The Order (18 page)

From inside the Sistine Chapel
came the unholy clamor of hammering. Cardinal Domenico Albanese climbed the two shallow steps and entered. A newly installed
wooden ramp sloped toward the opening in the
transenna
, the marble screen that divided the chapel in two. Beyond it stretched a temporary wooden floor covered in pale tan carpeting.
Twelve long tables stood along the edges of the chapel, two rows of three on each side, covered in tan baize, with pleated
skirts of magenta.

In the center of the space stood a small ornate table with thin curved legs. For now, the table was empty. But on Friday afternoon, when the cardinal-electors processed into the chapel to begin the conclave, there would be a Bible open to the first page of the Gospel of Matthew. Each cardinal, including Albanese, would lay his hand on the Gospel and swear an oath of secrecy.
He would also swear not to conspire with “any group of people or individuals” who might wish to intervene in the election of the next Roman pontiff. To break such a sacred vow would be a grievous sin. A cardinal sin, thought Albanese.

The sound of hammering intruded on his reverie. The workmen were constructing a camera platform near the stoves. The first
hour of the conclave—the opening procession, the singing of “Veni Creator Spiritus,” the swearing of the oath—would be televised.
After that, the master of pontifical liturgical celebrations would announce “Extra omnes,” and the doors would be closed and
locked from the outside.

Inside, a first ballot would be taken, if only to get a sense of the room. The Scrutineers and Revisers would perform their
due diligence, checking and rechecking the count. If the pre-conclave hype was to be believed, Cardinal José Maria Navarro
would emerge as the early front runner. The ballots would then be burned in the older of the two stoves. The second stove
would simultaneously release a chemically enhanced plume of black smoke. And thus the faithful gathered in St. Peter's Square—and
the unfaithful poised over their laptops in the press center—would learn that the Church of Rome was still without a pontiff.

Cardinal Navarro's lead would shrink on the second ballot. And on the third, a new name would emerge: Cardinal Franz von Emmerich,
the archbishop of Vienna and a secret member of the Order of St. Helena. By the fifth ballot, Emmerich would be unstoppable.
By the sixth, the papacy would be his. No, thought Albanese suddenly. The papacy would be the Order's.

They planned to waste little time in undoing the modest reforms put in place by Lucchesi and Donati. All power would be centralized in the Apostolic Palace. All dissent would be
ruthlessly repressed. There would be no more talk of women in the priesthood or allowing priests to marry. Nor would there be any heartfelt encyclicals about climate change, the poor, the rights of workers and immigrants, and the dangers posed by the rise of the far right in Western Europe. Indeed, the new secretary of state would forge close ties between the Holy See and the authoritarian leaders of Italy, Germany, Austria, and France—all doctrinaire Catholics who would serve as a bulwark against secularism, democratic socialism, and, of course, Islam.

Albanese moved toward the altar. Behind it was Michelangelo's
Last Judgment
, with its swirling cyclone of souls rising toward heaven or falling into the depths of hell. It never failed to stir Albanese.
It was the reason he had become a priest, the fear that he would suffer for all eternity in the emptiness of the underworld.

That fear, after lying dormant within Albanese for many years, had risen again. It was true that Bishop Richter had granted
him absolution for his role in the murder of Pietro Lucchesi. But in his heart Albanese did not believe such a mortal sin
could truly be forgiven. Granted, it was Father Graf who had done the deed. But Albanese had been an accessory before and
after the fact. He had played his role flawlessly, with one exception. He had failed to find the letter—the letter Lucchesi
was writing to Gabriel Allon about the book he had found in the Secret Archives. The only explanation was that the Janson
boy had taken it. Father Graf had killed him as well. Two murders. Two black marks on Albanese's soul.

All the more reason why the conclave had to go precisely as planned. It was Albanese's job to make certain the cardinal-electors who had accepted the Order's money cast their ballots for Emmerich at the appropriate time. A sudden and decisive
move toward the Austrian would raise suspicion of tampering. His support had to build gradually, ballot by ballot, so that nothing looked amiss. Once Emmerich was clad in white, the Order would face no threat of exposure. The Vatican was one of the world's last absolute monarchies, a divine dictatorship. There would be no investigation, no exhumation of the dead pontiff's body. It would almost be as though it had never happened.

Unless, thought Albanese, there was another unexpected development like the one that had occurred the previous morning at
the Secret Archives. Gabriel Allon and Archbishop Donati had undoubtedly found something. What it was, Albanese could not
say. He only knew that after leaving the Archives, Allon and Donati had traveled to Assisi, where they had met with a certain
Father Robert Jordan, the Church's foremost expert on the apocryphal gospels. Afterward, they had returned to Rome, where
they had met with one Alessandro Ricci, the world's foremost expert on the Order of St. Helena. It was hardly an encouraging
sign.

“Truly magnificent, is it not?”

Albanese turned with a start.

“Forgive me,” said Bishop Richter. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

Albanese addressed his superior general with a cool and distant formality. “Good morning, Excellency. What brings you to the
Sistina?”

“I was told I might find the camerlengo here.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. In fact, I have rather good news.”

“What's that?”

Richter smiled. “Gabriel Allon just left Rome.”

It was half past four
when Gabriel arrived in Zurich. He rode in a taxi to the Paradeplatz, the St. Peter's Square of Swiss banking, and then walked
along the stately Bahnhofstrasse to the northern tip of the Zürichsee. A BMW sedan drew alongside him on the General-Guisan-Quai.
Behind the wheel was Christoph Bittel. Bald and bespectacled, he looked like just another gnome heading home to the lakeside
suburbs after a long day spent tabulating the hidden riches of Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.

Gabriel dropped into the passenger seat. “Where were we?”

“The man in the sketch.” Bittel eased into the rush-hour traffic. “I'm sorry it took me so long to make the connection. It's
been a few years since I've seen him.”

“What's his name?”

“Estermann,” said Bittel. “Andreas Estermann.”

 

As Gabriel suspected
, Estermann was a professional. For thirty years he had worked for the BfV, Germany's internal security service. Not surprisingly,
the BfV maintained close links with its sister service in Switzerland, the NDB. Early in his career, Bittel had traveled to
Cologne to brief his German counterparts on Soviet espionage activity in Bern and Geneva. Estermann was his contact.

“When the meeting was over, he invited me for a drink. Which was odd.”

“Why?”

“Estermann doesn't touch alcohol.”

“Does he have a problem?”

“He has lots of problems, but alcohol isn't one of them.”

In the years that followed their first meeting, Bittel and Estermann bumped into each other from time to time, as practitioners
of the secret trade are prone to do. Neither one of them was what you might describe as an action figure. They were not operatives,
they were glorified policemen. They conducted investigations, wrote reports, and attended countless conferences where the
primary challenge was keeping one's eyes open. They shared lunches and dinners whenever their paths crossed. Estermann often
funneled intelligence to Bittel outside normal channels. Bittel reciprocated whenever possible, but always with the approval
of the top floor. His superiors considered Estermann a valuable asset.

“And then the planes crashed into the World Trade Center, and everything changed. Especially Estermann.”

“How so?”

“He had moved from counterintelligence to counterterrorism a couple of years before nine-eleven, just like me. He claimed
he was on to the Hamburg Cell from the beginning. He swore he could have stopped the plot in its tracks if his superiors had
allowed him to do his job properly.”

“Was any of it true?”

“That he could have single-handedly prevented the worst terrorist attack in history?” Bittel shook his head. “Maybe Gabriel
Allon could have done it. But not Andreas Estermann.”

“How did he change?”

“He became incredibly bitter.”

“At whom?”

“Muslims.”

“Al-Qaeda?”

“Not just al-Qaeda. Estermann resented all Muslims, especially those who lived in Germany. He was unable to separate the hard-core
jihadist from the poor Moroccan or Turk who came to Europe looking for a better life. It got worse after the attack on the
Vatican. He lost all perspective. I found his company difficult to bear.”

“But you maintained the relationship?”

“We're a small service. Estermann was a force multiplier.” Bittel smiled. “Like you, Allon.”

He turned into the car park of a marina along the western shore of the lake. At the end of the breakwater was a café. They sat outside in the blustery evening air. Bittel ordered two beers
and replied to several text messages he had received during the drive from downtown Zurich.

“Sorry. We're a bit on edge at the moment.”

“About what?”

“The bombings in Germany.” Bittel peered at Gabriel over his phone. “You don't happen to know who's behind them, do you?”

“My analysts think we're dealing with a new network.”

“Just what we needed.”

The waitress appeared with their drinks. She was a raven-haired woman of perhaps twenty-five, very beautiful, an Iraqi, perhaps
a refugee from Syria. When she placed the bottle of beer in front of Gabriel, he thanked her in Arabic. A brief exchange of
pleasantries followed. Then, smiling, the woman withdrew.

“What were you talking about?” asked Bittel.

“She was wondering why we were sitting out here by the lake instead of inside where it's warm.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That we were intelligence officers who didn't like to speak in insecure rooms.”

Bittel made a face and drank some of his beer. “It's a good thing Estermann didn't see you talking to her like that. He doesn't
approve of being civil to Muslim immigrants. Nor does he approve of speaking their language.”

“How does he feel about Jews?”

Bittel picked at the label of his beer bottle.

“Go ahead, Bittel. It won't hurt my feelings.”

“He's a bit of an anti-Semite.”

“What a shocker.”

“It tends to go hand in hand.”

“What's that?”

“Islamophobia and anti-Semitism.”

“Did you and Estermann ever discuss religion?”

“Endlessly. Especially after the attack on the Vatican. He's a devout Catholic.”

“And you?”

“I'm from Nidwalden. I was raised in a Catholic home, I married a Catholic girl in a ceremony officiated by the Church, and
all three of our children were baptized.”

“But?”

“I haven't been to Mass since the sexual abuse scandal broke.”

“Do you follow the teachings of the Vatican?”

“Why should I follow them if they don't?”

“I assume Estermann disagreed with you.”

Bittel nodded. “He's a lay member of an extremely conservative order based here in Switzerland.”

“The Order of St. Helena.”

Bittel's eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

Gabriel demurred. “I assume Estermann wanted you to join.”

“He was like an evangelist. He said I could be a secret member, that no one would know other than his bishop. He also said
there were lots of people like us in the Order.”

“Us?”

“Intelligence officers and security types. Prominent businessmen and politicians, too. He said joining the Order would do
wonders for my post-NDB career.”

“How did you handle it?”

“I told him I wasn't interested and changed the subject.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“It's been five years, at least. Probably more like six.”

“What was the occasion?”

“Estermann's retirement from the BfV. He wanted to give me his new contact information. Apparently, he struck gold. He's working
for a big German firm based in Munich.”

“The Wolf Group?”

“How did—”

“Lucky guess,” said Gabriel.

“Estermann told me to call him when I was ready to leave the NDB. There's a Wolf Group office here in Zurich. He said he would
make it worth my while.”

“You don't happen to have his cell number, do you?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I'd like you to take him up on his offer. Tell him you're going to be in Munich on Wednesday evening. Tell him you want to
talk about your future.”

“But I can't possibly go to Munich on Wednesday.”

“He doesn't need to know that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Drinks. Somewhere quiet.”

“I told you, he doesn't drink. He's a Diet Coke man. Always a Diet Coke.” Bittel tapped the tabletop thoughtfully. “There's
a place in the Beethovenplatz called Café Adagio. Very chic. Discreet, too. The question is, what's going to happen when he
gets there?”

“I'm going to ask him a few questions.”

“About what?”

“The Order of St. Helena.”

“Why are you interested in the Order?”

“They murdered a friend of mine.”

“Who's the friend?”

“His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”

Bittel's expression betrayed no sentiment, least of all surprise. “Now I know why you wanted me to keep an eye on the Hoffmann
woman.”

“Send the message, Bittel.”

His thumbs hovered over his phone. “Do you know what will happen if I'm linked to this in any way?”

“The Office will lose a valuable partner. And I'll lose a friend.”

“I'm not sure I want to be your friend, Allon. They all seem to end up dead.” Bittel typed the message and tapped
send
. Five long minutes elapsed before his phone pinged with a response. “You're on. Six o'clock Wednesday evening at Café Adagio.
Estermann's looking forward to it.”

Gabriel gazed at the black waters of the lake. “That makes two of us.”