The Confessor

  “It should, Elijah,” said Shamron, “but I’m afraid Gabriel speaks the truth. That document is too dangerous to make public. What do you think the Vatican is going to say? ‘Oh dear, how could this have happened? We’re terribly sorry.’ No, that’s not how they’ll react. They’ll attack us, and it will blow up in our faces. Our relations with the Vatican are tenuous at best. There are many members of the Secretariat of State who would use any excuse—including our involvement in this affair—to sever them. For anything good to come out of this, it has to be handled delicately and quietly—from the inside.”

  “By you? Forgive me, boss, but the words delicate and quiet don’t leap into my mind when I think about you. Lev gave you and Gabriel permission to investigate Beni’s death, not cause a firestorm in our relations with the Holy See. You should turn the material over to the Foreign Ministry and go back to Tiberias.”

  “Under normal circumstances, I might take your advice, but I’m afraid the situation has changed.”

  “What are you talking about, boss?”

  “The phone call I took earlier this morning was from Aaron Shiloh, our ambassador to the Holy See. It seems there’s been an unexpected addition to the Holy Father’s schedule.”

  “WHICH BRINGS us back to the gentlemen who followed you when you left the safe flat in Rome.” Shamron sat down opposite Gabriel and placed a photograph on the table. “This photograph was taken in Bucharest fifteen years ago. Recognize him?”

  Gabriel nodded. The man in the photograph was the assassin and terrorist-for-hire known only as the Leopard.

  Shamron laid a second photograph on the table, next to the first. “This photograph was taken by Mordecai in London minutes after the murder of Peter Malone. Research ran the photographs through the face-recognition software. They’re the same man. Peter Malone was murdered by the Leopard.”

  “And Beni?” asked Gabriel.

  “If they hired the Leopard to kill Malone, it’s quite possible they hired him to kill Beni, but we may never know for certain.”

  “Obviously, you have a theory about the dead Palestinian in Rome.”

  “I do,” Shamron said. “We know the Leopard had a long and fruitful association with Palestinian terror groups. The operation on Cyprus was testament to that. We also know that he’d reached a deal with Abu Jihad to carry out additional acts of terror against Israeli citizens. Fortunately, you cut short Abu Jihad’s illustrious career and the Leopard’s operations never came to pass.”

  “You think the Leopard renewed his relationship with the Palestinians in order to find me?”

  “I’m afraid it does make a certain amount of sense. Crux Vera wants you dead, and so do many people within the Palestinian movement. It’s quite possible that the Leopard was the second man in that Lancia—and that he was the one who killed Marwan Aziz.”

  Gabriel picked up the photographs and studied them carefully, as if they were a pair of canvases, one that had been authenticated and one that was thought to have been painted by the same artist. It was impossible to tell with the naked eye, but he had learned long ago that the face-recognition software in Research rarely made a mistake. Then he closed his eyes and saw different faces. The faces of the dead: Felici . . . Manzini . . . Carcassi . . . Beni . . . Rossi. . . . Lastly, he saw a man in a white cassock, entering a synagogue by the river in Rome. A cassock stained with blood.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Shamron. “We need to get a message to this Pope that his life may be in grave danger.”

  Shamron folded his arms and lowered his chin to his chest. “And how shall we do that? Call Rome information and ask for the Pope’s private number? Everything goes through channels, and the Curia is famous for its slowness. If our ambassador goes through the Secretariat of State, it could take weeks to arrange an audience with the Pope. If I try to get to him through the Vatican Security Office, we’ll run straight into Carlo Casagrande and his Crux Vera goons. We need to find someone who can take us up the back staircase of the Apostolic Palace to see the Pope privately. And we need to do it before Friday. Otherwise, His Holiness might never leave the Great Synagogue of Rome alive—and that’s the last thing we need.”

  A long silence hung over the room. It was broken by Gabriel. “I know someone who can get us in to see the Pope,” he said calmly. “But you have to get me back into Venice.”

  27

  ZURICH

  CARLO CASAGRANDE STRODE the chandeliered hallway on the fourth floor of the Hotel St. Gotthard and presented himself at the door of Room 423. He glanced at his watch—7:20 P.M., the precise time he had been instructed to come—then knocked twice. A confident knock, firm enough to make his presence known, not enough to disturb the occupants of the neighboring rooms. From the other side of the door came a voice in Italian instructing Casagrande to enter the room. He spoke Italian well for a foreigner. The fact that it lacked even the hint of a German accent sent acid flooding into Casagrande’s stomach.

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside, pausing on the threshold. A wedge of light from the chandelier in the corridor illuminated a portion of the room, and for an instant Casagrande could see the outline of a figure seated in a wing chair. When the door swung shut, the darkness was complete. Casagrande inched forward through the gloom until his shin collided with an unseen coffee table. He was made to stand there, enveloped in black, for several painful seconds. Finally a powerful lamp burst on, like a searchlight in a guard tower, and shone directly into his face. He raised his hand and tried to shield his eyes from the glare. It felt like a needle in his cornea.

  “Good evening, General.” A seductive voice, like warm oil. “Did you bring the dossier?”

  Casagrande held up the briefcase. The silenced Stechkin moved into the light and prodded him onward. Casagrande removed the file and laid it on the coffee table like an offertory. The beam of light tilted downward, while the hand holding the weapon lifted the cover of the dossier. The light . . . Suddenly Casagrande was standing on the pavement outside his apartment in Rome, viewing the mutilated bodies of Angelina and his daughter by the beam of a carabinieri flashlight. “Death was instantaneous, General Casagrande. You can at least take comfort in the knowledge that your loved ones did not suffer.”

  The light tilted suddenly upward. Too late, Casagrande tried to shield his eyes, but the beam found his retina, and for the next several seconds he had the sensation he was being swallowed by a giant, undulating orange sphere.

  “So much for the Middle Ages being over,” the assassin said. The dossier slid across the table toward Casagrande. “He’s too heavily protected. This is an assignment for a martyr, not a professional. Find someone else.”

  “I need you.”

  “How can I be sure I won’t be set up to take the fall, like that idiot from Istanbul? The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of my life rotting away in some Italian jail, begging a pope for forgiveness.”

  “I give you my word that you will not be used as a pawn or a patsy in some larger game. You will perform this service for me, then, with my help, you will be permitted to escape.”

  “The word of a murderer. How reassuring. Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I would do nothing to betray you.”

  “Really? Did you know Benjamin Stern was an agent of Israeli intelligence when you hired me to kill him?”

  My God, thought Casagrande. How does he know? He weighed the advantages of lying, but thought better of it. “No,” he said. “I did not know that the professor was connected to them in any way.”

  “You should have.” There was a sudden edge to his voice, the blade of a trench knife. “And did you know that an agent named Gabriel Allon is investigating his death, along with the activities of your little group?”

  “I didn’t know his name until this moment. Obviously, you’ve done some investigating of your own.”

  “I make it my business to know when someone is hunting me. I also know that Allon was at the Pensione Abr
uzzi in Rome meeting with Inspector Alessio Rossi when you sent an army of carabinieri in there to kill him. You should have come to me with your problems, General. Allon would be dead now.”

  How? How does this monster know about the Israeli and Rossi? How is such a thing possible? He’s a bully, thought Casagrande. Bullies like to be placated. He decided to play the role of the appeaser. It was not a role that came naturally to him.

  “You’re right,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I should have come to you. Obviously, it would have been better for both of us. May I sit down?”

  The light lingered on his face for a few more seconds, then it fell upon an armchair, a few inches from the spot where Casagrande was standing. He sat down and placed his hands on his knees. The light remained in his eyes.

  “The question is, General, can I trust you enough to work for you again, especially on something like this?”

  “Perhaps I can earn your trust.”

  “With what?”

  “Money, of course.”

  “It would take a great deal of money.”

  “The figure I had in mind was substantial,” Casagrande said. “A sum of money that most men would consider sufficient to live on for a very long time.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Four million dollars.”

  “Five million,” countered the assassin. “Half now, half on completion.”

  Casagrande squeezed his kneecaps, trying to conceal his rising tension. It was not like quarreling with Cardinal Brindisi. The Leopard’s sanctions tended to be irrevocable.

  “Five million,” Casagrande said in agreement. “But you will be paid only one million of that in advance. If you choose to steal my money without fulfilling the terms of the contract, that’s your business. If you want the remaining four million dollars—” Casagrande paused. “I’m afraid trust cuts both ways.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, long enough for Casagrande to inch forward out of his chair and prepare to take his leave. He froze when the assassin said, “Tell me how it would be done.”

  Casagrande spoke for the next hour—a veteran policeman, calmly recounting the timeline of a rather mundane series of street crimes. All the while the light bored into his face. It was making him hot. His suit jacket was soaked with sweat and was clinging to his back like a wet blanket. He wished he’d turn the damned thing off. He’d rather sit in the dark with the monster than stare into the light any longer.

  “Did you bring the down payment?”

  Casagrande reached down and patted the side of his attaché case.

  “Let me see it.”

  Casagrande placed the attaché case on the table, opened it, and turned it so the assassin could see his money.

  “Do you know what will happen to you if you betray me?”

  “I’m certain I can imagine,” Casagrande said. “But surely a down payment of that magnitude is enough to demonstrate my good faith.”

  “Faith? Is that what leads you to perform this act?”

  “There are some things you’re not permitted to know. Do you accept the contract?”

  The assassin closed the attaché case and it disappeared into the darkness.

  “There’s just one last thing,” Casagrande said. “You’ll need Security Office identification to get past the Swiss Guards and the carabinieri. Did you bring the photograph?”

  Casagrande heard the rustle of fabric, then a hand appeared, holding a passport photo. Poor quality. Casagrande reckoned it had been made by an automated machine. He looked at the image and wondered whether it was truly the face of the killing machine known as the Leopard. The assassin seemed to sense his thoughts, for a few seconds later the Stechkin reappeared. It was pointed directly at Casagrande’s heart.

  “You wish to ask me a question?”

  Casagrande shook his head.

  “Good,” the assassin said. “Get out.”

  28

  VENICE

  THE ACQUA ALTA LAPPED against the steps of the Church of San Zaccaria as Francesco Tiepolo, dressed in an oilskin coat and rubber knee-length boots, made his way ponderously across the flooded square through the gathering dusk. He entered the church and sacrilegiously shouted out that it was time to close up for the night. Adriana Zinetti seemed to float down from her perch high atop the main altar. Antonio Politi yawned elaborately and struck a series of contortionist yoga poses, all designed to demonstrate to Tiepolo the harsh toll the day had taken on his young body. Tiepolo looked toward the Bellini. The shroud remained in place, but the fluorescent lamps were extinguished. With great effort, he resisted the impulse to scream.

  Antonio Politi appeared at Tiepolo’s side and laid a paint-smudged paw on his heavy shoulder. “When, Francesco? When are you going to get it through your head he’s not coming back?”

  When indeed? The boy wasn’t ready for the Bellini masterpiece, but Tiepolo had no choice, not if the church was going to reopen to the public in time for the spring tourist season. “Give him one more day,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the darkened painting. “If he’s not back by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll let you finish it.”

  Antonio’s joy was tempered by his unreserved interest in the tall, striking creature making her way apprehensively across the nave. She had black eyes and a head of abundant, uncontrollable dark hair. Tiepolo knew faces. Bone structure. He’d bet his fee for the San Zaccaria project she was a Jewess. She seemed familiar to him. He thought he might have seen her once or twice in the church, watching the restorers working.

  Antonio started toward her. Tiepolo thrust out a thick arm, blocking his path, and summoned a watery smile.

  “Is there something I can help you with, signorina?”

  “I’m looking for Francesco Tiepolo.”

  Deflated, Antonio skulked away. Tiepolo laid a hand on his chest—You’ve found him, my treasure.

  “I’m a friend of Mario Delvecchio.”

  Tiepolo’s flirtatious gaze turned suddenly cold. He folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Where in God’s name is he?”

  The woman said nothing, just reached out and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded the note and read the words written there:

  Your friend in the Vatican is in grave danger. I need your help to save his life.

  He looked up and stared at her in disbelief.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s not important, Signor Tiepolo.”

  He held up the note in his big paw. “Where is he?”

  “Will you help him save your friend’s life?”

  “I’ll listen to what he has to say. If my friend is truly in some sort of danger, of course I’ll help.”

  “Then you have to come with me.”

  “Now?”

  “Please, Signor Tiepolo. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

  “Where are we going?”

  But she just seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the door.

  CANNAREGIO SMELLED of salt and the lagoon. The woman led Tiepolo across a bridge spanning the Rio di Ghetto Nuovo, then into the clammy gloom of the sottoportego. A figure appeared at the opposite end of the passageway, a small man with his hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, surrounded by a halo of yellow sodium light. Tiepolo stopped walking.

  “WOULD YOU mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

  “Obviously, you got my note.”

  “Interesting. But you must admit it was short on details, as well as one critical piece of information. How would you, an art restorer named Mario Delvecchio, know that the Pope’s life is in danger?”

  “Because restoration is something of a hobby for me. I have another job—a job that very few people know about. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Francesco?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Who I work for is not important.”

  “It’s damned important if you want me to help you get to the Pope.”

/>   “I work for an intelligence service. Not always, just under special circumstances.”

  “Like a death in the family.”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Which intelligence service do you work for?”

  “I would prefer not to answer that question.”

  “I’m sure you would, but if you want me to talk to the Pope, you’re going to answer my questions. I repeat: What service do you work for? SISDE? Vatican intelligence?”

  “I’m not Italian, Francesco.”

  “Not Italian! That’s very funny, Mario.”

  “My name isn’t Mario.”

  THEY WALKED the perimeter of the square, Gabriel and Tiepolo side by side, Chiara a few paces behind. It took a long time for Tiepolo to process the information he had just been given. He was a shrewd man, a sophisticated Venetian, politically and socially connected, yet the situation confronting him now was well beyond anything he had ever experienced. It was as if he had just been told that the Titian altarpiece in the Frari was a reproduction painted by a Russian. Finally, he drew a deep breath, a tenor preparing himself for the climactic passage of an aria, and twisted his head toward Gabriel.

  “I remember when you came here as a boy. It was seventy-four or seventy-five, wasn’t it?” Tiepolo’s eyes were on Gabriel, but his memory was fixed on Venice, twenty-five years earlier, a little workshop filled with eager young faces. “I remember when you served your apprenticeship with Umberto Conti. You were gifted, even then. You were better than everyone else. You were going to be great one day. Umberto knew it. So did I.” Tiepolo stroked his tangled beard with his big hand. “Did Umberto know the truth about you? Did he know you were an Israeli agent?”

  “Umberto knew nothing.”

  “You deceived Umberto Conti? You should be ashamed of yourself. He believed in Mario Delvecchio.” Tiepolo paused, checked his anger, lowered his voice. “He believed Mario Delvecchio would be one of the greatest restorers ever.”