The Confessor Read online

  “And what was the name of the convent where she lived during the war, before she renounced her vows?”

  “Someplace up north, I think.” Rossi hesitated for a moment, searching his memory. “Ah, yes, the Convent of the Sacred Heart. It’s on Lake Garda, in a town called Brenzone. Nice place.”

  Something in the street below caught Rossi’s attention. He leaned forward and pulled aside the curtain, peering through the window intently. Then he leapt to his feet and seized Gabriel’s arm.

  “Come with me. Now!”

  THE FIRST police officers poured through the front door of the pensione: two plainclothes Polizia di Stato followed by a half-dozen carabinieri with submachine guns across their chests. Rossi led the way across the common room, then down a short corridor to a metal door that opened onto a darkened interior courtyard. Gabriel could hear the police hammering up the stairs toward his empty room. They had successfully eluded the first wave. More were sure to follow.

  Across the courtyard was a passageway leading to the street that ran parallel to the Via Gioberti. Rossi grabbed Gabriel by the forearm and pulled him toward it. Behind them, on the second floor of the pensione, Gabriel could hear the carabinieri breaking down his door.

  Rossi froze as two more carabinieri came through the passageway at a run, weapons at the ready. Gabriel gave Rossi a shove and they started moving again. The carabinieri reached the courtyard and clattered to a stop. Immediately their submachine guns swung up to the firing position. Gabriel could see that surrender was not an option. He dived to the ground, landing heavily on his chest, as the first rounds scorched over his head. Rossi was not quick enough. A shot struck him in the shoulder and threw him to the ground.

  The Beretta fell from his grasp and landed three feet from Gabriel’s left hand. Gabriel reached out and pulled the gun to him. Without hesitating, he rose to his elbows and started firing. One carabiniere fell, then the other.

  Gabriel crawled over to Rossi. He was bleeding heavily from a wound to his right shoulder.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Help me up.”

  Gabriel pulled Rossi to his feet, wrapped his arm around the Italian’s waist, and shepherded him toward the passageway. As they passed the two dead carabinieri, Gabriel heard shouting behind him. He released his hold on Rossi and scooped up one of the submachine guns, then dropped to one knee and raked the side of the pensione with automatic fire. He heard screaming and saw men diving for cover.

  Gabriel grabbed a spare magazine, rammed it into the weapon, and shoved Rossi’s Beretta nine-millimeter into the waistband of his trousers. Then he hooked his arm through Rossi’s left elbow and pulled him through the passageway. As they neared the street, two more carabinieri appeared. Gabriel fired instantly, blowing both men from their feet.

  As they reached the pavement, Gabriel hesitated. From the left, a car was racing toward him, lights flashing, siren blaring. From the right, four men were approaching on foot. Across the street was the entrance of a trattoria.

  As Gabriel stepped forward, shots erupted from inside the passageway. He lunged to his left, behind the cover of the wall, and tried to pull Rossi toward him, but the Italian was hit twice in the back. He froze, his arms flung wide, his head back, as one final round tore through the right side of his abdomen.

  There was nothing Gabriel could do for him now. He sprinted across the street and threw open the door of the restaurant. As he burst into the dining room with the machine gun in his hands, there was pandemonium.

  In Italian, he shouted: “Terrorists! Terrorists! Get out! Now!”

  Everyone in the room rose in unison and rushed toward the door. As Gabriel ran toward the kitchen, he could hear frustrated carabinieri screaming at the patrons to get out of the way.

  Gabriel raced through the tiny kitchen, past startled cooks and waiters, and kicked open the back door. He found himself in a narrow alley way, not four feet wide, foul-smelling and dark as a mineshaft. He slammed the door behind him and kept running. A few seconds later, the door flew open again. Gabriel turned and sprayed the alleyway with gunfire. The door slammed shut.

  At the end of the alley, he came to a broad boulevard. To his right was the façade of the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; to his left, the expanse of the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. He dropped the submachine gun in the alley and crossed the street, weaving his way through the traffic. Sirens rang out from every direction.

  He wound his way through a chain of narrow streets, then dashed across another busy boulevard, the Via Merulana, and found himself at the edge of the vast park surrounding the Colosseum. He kept to the darkened footpaths. Carabinieri units were already searching by flashlight, which made them easy to see and avoid.

  Ten minutes later, Gabriel came to the river. At a public telephone on the embankment, he dialed the number he had never before been forced to use. It was answered after one ring by a young woman with a pleasant voice. She spoke to him in Hebrew. It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. He spoke a code phrase, then recited a series of numbers. There were a few seconds of silence while the girl punched the numbers into a computer.

  Then she said: “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m in trouble. You need to bring me in.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not badly.”

  “Are you safe in your present location?”

  “For the moment, but not for long.”

  “Call back in ten minutes. Until then, keep moving.”

  19

  ROME

  THE VIA GIOBERTI was ablaze with flickering blue emergency lights. Achille Bartoletti stepped out of the Pensione Abruzzi and spotted Carlo Casagrande’s car amid the turmoil. The Italian security chief came over at an easy executive stroll and climbed into the backseat.

  “Your assassin is damned good with a gun, General. I hope he never gets anywhere near the Holy Father.”

  “How many dead?”

  “Four carabinieri killed, six others wounded.”

  “Dear God,” Casagrande murmured.

  “I’m afraid there’s one other casualty—a Polizia di Stato detective named Alessio Rossi. Apparently he was inside the assassin’s room when the carabinieri went in. For some reason, Rossi tried to escape with him.”

  Casagrande feigned surprise. The tone of Bartoletti’s next question revealed that he did not find his performance altogether convincing. “Is there something about this affair you’ve neglected to tell me, General?”

  Casagrande met Bartoletti’s quizzical stare and slowly shook his head. “I’ve told you everything I know, Achille.”

  “I see.”

  Casagrande tried to quickly change the subject.

  “What is Rossi’s condition?”

  “He’s dead, too, I’m afraid.”

  “Was it the Israeli?”

  “No, it appears he was shot by carabinieri.”

  “Is there anything in the room?”

  “Just a change of clothes. No papers, no identification. Your man is good.”

  Casagrande looked up at the open window on the second floor of the pensione. He had hoped the matter could be handled quietly. Now he had to use the circumstances to his advantage.

  “Based on his performance tonight, it is clear to me that this man is a professional.”

  “I cannot argue with that conclusion, General.”

  “As for Rossi, perhaps he was involved somehow in the conspiracy.”

  “Perhaps,” Bartoletti said with little conviction.

  “Whatever the circumstances, the Israeli must not be allowed to leave Rome.”

  “A hundred officers are looking for him right now.”

  “He won’t stay in Rome long. He’ll leave at the first opportunity. If I were you, I’d seal the city. Put a watch on every train station and bus terminal.”

  Bartoletti’s expression betrayed that he didn’t appreciate being treated like an incompetent who neede
d to be told how to mount a search for a fugitive. “I’m afraid this affair has little to do with the Vatican at this point, General Casagrande. After all, five Italian policeman were killed on Italian soil. We will conduct the search in the manner we see fit and inform the Vatican Security Office as events warrant.”

  The pupil has turned on his master, thought Casagrande. Such was the nature of all relationships like this. “Of course, Achille,” he said submissively. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken, General. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope that this man is going to simply vanish. Speaking for myself, I’d like to know what Inspector Rossi was doing in his room. I would think you’d like to know that too.”

  Bartoletti climbed out of the car without waiting for a reply and walked briskly away. Casagrande’s driver looked up into the rearview mirror.

  “Back to the Via Pinciana, General?”

  Casagrande shook his head. “Il Vaticano.”

  IN A SOUVENIR kiosk near the Forum, Gabriel bought a dark blue hooded sweatshirt with the words Viva Roma! emblazoned across the chest. In a public toilet, he removed his shirt and stuffed it into a rubbish bin. Only then did he notice that a bullet had grazed his right side, leaving a bloody furrow below his armpit. He used toilet paper to wipe away the blood, then carefully pulled on the new sweatshirt. Rossi’s Beretta was still wedged into the waist of his jeans. He went out and headed north toward the Piazza Navona.

  He had made his second call on the emergency line. The same woman had answered the phone and had told him to go to the Church of Santa Maria della Pace. Inside, near the confessionals, would be a man in a tan overcoat with a folded copy of L’Osservatore Romano. The agent would tell Gabriel where to go next.

  His first responsibility now was to his rescuers. He had to be certain he was not leading them into a trap. As he wound his way through the warren of narrow streets and alleyways in the Centro Storico, he mingled with tourists and ordinary Romans, keeping clear of main thoroughfares. He could still hear the wail of police sirens in the distance but was confident no one was following him.

  In the Piazza Navona, carabinieri were patrolling in pairs. Gabriel pulled up his hood and settled into a group of people watching a man play classical guitar next to a fountain. He looked up and saw that the northern end of the piazza was free of police. He turned, crossed the square, and followed a narrow alley to the entrance of the church. A beggar was sitting on the steps. Gabriel slipped past and went inside.

  The smell of incense greeted him. He thought of Venice. The stillness of San Zaccaria. Just two weeks ago he was at peace, restoring one of the most important paintings in all of Italy. Now he was being hunted by every policeman in Rome. He wondered whether he would ever be allowed to go back to his old life again.

  He paused before the basin of holy water, thought better of it, and eased forward into the nave. An old woman was on her knees before a bank of memorial candles. Opposite the doors of the confessional sat the man in the tan overcoat. On the pew was a copy of L’Osservatore Romano folded in half. Gabriel settled in next to him.

  “You’re bleeding,” said the man in the overcoat. Gabriel looked down and saw that the side of his sweatshirt was indeed soaked with blood. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’ll be fine. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not me. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Where do I go?”

  “There’s a silver BMW motorcycle parked outside the church. The driver is wearing a crimson helmet.”

  Gabriel walked outside. The motorcycle was there. As Gabriel approached, the driver pressed the starter button and revved the engine into life. Gabriel threw his leg over the back and wrapped his arms around the driver’s waist. The bike turned into traffic and sped in the direction of the river.

  It did not take Gabriel long to realize that the agent driving the motorcycle was a woman: the hourglass hips, the narrow waist and slender blue-jeaned thighs, the bunch of hair poking from the bottom of the helmet. It was curly and smelled of jasmine and tobacco. He was certain he had smelled it before.

  They raced along the Lungotevere. To his right Gabriel could see the dome of St. Peter’s, looming over the Vatican Hill. Crossing the river, he hurled Alessio Rossi’s Beretta into the black water.

  They headed up the Janiculum Hill. At the Piazza Ceresi they turned into a steeply sloped residential street lined with stone pines and small apartment houses. The bike slowed as they approached an old palazzo that had been converted into a block of flats. The woman killed the engine and they coasted beneath an archway, coming to a stop in a darkened courtyard.

  Gabriel dismounted and followed her into the foyer, then up two flights of stairs. She unlocked the door and pulled him inside. In the darkened entrance hall, she unzipped her leather riding jacket and removed her helmet. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. Then she turned on the lights.

  “You?” said Gabriel.

  The girl smiled. It was Chiara, the rabbi’s daughter from Venice.

  FOR THE second time that evening, Eric Lange’s cellular telephone chirped softly on the bedside table of his Paris hotel room. He brought it to his ear and listened silently while Rashid Husseini told him about the gun battle at the Pensione Abruzzi. Obviously, Carlo Casagrande did know about Allon, and he had sent a mob of incompetent Italian policemen to do the job when it could have been handled quite easily by one good man with a gun. Lange’s window of opportunity to deal with Allon himself may have just closed permanently.

  “What are you doing now?” Lange asked.

  “We’re looking for him, along with half the police in Italy. There’s no guarantee we’re going to find him. The Israelis are good at getting their people out of tight spots.”

  “Yes, they are,” said Lange. “In fact, I’d say the Rome station of the Israeli secret service is very busy tonight. They’ve got quite a crisis on their hands.”

  “Indeed, they do.”

  “Have you identified any of their personnel in Rome?”

  “Two or three that we’re sure of,” Husseini said.

  “It might be wise to follow them. With a bit of luck, they’ll lead you straight to him.”

  “You remind me of Abu Jihad,” Husseini said. “He was brilliant too.”

  “I’m coming to Rome in the morning.”

  “Give me your flight information. I’ll have a man meet you.”

  GABRIEL SPENT a long time in the shower washing his wound and scrubbing the blood from his hair. When he emerged, wrapped in a white towel, Chiara was waiting for him. She cleaned his wounds carefully and bound his abdomen in a heavy dressing. Lastly she gave him a shot of antibiotics and handed him a pair of yellow capsules.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something for the pain. Take them. You’ll sleep better.”

  Gabriel washed down the tablets with a swig of mineral water from a plastic bottle.

  “I laid some clean clothes for you on the bed. Are you hungry?”

  Gabriel shook his head and walked into the bedroom to change. He was suddenly unsteady on his feet. While he was on the run, being fed by nerves and adrenaline, he had not felt the pain. Now his side felt as though it had a knife in it.

  Chiara had left a blue sweatsuit on the bed. Gabriel carefully pulled it on. It was for a man several inches taller, and he had to roll up the sleeves and cuff the pant legs. When he came out again, she was sitting in the living room watching a bulletin on the television. She took her eyes from the screen long enough to glance at him and frown at his appearance.

  “I’ll get you some proper clothes in the morning.”

  “How many dead?”

  “Five,” she said. “Several more wounded.”

  Five dead . . . Gabriel closed his eyes and fought off a wave of nausea. A burst of pain shot through his side. Chiara, sensing his distress, laid a hand on his face.

  “You’re burning,” she said. “You need to sleep.”

  “I’ve always fo
und sleep difficult at times like this.”

  “I understand—I think. How about a glass of wine?”

  “With the painkillers?”

  “It might help you.”

  “A small one.”

  She went into the kitchen. Gabriel aimed the remote at the television and the screen went black. Chiara returned and handed him a glass of red wine.

  “Nothing for you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s my job to make sure you stay safe.”

  Gabriel swallowed some of the wine. “Is your name really Chiara Zolli?”

  She nodded.

  “And are you really the rabbi’s daughter?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Where are you posted?”

  “Officially, I’m attached to Rome station, but I do a fair amount of traveling.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “Oh, you know—a little of this, a little of that.”

  “And that routine the other night?”

  “Shamron asked me to keep an eye on you while you were in Venice. Imagine my surprise when you walked into the community center to see my father.”

  “What did he tell you about our conversation?”

  “That you were asking him a lot of questions about the Italian Jews during the war—and about the Convent of the Sacred Heart on the Lago di Garda. Why don’t you tell me the rest?”

  Because I don’t have the strength, he thought. Then he said, “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “Pazner will tell you everything in the morning.”

  “Who’s Pazner?”

  Chiara smiled. “You have been out of the game for a while. Shimon Pazner is the head of Rome station. At the moment, he’s trying to figure out how to get you out of Italy and back to Israel.”

  “I’m not going back to Israel.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here. Shall I turn on the television again? Every policeman in Italy is looking for you. But that’s not my decision. I’m just a lowly field hand. Pazner will make the call in the morning.”

  Gabriel was too weak to argue with her. The combination of the painkillers and the wine had left him feeling heavy-lidded and numb. Perhaps it was for the best. Chiara helped him to his feet and guided him into the bedroom. As he lay down, pain shot through his side. He settled his head carefully on the pillow. Chiara switched off the light and sat in an armchair at the side of the bed, a Beretta in her lap.