The Confessor Read online

  He took his time walking back to the hotel, careful to make sure no one was following him. Along the way, he passed a bored carabiniere on a motorcycle, parked in a patch of sunlight, watching the madness of a traffic circle with little interest. Gabriel seemed to intrigue him even less.

  He entered the Pensione Abruzzi. The Spaniards had returned from the Wednesday audience in a state of great excitement. It seemed that one of them, a girl with a spiked haircut, had managed to touch the Pope’s hand.

  Upstairs in his room, Gabriel dialed Rossi’s number.

  “Pronto.”

  “Inspector Rossi?”

  “Si.”

  “My name is Heinrich Siedler. I called earlier today.”

  “Are you still at the Pensione Abruzzi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t call here again.”

  Click.

  NIGHT FELL and with it came a Mediterranean storm. Gabriel lay on his bed with the window open, listening to the rain smacking against the paving stones in the street below while the conversation with Alessio Rossi played over and over in his head like a loop of audio tape.

  “Are you still at the Pensione Abruzzi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t call here again.”

  Clearly the Italian detective wished to speak with him. It was also clear that he wanted no more contact with Herr Siedler on his office telephone. Gabriel had no choice but to wait him out and hope Rossi would make the next move.

  At nine o’clock the telephone finally rang. It was the night manager.

  “There’s a man here to see you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He didn’t say. Shall I send him away?”

  “No, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Gabriel hung up the phone and stepped into the corridor, locking the door behind him. Downstairs, he found the night manager seated behind the front desk. No one else was there. Gabriel looked at him and shrugged. The night manager pointed a sausagelike forefinger toward the common room. Gabriel entered but found the room deserted, except for the Croatian table-tennis players.

  He went back to the front desk. The Italian threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender and turned his attention to a miniature black-and-white television. Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  He saw the blow coming, a glint of light on black metal, sweeping toward him in an arc, like a shimmering swath of wet paint across blank canvas. Too late, he raised his hands to shield his head. The butt of a pistol crashed against the base of his skull behind his left ear.

  The pain was immediate. His vision blurred. His legs seemed suddenly paralyzed, and he felt himself corkscrewing downward. His attacker caught him and eased him soundlessly to the linoleum floor. He heard Peter Malone’s warning one last time—“If they think you pose a threat, they won’t hesitate to kill you”—and then only the sound of the table-tennis match downstairs in the common room.

  TAP-a-TAP-a-TAP . . .

  WHEN GABRIEL awakened, his face was burning. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into a halogen bulb not more than an inch from his face. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his head. Pain shot through the back of his skull like a second blow. He wondered how long he had been out. Long enough for his attacker to bind his mouth and wrists with packing tape. Long enough for blood to dry against the side of his neck.

  The light was so close he could see nothing more of the room. He had the sense that he had not left the Abruzzi. This was confirmed when he heard shouting in Serbo-Croatian. He was on his own bed.

  He tried to sit up. A gun barrel seemed to flow out of the light. It pressed against his breastbone and pushed him back onto the mattress. Then a face appeared. Heavy shadows beneath the eyes, stubble on the square chin. The lips moved, sound reached Gabriel’s ears. In his delirium, it seemed like a film out of sync, and his brain required a moment to process and comprehend the words he had just heard.

  “My name is Alessio Rossi. What the fuck do you want?”

  17

  ROME

  THE YOUNG MAN sitting astride the motorino on the Via Gioberti had an air of bored insolence typical of Roman teenagers. He was not bored, nor was he a teenager, but a thirty-year-old Vigilanza officer assigned to Carlo Casagrande’s special section of the Vatican Security Office. His youthful appearance proved an asset in his present assignment: the surveillance of Inspector Alessio Rossi of the Polizia di Stato. The Vigilanza man knew only what he needed to know about Rossi. A troublemaker, the inspector. Poking his nose into places it didn’t belong. At the end of each shift, the officer returned to the Vatican, then typed up a detailed report and left it on Casagrande’s desk. The old general always read the Rossi reports the moment they came in. He had taken a special interest in the case.

  Rossi had been acting suspiciously. Twice that day—once in the morning and again in the late afternoon—he’d driven an unmarked car from headquarters to the Via Gioberti and parked there. The Vigilanza man had observed Rossi staring at the Pensione Abruzzi like a man who suspected his wife was having an affair upstairs. After the second visit, the officer contacted an informant in Rossi’s department, a pretty young girl who answered the telephones and handled the filing. The girl told him that Rossi had received several telephone calls that day from a guest at the Abruzzi offering information about a cold case. The guest’s name? Siedler, the informant had answered. Heinrich Siedler.

  The Vigilanza man had a hunch. He climbed off the motorino and entered the pensione. The night manager looked up from a pornographic magazine.

  “Is there a man named Heinrich Siedler staying in this hotel?”

  The night manager shrugged his heavy shoulders. The Vigilanza officer slid a pair of euro notes across the counter and watched them disappear into the manager’s grubby paw.

  “Yes, I believe we have a man called Siedler staying here. Let me check.” He made a vast show of consulting the registry book. “Ah, yes, Siedler.”

  The man from the Vatican pulled a photograph from the pocket of his leather jacket and laid it on the counter. This produced a noncommittal frown from the night manager. His face brightened at the appearance of more money.

  “Yes, that’s him. That’s Siedler.”

  The Vigilanza man scooped up the picture. “What room?”

  THE APARTMENT on the Via Pinciana was too large for an old man living alone: vaulted ceilings, a spacious sitting room, a broad terrace with a sweeping view of the Villa Borghese. On nights when Carlo Casagrande was tormented by memories of his wife and daughter, it seemed as cavernous as the Basilica. Had he still been a mere carabinieri general, the flat would have been well beyond his reach, but because the building was owned by the Vatican, Casagrande paid nothing. He felt no guilt about living well on the donations of the faithful. The flat served not only as his residence, but as his primary office as well. As a result, he took precautions that his neighbors did not. There was a Vigilanza man permanently at his door and another in a car parked on the Via Pinciana. Once a week, a team from the Vatican Security Office scoured the flat to make sure it was free of listening devices.

  He answered the telephone on the first ring and immediately recognized the voice of the Vigilanza man assigned to the Rossi case. He listened in silence while the officer filed his report, then severed the connection and dialed a number.

  “I need to speak to Bartoletti. It’s an emergency.”

  “I’m afraid the director is unavailable at this time.”

  “This is Carlo Casagrande. Make him available.”

  “Yes, General Casagrande. Please hold.”

  A moment later, Bartoletti came on the line. Casagrande wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “We have received information that the papal assassin is staying in room twenty-two of the Pensione Abruzzi in the San Lorenzo Quarter. We have reason to believe he is armed and very dangerous.”

  Bartoletti hung up. Casagrande lit a cigare
tte and began the wait.

  IN PARIS, Eric Lange brought his cellular phone to his ear and heard the voice of Rashid Husseini.

  “I think we may have found your man.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Your Italian detective has been acting peculiar all day. He just went inside a pensione called the Abruzzi—a real shithole near the train station.”

  “What street?”

  “The Via Gioberti.”

  Lange looked at his watch. There was no way to get to Rome tonight. He’d have to leave in the morning. “Keep him under surveillance,” he said. “Call me if he moves.”

  “Right.”

  Lange rang off, then dialed Air France reservations and booked a seat on the seven-fifteen flight.

  18

  ROME

  ROSSI PRESSED THE GUN against Gabriel’s forehead and tore the packing tape from his mouth.

  “Who are you?”

  Greeted by silence, the policeman ground the barrel painfully into Gabriel’s temple.

  “I’m a friend of Benjamin Stern.”

  “Christ! That explains why they’re looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone! Polizia di Stato. The carabinieri. They’ve even got the SISDE after you.”

  With the gun still firmly in place, Rossi removed a slip of facsimile paper from his jacket pocket and held it before Gabriel’s eyes. Gabriel squinted in the harsh light. It was a photograph, grainy and obviously shot with a telephoto lens, but clear enough for him to see that the face of the subject was his own. He looked at the clothing he was wearing and realized it was the clothing of Ehud Landau. He searched his memory. Munich . . . the Olympic Village . . . Weiss must have been following him then too.

  The photograph rose like a curtain and Gabriel found himself staring once more into the face of Alessio Rossi. The detective smelled of sweat and cigarettes. His shirt collar was damp and grimy. Gabriel had seen men under pressure before. Rossi was on the edge.

  “This photo has been sent to every police station within a hundred miles of Rome. The Vatican Security Office says you’ve been stalking the Holy Father.”

  “It’s not true.”

  The Italian finally lowered the gun. The spot on Gabriel’s temple where the barrel had been pressed throbbed for several seconds. Rossi turned the light toward the wall and kept the gun in his right hand, resting against his thigh.

  “How did you get my name?”

  Gabriel answered truthfully.

  “They killed Malone too,” Rossi said. “You’re next, my friend. When they find you, they’re going to kill you.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Take my advice, Herr Siedler, or whatever the fuck your name is. Get out of Italy. If you can leave tonight, so much the better.”

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me what you know.”

  The Italian tilted his head. “You’re not really in a position to make demands, are you? I came here for one reason—to try to save your life. If you ignore my warning, that’s your business.”

  “I need to know what you know.”

  “You need to leave Italy.”

  “Benjamin Stern was my friend,” Gabriel said. “I need your help.”

  Rossi eyed Gabriel a moment, his gaze tense, then he rose and walked into the bathroom. Gabriel heard water running into the basin. Rossi returned a moment later holding a wet towel. He rolled Gabriel onto his side, unbound his wrists, and gave him the damp cloth. Gabriel cleaned the blood from the side of his neck while Rossi walked to the window and parted the pair of gauzy curtains.

  “Who do you work for?” he asked, staring into the street.

  “Under the circumstances, it’s probably better that I don’t answer that.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Rossi murmured. “What on earth have I gotten myself into?”

  The detective pulled a chair close to the window and took another long look into the street. Then he switched off the light and told Gabriel the story from the beginning.

  MONSIGNOR CESARE Felici, an elderly and long-retired priest, went missing from his room at the College of San Giovanni Evangelista one evening in June. When the monsignor didn’t return by the following evening, his colleagues decided it was time to report the matter to the police. Because the college did not have Vatican territorial status, jurisdiction fell to Italian authorities. Inspector Alessio Rossi of the Polizia di Stato was assigned the case and went to the college early that evening.

  Rossi had investigated crimes involving the clergy before and had seen the rooms of priests. Monsignor Felici’s struck him as inordinately spartan. No personal papers of any kind, no diary, no letters from friends or family. Just a couple of threadbare cassocks, an extra pair of shoes, some underwear and socks. A well-fingered rosary. A cilice.

  Rossi interviewed twenty people that first night. They all told similar stories. The day of his disappearance, the old monsignor had taken his usual afternoon stroll in the garden before going to the chapel for prayer and meditation. When he didn’t appear for supper, the seminarians and other priests assumed he was tired or not feeling well. No one bothered to check on him until late that evening, when they discovered that he was gone.

  The head of the college provided Rossi with a recent photograph of the monsignor, along with a brief biography. Felici was no pastoral priest. He’d spent virtually his entire career working inside the Vatican as a functionary in the Curia. His last assignment, according to the dean, was a staff position at the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. He’d been retired for twenty years.

  Not much to go on, but Rossi had started cases with less. The next morning, he entered the missing priest’s particulars on the Polizia di Stato database and distributed the photograph to police forces across Italy. Next he searched the database to see if any other clergy had vanished lately. Rossi had no hunches and no working theory. He just wanted to make certain there wasn’t a nut running around the country murdering priests.

  What Rossi discovered shocked him. Two days before Felici’s disappearance, another priest had vanished—a Monsignor Manzini, who lived in Turin. Like Felici, Monsignor Manzini was retired from the Vatican. His last position was in the Congregation for Catholic Education. He lived in a retirement home for priests, and like Monsignor Felici, he seemed to have vanished without a trace.

  The second disappearance raised a number of questions in Rossi’s mind. Were the two cases linked? Did Manzini and Felici know each other? Had they ever worked together? Rossi decided it was time to talk to the Vatican. He approached the Vatican Security Office and requested the personnel files for each of the missing priests. The Vatican denied Rossi’s request. Instead, he was given a memorandum that purported to summarize the Curial careers of each priest. According to the memorandum, both had worked in a series of low-level staff assignments, each more trivial than the last. Frustrated, Rossi asked one more question. Did they know each other? They may have bumped into each other socially, Rossi was told, but they had never worked together.

  Rossi was convinced that the Vatican was hiding something. He decided to bypass the Security Office altogether and get the complete files for himself. Rossi’s wife had a brother who was a priest assigned to the Vatican. Rossi pleaded for help, and the priest reluctantly agreed. A week later, Rossi had copies of the complete personnel files.

  “Did they know each other?”

  “One would assume so. You see, both Felici and Manzini worked in the Secretariat of State during the war.”

  “Which section?”

  “The German desk.”

  ROSSI TOOK a long look into the street before continuing. About a week later he had received a response to his original request for reports of other missing clergy. This one didn’t match the criteria perfectly, but the local police had decided to forward the report to Rossi anyway. Near the Austrian border, in the town of Tolmezzo, an elderly widow had vanished. Local authorities had given up the search, and she was now presumed dead
. Why had her disappearance been brought to Rossi’s attention? Because for ten years she had been a nun, before renouncing her vows in 1947 in order to marry.

  Rossi decided to bring his superiors into the picture. He wrote up his findings and presented them to his section chief, then requested permission to press Vatican authorities for more information on the two missing priests. Request denied. The nun had a daughter living in France, in a town called Le Rouret in the hills above Cannes. Rossi requested authorization to travel to France to question her. Request denied. Word had come down from on high that there was no link between the disappearances and nothing to be found by poking around behind the walls of the Vatican.

  “Who sent down the word?”

  “The old man himself,” Rossi said. “Carlo Casagrande.”

  “Casagrande? Why do I know that name?”

  “General Carlo Casagrande was the chief of counterterrorism at L’arma dei Carabinieri during the seventies and eighties. He’s the man who routed the Red Brigades and made Italy safe again. For that, he’s something of a national hero. He works for the Vatican Security Office now, but inside the Italian intelligence and security community he’s still a god. He’s infallible. When Casagrande speaks, everyone listens. When Casagrande wants a case closed, it’s closed.”

  “Who’s doing the killing?” Gabriel asked.

  The detective shrugged—We’re talking about the Vatican, my friend. “Whoever’s behind it, the Vatican doesn’t want the matter pursued. The code of silence is being strictly enforced, and Casagrande is using his influence to keep the Italian police on a short leash.”

  “The nun who disappeared in Tolmezzo—what was her name?”

  “Regina Carcassi.”

  Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you’ll know the truth about what happened at the convent.