Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (108 page)

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.

“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.