The Confessor Page 11

  The conversations fell virtually silent as Casagrande made his way toward his usual corner table. The reason was simple. Part of his job was to enforce the Vatican’s strict code of silence. L’Eau Vive, despite its reputation for discretion, was also a beehive of Curial gossip. Enterprising journalists had been known to don cassocks and reserve tables at L’Eau Vive to try to pick up tasty morsels of Vatican scandal.

  Achille Bartoletti stood up as Casagrande approached. He was twenty years younger than Casagrande, at the peak of his personal and professional power. His suit was restrained and carefully pressed, his face tanned and fit, his handshake firm and proper in duration. There was just enough gray in his full head of hair to make him look serious but not too old. The tight mouth and the rows of small, uneven teeth hinted at a cruel streak, which Casagrande knew was not too far from the truth. Indeed, there was little the Vatican security chief did not know about Achille Bartoletti. He was a man whose every move had been devoted to the advancement of his career. He had kept his mouth shut, avoided controversy, taken credit for the successes of others and distanced himself from their failures. If he had been a Curial priest instead of a secret policeman, he would have probably been pope by now. Instead, thanks in large measure to the generous patronage of his mentor, Carlo Casagrande, Achille Bartoletti was the director of the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Democratica, Italy’s Intelligence and Democratic Security Service.

  When Casagrande sat down, conversation at surrounding tables carefully resumed.

  “You do make quite an entrance, General.”

  “God knows what they were talking about before I arrived. But you can rest assured the conversation will be less stimulating now.”

  “There’s a lot of red in the room tonight.”

  “They’re the ones I worry about the most, the Curial prelates who spend their days surrounded by supplicant priests who say nothing but ‘Yes, Excellency. Of course, Excellency. Whatever you say, Excellency.’ ”

  “Excellent, Excellency!” Bartoletti chimed in.

  The security chief had taken the liberty of ordering the first bottle of wine. He poured Casagrande a glass. The food at L’Eau Vive was French, and so was the wine list. Bartoletti had selected an excellent Médoc.

  “Is it my imagination, General, or do the natives seem more restless than usual?”

  Casagrande thought: Is it that obvious? Obvious enough so that an outsider like Bartoletti could detect the electric crackle of instability in the air of L’Eau Vive? He decided any attempt to dismiss the question out of hand would be transparently deceptive and therefore a violation of the subtle rules of their relationship.

  “It’s that uncertain time of a new papacy,” Casagrande said, with a note of judicial neutrality in his voice. “The fisherman’s ring has been kissed and homage has been paid. By tradition, he’s promised to carry on the mission of his predecessor, but memories of the Pole are fading very quickly. Lucchesi has redecorated the papal apartments on the terzo piano. The natives, as you call them, are wondering what’s next.”

  “What is next?”

  “The Holy Father has not divulged his plans for the Church to me, Achille.”

  “Yes, but you have impeccable sources.”

  “I can tell you this: He’s isolated himself from the mandarins in the Curia and surrounded himself with trusted hands from Venice. The mandarins of the Curia call them the Council of Ten. Rumors are flying.”

  “What sort?”

  “That he’s about to launch a program of de-Stalinization to reduce the posthumous influence of the Pole. Major personnel changes in the Secretariat of State and Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith are expected—and that’s just the beginning.”

  He’s also going to make public the darkest secrets in the Vatican Archives, thought Casagrande, though he didn’t share this with Achille Bartoletti.

  The Italian security chief leaned forward, eager for more. “He’s not going to move on the Holy Trinity of burning issues, is he? Birth control? Celibacy? Women in the priesthood?”

  Casagrande shook his head gravely. “He wouldn’t dare. It would be so controversial that the Curia would revolt and his papacy would be doomed. Relevancy is the buzz-word of the day in the Apostolic Palace. The Holy Father wants the Church to be relevant in the lives of one billion Catholics around the world, many of whom don’t have enough to eat each day. The old guard has never been interested in relevance. To them, a word like ‘relevance’ sounds like glasnost or perestroika, and that makes them very nervous. The old guard likes obedience. If the Holy Father goes too far, there will be hell to pay.”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  The room fell silent again. This time Casagrande was not to blame. Looking up, he spotted Cardinal Brindisi making his way toward one of the private rooms at the back of the restaurant. His pale blue eyes barely seemed to acknowledge the murmured greetings of the lesser Curial officials seated around him, but Casagrande knew that Cardinal Brindisi’s faultless memory had duly recorded the presence of each one.

  Casagrande and Bartoletti wasted no time ordering. Bartoletti perused the menu as if it were a report from a trusted agent. Casagrande chose the first thing he saw that looked remotely interesting. For the next two hours, over sumptuous portions of food and judicious amounts of wine, they swapped intelligence, rumors, and gossip. It was a monthly ritual, one of the enormous dividends of Casagrande’s move to the Vatican twenty years earlier. So high was his standing in Rome after crushing the Red Brigades that his word was like Gospel inside the Italian government. What Casagrande wants, Casagrande gets. The organs of Italian state security were now virtual arms of the Vatican, and Achille Bartoletti was one of his most important projects. The nuggets of Vatican intrigue that Casagrande tossed him were like pure gold. They were often used to impress and entertain his superiors, just like the private audiences with the Pope and the front-row tickets to the Christmas Midnight Mass in St. Peter’s.

  But Casagrande offered more than just Curial gossip. The Vatican possessed one of the largest and most effective intelligence services in the world. Casagrande often picked up things that escaped the notice of Bartoletti and his service. For example, it was Casagrande who learned that a network of Tunisian terrorists in Florence was planning to attack American tourists over the Easter holiday. The information was forwarded to Bartoletti, and an alert was promptly issued. No American suffered so much as a scratch, and Bartoletti earned powerful friends in the American CIA and even the White House.

  Eventually, over coffee, Casagrande brought the conversation round to the topic he cared about most—the Israeli named Ehud Landau who had gone to Munich claiming to be the brother of Benjamin Stern. The Israeli who had visited the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brenzone, and who had shaken Casagrande’s surveillance men as though he were brushing crumbs from the white tablecloth at L’Eau Vive.

  “I have a serious problem, Achille, and I need your help.”

  Bartoletti took note of Casagrande’s somber tone and set his coffee cup back in its saucer. Had it not been for Casagrande’s patronage and support, Bartoletti would still be a mid-level apparatchik instead of the director of Italy’s intelligence service. He was in no position to refuse a request from Casagrande, no matter what the circumstances. Still, Casagrande approached the matter with delicacy and respect. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his most important protégé by making crass demands on their relationship.

  “You know that you can count on my support and loyalty, General,” Bartoletti said. “If you or the Vatican are in some sort of trouble, I will do anything I can to help.”

  Casagrande reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced a photograph, which he placed on the table and turned so Bartoletti could see it properly. Bartoletti picked up the photo and held it near the flame of the candle for a better view.

  “Who is he?”

  “We’re not sure. He’s been known to use the name Ehu
d Landau on occasion.”

  “Ehud? Israeli?”

  Casagrande nodded.

  “What’s the problem?” Bartoletti asked, his eyes still on the photo.

  “We believe he’s intent on killing the Pope.”

  Bartoletti looked up sharply. “An assassin?”

  Casagrande nodded slowly. “We’ve seen him a few times in St. Peter’s, acting strangely during the Wednesday general audiences. He’s also been present at other papal appearances, in Italy and abroad. We believe he attended an outdoor papal Mass in Madrid last month with the intention of killing the Holy Father.”

  Bartoletti held up the photo between his first two fingers and turned it so the image was facing Casagrande. “Where did you get this?”

  Casagrande explained that one of his men had spotted the assassin in the Basilica a week earlier and had snapped the photograph outside in the square. It was a lie, of course. The picture had been taken by Axel Weiss in Munich, but Achille Bartoletti did not need to know that.

  “We’ve received several threatening letters over the past few weeks—letters we believe were written by this man. We believe he constitutes a serious threat to the Holy Father’s life. Obviously, we would like to find him before he gets an opportunity to make good on his threats.”

  “I’ll create a task force first thing in the morning,” Bartoletti said.

  “Quietly, Achille. The last thing this pope wants is a public assassination scare so early in his papacy.”

  “You may rest assured that the hunt for this man will be conducted so silently it might seem that you yourself were in command.”

  Casagrande dipped his head, acknowledging the compliment from his young protégé. With an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, he signaled for the check. Just then the hostess who had greeted Casagrande at the beginning of the evening walked to the center of the dining room with a microphone in her hand. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and recited a brief prayer. Then the waitresses gathered around the statue of the Virgin and, with hands clasped, began singing “Immaculate Mary.” Soon the entire restaurant had joined in. Even Bartoletti, the hard-bitten secret policeman, was singing along.

  After a moment, the music died away, and the cardinals and bishops resumed their conversation, flush from the soaring hymn and good wine. When the check came, Casagrande snatched it before his dinner guest had a chance. Bartoletti issued a mild protest. “If memory serves, it’s my turn this month, General.”

  “Perhaps, Achille, but our conversation has been especially fruitful tonight. This one is on the Holy Father.”

  “My thanks to the Holy Father.” Bartoletti held up the photograph of the papal assassin. “And you can rest assured that if this man gets within a hundred miles of him, he’ll be arrested.”

  Casagrande fixed a melancholy gaze on his dinner guest. “Actually, Achille, I would prefer he not be arrested.”

  Bartoletti frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t understand, General. What are you asking me to do?”

  Casagrande leaned forward across the table, his face close to the flame of the candle. “It would be better for everyone involved if he simply vanished.”

  Achille Bartoletti slipped the photograph into his pocket.

  12

  VIENNA

  SECURITY AT THE VAGUELY NAMED Wartime Claims and Inquiries had always been strict, long before the war in the territories. Located in a former apartment building in Vienna’s old Jewish Quarter, its door was virtually unmarked and heavily fortified, and the windows overlooking the destitute interior courtyard were bulletproof. The executive director of the organization, a man called Eli Lavon, was not paranoid, just prudent. Over the years, he had helped track down a half dozen former concentration-camp guards and a senior Nazi official living comfortably in Argentina. For his efforts he had been rewarded with a constant stream of death threats.

  That he was Jewish was a given. That he was of Israeli origin was assumed because of his non-German family name. That he had worked briefly for Israel’s secret intelligence service was known by no one in Vienna and only a handful of people in Tel Aviv, most of whom had long since retired. During the Wrath of God operation, Lavon had been an ayin, a tracker. He had stalked members of Black September, learned their habits, and devised ways of killing them.

  Under normal circumstances, no one was admitted into the offices of Wartime Claims and Inquiries without a long-scheduled appointment and a thorough background check. For Gabriel, all formalities were waived and he was escorted directly to Lavon’s office by a young female researcher.

  The room was classic Viennese in its proportions and furnishings: a high ceiling, polished wood floor, bookshelves bent beneath the weight of countless volumes and files. Lavon was kneeling on the floor, his back hunched over a line of aging documents. He was an archaeologist by training and had spent years digging in the West Bank before devoting himself fully to his present line of work. Now he was gazing at a sheet of tattered paper with the same wonder he felt while examining a fragment of pottery five millennia old.

  He looked up as Gabriel entered the room and greeted him with a mischievous smile. Lavon cared nothing of his appearance, and as usual he seemed to have dressed in whatever had been within easy reach when he rolled out of bed: gray corduroy trousers and a brown V-neck sweater with tattered elbows. His tousled gray hair gave him the appearance of a man who had just driven at high speed in a convertible. Lavon did not own a car and did almost nothing quickly. Despite his security concerns, he was a dutiful rider of Vienna’s streetcars. Public transport did not bother him. Like the men he hunted, Lavon was skilled in the art of moving through city streets unseen.

  “Let me guess,” Lavon said, dropping his cigarette into a coffee cup and struggling to his feet like a man suffering chronic pain. “Shamron pulled you in to investigate Beni’s death. And now you’re here, which means you’ve found something interesting.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sit down,” Lavon said. “Tell me everything.”

  SPRAWLED ON Lavon’s overstuffed green couch, feet propped on the arm, Gabriel gave him a careful account of his investigation, beginning with his visit to Munich and concluding with his meeting with Rabbi Zolli in the ghetto of Venice. Lavon walked back and forth along the length of the room, trailing cigarette smoke like a steam engine. He moved slowly at first, but as Gabriel’s story wore on, his pace increased. When he finished, Lavon stopped walking and shook his head.

  “My goodness, but you’ve been a busy boy.”

  “What does it all mean, Eli?”

  “Let’s go back to the telephone call you received at the hotel in Brenzone. Who do you think it was?”

  “If I had to guess, it was the handyman at the convent, an old fellow named Licio. He came into the room while Sister Vincenza and I were speaking, and I think he was following me through the town after I left.”

  “I wonder why he left an anonymous message instead of speaking to you.”

  “Maybe he was frightened.”

  “That would be the logical explanation.” Lavon shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the high ceiling. “You’re sure about the name he told you? You’re sure it was Martin Luther?”

  “That’s right. ‘Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you’ll know the truth about what happened at the convent.’ ”

  Lavon unconsciously smoothed his unruly hair. It was a habit when he was thinking. “There are two possibilities that spring to mind. I suppose we can rule out a certain German monk who turned the Roman Catholic Church on its ear. That would narrow the field to one. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared into an adjoining room. For the next several minutes, Gabriel was treated to the familiar sound of his old friend rifling through file cabinets and cursing in several different languages. Finally, he returned with a thick accordion file bound by a heavy metal clasp. He laid the file on the coffee table in front of Gabriel and turned it so he could read the label
.

  MARTIN LUTHER: GERMAN FOREIGN OFFICE, 1938–1943.

  LAVON OPENED the file and removed a photograph, holding it up for Gabriel to see. “The other possibility,” he said, “is this Martin Luther. He was a high school dropout and furniture mover who joined the Nazi Party in the twenties. By chance, he met the wife of Joachim von Ribbentrop during the redecoration of her villa in Berlin. Luther ingratiated himself with Frau von Ribbentrop, then her husband. When Ribbentrop became foreign minister in 1938, Luther got a job at the ministry.”

  Gabriel took the photograph from Lavon and looked at it. A rodent of a man stared back at him: a slack face, thick glasses that magnified a pair of rheumy eyes. He handed the photo back to Lavon.

  “Luther rose rapidly through the ranks of the Foreign Office, largely because of his slavish devotion to Ribbentrop. By 1940, he was chief of the Abteilung Deutschland, the Division Germany. That made Luther responsible for all Foreign Office business connected to Nazi Party affairs. Included in Luther’s Abteilung Deutschland was a department called D–Three, the Jewish desk.”

  “So what you’re saying is that Martin Luther was in charge of Jewish matters inside the German Foreign Office.”

  “Precisely,” Lavon said. “What Luther lacked in education and intelligence, he made up for in ruthlessness and ambition. He was interested in only one thing: increasing his own personal power. When it became clear to him that the annihilation of the Jews was a top priority of the regime, he set out to make certain that the Foreign Office wasn’t going to be left out of the action. His reward was an invitation to the most despicable luncheon in history.”