Daniel Silva - The Confessor

The endearing quality of the professor's arrival evaporated in short order. Like many German intellectuals, Helmut Berger had the put-upon air of a man who had spent the day grappling with beings of inferior intelligence. He claimed to have time only for a small glass of beer, but he invited Gabriel to select something from the menu. Gabriel ordered only mineral water, which the German seemed to find deeply scandalous.

"I'm very sorry about your brother. Excuse me, your half-brother. He was a valuable member of the faculty. His death was a shock to us all." He spoke these lines without genuine emotion, as though

they had been written for him by a graduate student. "How can I help you, Herr Landau?"

"Is it true that Benjamin was on a sabbatical at the time of his murder?"

"Yes, that's correct. He was working on another book."

"Do you know the subject of that book?"

"Actually, I don't."

"Really?" Gabriel was genuinely surprised. "Is it typical for someone to leave your department to work on a book without telling you the subject matter?"

"No, but Benjamin was very secretive about this project from the very beginning."

Gabriel decided he could not press the issue. "Did you know anything about the kind of threats Benjamin received?"

"There were so many, it was hard to keep them straight. Benjamin's theories about a collective German wartime guilt made him, shall we say, highly unpopular in many quarters."

"It sounds to me as though you didn't share Benjamin's views."

The professor shrugged. "A few years ago, I wrote a book on the role of the German Catholic Church during the war. Benjamin disagreed with my conclusions and said so in a very public manner. It was not a pleasant time for either of us."

The professor looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I have another engagement. Is there anything else I can tell you? Perhaps something more relevant to your inquiries?"

"Last month, Benjamin made a trip to Italy. Do you happen to know why he went there? Was it connected to the book in any way?"

"I have no idea. You see, Doctor Stern didn't make a habit of giving me advance warning about his travel plans." The professor finished the last of his beer and stood up. Class dismissed. "Again, my condolences, Herr Landau. I wish you luck in your inquiries." hike hell you do, thought Gabriel, as he watched Professor Berger walk outside and pedal away.

ON THE WAY back to his hotel, Gabriel entered a large student bookstore on the southern edge of the university district. He gazed at the store directory for a moment, then climbed the stairs to the travel section, where he searched a display bin filled with maps until he came across one for northern Italy.

He spread it over a nearby table, then reached into his pocket and removed the postcard. The hotel where Benjamin had stayed was in a town called Brenzone. Judging from the photograph, the town was set on the shoreline of one of Italy's northern lakes. He started in the west and worked his way slowly eastward, reading the names of the towns and villages surrounding each of the great northern lakes--first Maggiore, then Como, then Iseo, and finally Garda. Brenzone. There it was, on the eastern shore of the Lago di Garda, about halfway between the bulge at the southern end and the daggerlike northern tip.

Gabriel refolded the map and carried it downstairs to the cash register. A moment later, he stepped back through the revolving doors into the street, the map and postcard resting in his jacket pocket. Instinctively, his eyes flickered over the pavement, the parked cars, the windows of the surrounding buildings.

He turned left and started back to his hotel, wondering why Detective Axel Weiss had been sitting in the cafe across the street the entire time Gabriel was in the bookstore--and why he was now following him across the center of Munich.

Gabriel was confident he could easily evade or expose the German detective, but now was not the time to betray the fact that he was a trained professional. As far as Axel Weiss knew, Gabriel was Ehud Landau, brother of slain historian Benjamin Stern, and nothing else--which made the fact that he was following him all the more curious.

He entered a hotel on the Maximilianstrasse. He made a brief call on a public telephone in the lobby, then went back outside and kept walking. The policeman was still there, fifty meters back, on the opposite side of the street.

Gabriel walked directly to his hotel. He collected his key from the clerk at the front counter and rode the lift up to his room. He packed his clothing into a garment bag of black leather, then unlocked the room safe and removed the file he had been given by the Israeli consulate, along with the envelope containing Benjamin's eyeglasses. He placed the items in the briefcase and closed the lid. Then he switched off the room lights, walked to the window, and parted the curtain. A car was parked just up the street. Gabriel could see the glow of a cigarette ember behind the wheel. Weiss. Gabriel closed the curtain and sat on the end of the bed, waiting for the phone to ring.

Twenty minutes later: "Landau."

"It's at the corner of the Seitzstrasse and the Unsoldstrasse, just south of Prinzregenten. Do you know where that is?"

" Yes," Gabriel said. "Give me the number."

Nine digits. Gabriel did not bother to write them down.

"The keys?"

"Standard location. Back bumper, curbside."

Gabriel hung up, pulled on his jacket, and collected his bags. In the lobby he explained to the night clerk that he was checking out ahead of schedule.

"Do you require a taxi, Herr Landau?"

"No, I'm being picked up. Thank you."

A bill slid toward him across the counter. Gabriel paid with one of Shamron's credit cards and went out. He turned left and started walking quickly, garment bag in one hand, briefcase in the other. Twenty seconds later, he heard the sound of a car door opening and closing, followed by footsteps on the wet cobblestones of the Annastrasse. He maintained his steady pace, resisting the impulse to look over his shoulder.

". . . corner of the Seitzstrasse and the Unsoldstrasse ..."

Gabriel passed a church, turned left, and paused in a small square to take his bearings. Then he turned right and followed another narrow street toward the sound of the traffic rushing along the Prinzregentenstrasse. Weiss was still trailing him.

He walked along a line of parked cars, reading registration numbers, until he came across the one he'd just been given over the phone. It was attached to a dark gray Opel Omega. Without stopping, he bent slightly at the waist and ran his fingers beneath the rear bumper until he found the keys. With a movement so brief and smooth that Weiss seemed not to notice, Gabriel tore the keys loose.

He pressed the button on the remote. The doors unlocked automatically. Then he opened the driver's side door and threw his bags onto the passenger seat. He looked to his right. Weiss was running toward him, panic on his face.

Gabriel climbed inside, rammed the keys into the ignition, and started the engine. He dropped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, then turned hard to the right and vanished into the evening traffic.

Detective Axel Weiss had leapt out of his car so quickly that he had left his cellular phone behind. He ran all the way back, then paused to catch his breath before dialing the number. A moment later, he broke the news to the man in Rome that the Israeli called Landau was gone.

"How?"

Embarrassed, Weiss told him.

"Did you get a photograph at least?"

"Earlier today--at the Olympic Village."

"The village? What on earth was he doing there?"

"Staring at the apartment house at Connollystrasse Thirty-one."

"Wasn't that where it happened?"

"Yes, that's right. It's not unusual for Jews to make a pilgrimage there."