not a cardinal; in fact, he was not even an ordained priest. Cardinal Brindisi did not know the man’s name, only that he had worked briefly as an actor before coming to work for the Vigilanza.
Brindisi’s stand-in stepped out of the shadows and paused for an instant before the cardinal. As always, Brindisi felt a chill at the back of his neck. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror. The features, the round eyeglasses, the gold pectoral cross—the man had even learned to mimic the arrogant angle of Brindisi’s zucchetto. A tepid smile flickered over the man’s face, a precise imitation of Brindisi’s own, then he said, “Good evening, Eminence.”
“Good evening, Eminence,” Cardinal Brindisi found himself repeating.
The impersonator nodded tersely, then climbed into the back of Brindisi’s staff car and sped away. Father Mascone, Brindisi’s private secretary, was waiting in the back of the van. “Please hurry, Eminence. It’s not safe to stay here long.”
The priest helped the cardinal into the back of the van and closed the door, then guided him onto an embroidered stool. The van sped back up the ramp and turned into the street. A moment later, it was heading across Rome toward the Tiber.
The priest unzipped a garment bag and removed several articles of clothing: a pair of gray trousers, a mock turtleneck pullover, an expensive tan blazer, a pair of black loafers. Cardinal Brindisi loosened his simar and began to undress. After a moment, he was naked except for his underwear and a spiked chain wrapped around his right thigh.
“Perhaps you should remove your cilice,” the priest said. “It might show through your trousers.”
Cardinal Brindisi shook his head. “My willingness to shed my vestments goes only so far, Father Mascone. I will wear my cilice tonight, regardless of whether or not it shows through”—he paused—“my trousers.”
“Very well, Eminence.”
With the priest’s help, the cardinal quickly changed into the unfamiliar clothing. When he was fully dressed, he removed his distinctive spectacles and replaced them with a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses. The transformation was complete. He no longer looked like a prince of the church, but like a well-to-do Roman male of ill repute, perhaps a man who put himself about with younger women.