The Confessor (17 page)

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 Ehud 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.

S
ECURITY 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.

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.”