The Confessor ga-3 Page 8

  "Thank you, Mother Vincenza," Gabriel said. "I think I've seen enough."

  "As you wish." The nun remained motionless, her unfaltering gaze lingering on him. "You should not be saddened by this place, Signor Landau. Because of the sisters of Brenzone, the people who took shelter here managed to survive. This is no place for tears. It is a place of joy. Of hope."

  When Gabriel made no response, Mother Vincenza turned and led him up the stairs. As she walked across the gravel forecourt, the night wind lifted the skirt of her habit.

  "We're about to sit down for our evening meal. You're welcome to join us if you like."

  "You're very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude. Besides, I've taken enough of your time."

  "Not at all."

  At the front gate Gabriel stopped and turned to face her. "Do you know the names of people who took shelter here?" he asked suddenly.

  The nun seemed surprised by his question. She studied him a moment, then shook her head deliberately. "I'm afraid the names have been lost over the years."

  "That's a shame."

  "Yes," she said, nodding slowly.

  "May I ask you one more question, Mother Vincenza?"

  "Certainly."

  "Did the Vatican give you permission to speak with Benjamin?"

  She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't need some bureaucrat in the Curia to tell me when to talk and when to keep silent. Only my God can tell me that, and God told me to talk to your brother about the Jews of Brenzone."

  Mother Vincenza kept a small office on the second floor of the convent, in a pleasant room overlooking the lake. She closed and locked the door, then sat down at her modest desk and pulled open the top drawer. There, concealed behind a small cardboard box filled with pencils and paperclips, was a sleek cellular telephone. Technically, it was against the strict rules of the convent to keep such a device, but the man from the Vatican had assured her that, given the circumstances, it would not constitute a violation, moral or otherwise.

  She powered on the phone, just as he had taught her, and carefully entered the number in Rome. After a few seconds of silence, she could hear a telephone ringing. This surprised her. A moment later, when a male voice, came on the line, it surprised her even more.

  "This is Mother Vincenza--"

  "I know who this is," the man said, his tone brusque and businesslike. Then she remembered his instructions about never using names on the telephone. She felt a fool.

  "You asked me to call if anyone came to the convent to ask questions about the professor." She hesitated, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing. "Someone came this afternoon."

  "What did he call himself?"

  "Landau," she said. ''Ehud Landau, from Tel Aviv. He said he Was the man's brother."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps he's staying at the old hotel."

  "Can you find out?"

  "I suppose so, yes."

  "Find out--then call me back."

  The connection went dead.

  Mother Vincenza placed the telephone back in its hiding place and quietly closed the drawer.

  Gabriel decided to spend the night in Brenzone and return to Venice first thing in the morning. After leaving the convent, he walked back to the hotel and took a room. The prospect of eating supper in the dreary hotel dining room depressed him, so he walked down to the lakeshore through the chill March evening and ate fish in a cheerful restaurant filled with townspeople. The white wine was local and very cold.

  The images of the case flashed through his mind while he ate: The Odin Rune and the Three-Bladed Swastika painted on Benjamin's wall; the blood on the floor where Benjamin had died; Detective Weiss tailing him through the streets of Munich; Mother Vincenza leading him down the stairs to the dank cellar of the convent by the lake.

  Gabriel was convinced Benjamin had been killed by someone who wished to silence him. Only that would explain why his computer was missing and why his apartment contained no evidence at all that he was writing a book. If Gabriel could recreate Benjamin's book--or at least the subject matter--he might be able to identify who killed him and why. Unfortunately, he had next to nothing---only an elderly nun who claimed Benjamin was working on a book about Jews taking refuge in Church properties during the war. Generally speaking, it was not the type of subject matter that could get a man killed.

  He paid his check and started back to the hotel. He took his time, wandering the quiet streets of the old town, paying little attention to where he was going, following the narrow passageways wherever they happened to lead him. His thoughts mirrored his path through Brenzone. Instinctively, he approached the problem as though it were a restoration, as though Benjamin's book were a painting that had suffered such heavy losses that it was little more than a bare canvas with a few swaths of color and a fragment of an underdrawing. If Benjamin were an Old Master painter, Gabriel would study all his similar works. He would analyze his technique and his influences at the time the work was painted. In short, he would absorb every possible detail about the artist, no matter how seemingly mundane, before setting to work on the canvas.

  Thus far Gabriel had very little on which to base his restoration, but now, as he wandered the streets of Brenzone, he became aware of another salient detail.

  For the second time in two days, he was being followed.

  He turned a corner and walked past a row of shuttered shops. Glancing once over his shoulder, he spotted a man rounding the corner after him. He performed the same maneuver, and once again spotted his pursuer, a mere shadow in the darkened streets, thin and stooped, agile as an alley cat.

  Gabriel slipped into the darkened foyer of a small apartment house and listened as the footfalls grew fainter, then ceased altogether.

  A moment later, he stepped back into the street and started back toward the hotel. His shadow was gone.

  When Gabriel returned to the hotel, the concierge named Giancomo was still on duty behind his dais. He slid the key across the counter as though it were a priceless relic and asked about Gabriel's meal.

  "It was wonderful, thank you."

  "Perhaps tomorrow night you'll try our own dining room."

  "Perhaps," said Gabriel noncommittally, pocketing the key. "I'd like to see Benjamin's bill from his stay here--especially the record of his telephone calls. It might be helpful."

  "Yes, I see your point, Signor Landau, but I'm afraid that would be a violation of the hotel's strict privacy policy. I'm sure a man like you can understand that."

  Gabriel pointed out that since Benjamin was no longer living, concerns about his privacy were surely misplaced.

  "I'm sorry, but the rules apply to the dead as well," the concierge said. "Now, if the police requested such information, we would be obliged to hand it over."

  "The information is important to me," Gabriel said. "I'd be willing to pay a surcharge in order to obtain it."

  "A surcharge? I see." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I believe the charge would be five hundred euros." A pause to allow Gabriel to digest the sum. "A processing fee. In advance, of course."

  "Yes, of course."

  Gabriel counted out the euro notes and laid them on the counter. Giancomo's hand passed over the surface and the money disappeared.

  "Go to your room, Signor Landau. I'll print out the bill and bring it to you."

  Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He locked and chained the door, then walked to the window and peered out. The lake was shimmering in the moonlight. There was no one outside--at least no one he could see. He sat on the bed and began to undress.

  An envelope appeared beneath the door and slid across the terracotta floor. Gabriel picked it up, lifted the flap, and removed the contents. He switched on the bedside lamp and examined the bill. During his two-day stay at the hotel, Benjamin had made only three telephone calls. Two were placed to his own apartment in Munich--to check messages on his answering machine, Gabriel reckoned--and the third to a number in London.
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  Gabriel lifted the receiver and dialed the number.

  An answering machine picked up.

  "You've reached the office of Peter Malone. I'm sorry, but I'm not available to take your call. If you'd like to leave a--"

  Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  Peter Malone? The British investigative reporter? Why would Benjamin be calling a man like him? Gabriel folded the bill and slipped it back into the envelope. He was about to drop it into Ehud Landau's briefcase when the telephone rang.

  He reached out, but hesitated. No one knew he was here--no one but the concierge and the man who'd followed Gabriel after dinner. Perhaps Malone had captured his number and was calling back. Better to know than remain ignorant, he thought. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear for a moment without speaking.

  Finally: "Yes?"

  "Mother Vincenza is lying to you, the same way she lied to your friend. Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you'll know the truth about what happened at the convent."

  "Who is this?"

  "Don't come back. It's not safe for you here."

  Click.

  GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND

  THE MAN WHO LIVED in the large chalet in the shadow of The Iger was a private person, even by the exacting standards of the mountains of Inner Switzerland. He made it his business to learn what was being said about him and knew that in the bars and cafes of Grindelwald there was constant speculation about his occupation. Some thought him a successful private banker from Zurich; others believed him to be the owner of a large chemical concern headquartered in Zug. There was a theory he was born to wealth and had no career at all. There was baseless gossip he was an arms dealer or a money launderer. The girl who cleaned his chalet told of a kitchen filled with expensive copper pots and cooking implements of every kind. A rumor circulated that he was a chef or restaurateur. He liked that one the best. He always thought he might have enjoyed cooking for a living, had he not fallen into his current profession.

  The limited amount of mail that arrived daily at his chalet bore the name Eric Lange. He spoke German with the accent of a Zuricher but with the sing-song cadence of those native to the valleys of Inner Switzerland. He did his shopping at the Migros supermarket in town and always paid in cash. He received no visitors and, despite his good looks, was never seen in the company of a woman. He was prone to long periods of absence. When asked for an explanation, he would murmur something about a business venture. When pressed to elaborate, his gray eyes would grow so suddenly cold that few possessed the courage to pursue the matter further.

  Mostly, he seemed a man with too much time on his hands. From December to March, when the snow was good, he spent most days on the slopes. He was an expert skier, fast but never reckless, with the size and strength of a downhiller and the quickness and agility of a slalom racer. His outfits were costly but reserved, carefully chosen to deflect attention rather than attract it. On chairlifts, he was notorious for his silence. In summer, when all but the permanent glaciers melted, he set out from the chalet each morning and hiked up the steep slope of the valley. His body seemed to have been constructed for this very purpose: tall and powerful, narrow hips and broad shoulders, heavily muscled thighs, and calves shaped like diamonds. He moved along the rocky footpaths with the agility of a large cat and seemed never to tire.

  Usually, he would pause at the base of the Eiger for a drink from his canteen and to squint upward toward the windswept face. He never climbed--indeed, he thought men who hurled themselves against the Eiger were some of nature's greatest fools. Some afternoons, from the terrace of his chalet, he could hear the beating of rescue helicopters, and sometimes, with the aid of his Zeiss telescope, he could see dead climbers hanging by their lines, twisting in the John, the famed Eiger wind. He had the utmost respect for the mountain. The Eiger, like the man known as Eric Lange, was a perfect killer.

  Shortly before noon Lange slid off the chairlift for his final run of the day. At the bottom of the trail, he disappeared into a grove of pine and glided through the shadows until he arrived at the back door of his chalet. He removed his skis and gloves and punched a series of numbers into the keypad on the wall next to the door. He stepped inside, stripped off his jacket and powder pants, and hung the skis on a professional-style rack. Upstairs, he showered and changed into traveling clothes: corduroy trousers, a dark-gray cashmere sweater, suede brogues. His overnight bag was already packed.

  He paused in front of the bathroom mirror and examined his appearance. The hair was a combination of sun-streaked blond and gray. The eyes were naturally colorless and took well to contact lenses. The features were altered periodically by a plastic surgeon at a discreet clinic located outside Geneva. He slipped on a pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses, then added gel to his hair and combed it straight back. The change in his appearance was remarkable.

  He walked into his bedroom. Concealed inside the large walk-in closet was a combination safe. He worked the tumbler and pulled open the heavy door. Inside were the tools of his trade: false passports, a large amount of cash in various currencies, a collection of handguns. He filled his wallet with Swiss francs and selected a Stechkin nine-millimeter pistol, his favorite weapon. He nestled the gun into his overnight bag and closed the door of the safe. Five minutes later, he climbed into his Audi sedan and set out for Zurich.

  IN THE VIOLENT history of European political extremism, no terrorist was suspected of shedding more blood than the man dubbed the Leopard. A freelance assassin-for-hire, he had plied his trade across the continent and left a trail of bodies and bomb damage stretching from Athens to London and Madrid to Stockholm. He had worked for the Red Army Faction in West Germany, the Red Brigades in Italy, and Action Directe in France. He had killed a British army officer for the Irish Republican Army and a Spanish minister for the Basque separatist group ETA. His relationship with Palestinian terrorists had been long and fruitful. He had committed a string of kidnappings and assassinations for Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO, and he had killed tor the fanatical Palestinian dissident Abu Nidal. Indeed, the Leopard was believed to have been the mastermind behind the simultaneous attacks on the Rome and Vienna airports in December 1985 that left nineteen people dead and 120 wounded. It had been nine years since his last suspected attack, the murder of a French industrialist in Paris. Some within the Western European security and intelligence community believed that the Leopard was dead--that he had been killed in a dispute with one of his old employers. Some doubted he had ever existed at all.

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Eric Lange arrived in Zurich. He parked his car on a rather unpleasant street north of the train station and walked to the Hotel St. Gotthard, just off the gentle sweep of the Bahnhofstrasse. A room had been reserved for him. The absence of luggage did not surprise the clerk. Because of its location and reputation for discretion, the hotel was often used for business meetings too confidential to take place even on the premises of a private bank. Hitler himself was rumored to have stayed at the St. Gotthard when he was in Zurich to meet with his Swiss bankers.

  Lange took the lift up to his room. He drew the curtains and spent a moment rearranging the furniture. He pushed an armchair into the center of the room, facing the door, and in front of the chair placed a low, circular coffee table. On the table he left two items, a small but powerful flashlight and the Stechkin. Then he sat down and switched off the lights. The darkness was absolute.

  He sipped a disappointing red wine from the minibar while waiting for the client to arrive. As a condition of employment, he refused to deal with cutouts or couriers. If a man wanted his services, he had to have the courage to present himself in person and show his face. Lange insisted on this not out of ego but for his own protection. His services were so costly that only very wealthy men could afford him, men skilled in the art of betrayal, men who knew how to set up others to pay the price for their sins.

  At 8:15 p.m., the precise time Lange had requested, ther
e was a knock at the door. Lange picked up the Stechkin with one hand and the flashlight with the other and gave his visitor permission to enter the pitch-black room. When the door had closed again, he switched on the light. The beam fell upon a small, well-dressed man, late sixties, with a monkish fringe of iron-gray hair. Lange knew him: General Carlo Casagrande, the former Carabinieri chief of counter-terrorism, now keeper of all things secret at the Vatican. How many of the general's former foes would love to be in Lange's position now--pointing a loaded gun at the great Casagrande, slayer of the Brigate Rossa, savior of Italy. The Brigades had tried to kill him, but

  Casagrande had lived underground during the war, moving from bunker to bunker, barracks to barracks. Instead, they'd massacred his wife and daughter. The old general was never the same after that, which probably explained why he was here now, in a darkened hotel room in Zurich, hiring a professional killer.

  "It's like a confessional in here," Casagrande said in Italian.

  "That's the point," Lange replied in the same language. "You can kneel if it makes you more comfortable."

  "I think I'll remain standing."

  "You have the dossier?"

  Casagrande held up his attaché case. Lange lifted the Stechkin into the beam of light so the man from the Vatican could see it. Casagrande moved with the slowness of a man handling high explosives. He opened his briefcase, removed a large manila envelope, and laid it on the coffee table. Lange scooped it up with his gun hand and shook the contents into his lap. A moment later, he looked up.

  "I'm disappointed. I was hoping you were coming here to ask me to kill the Pope."

  "You would have done it, wouldn't you? You would have killed your Pope."

  "He's not my pope, but the answer to your question is yes, I would have killed him. And if they'd hired me to do it, instead of that maniacal Turk, the Pole would have died that afternoon in St. Peter's."

  "Then I suppose I should be thankful that the KGB didn't hire you. God knows you did enough other dirty work for them."