Daniel Silva - The Confessor

"The Holy Father is not content simply to issue another statement of remorse over our past differences with the Jews. He intends to throw open the Secret Archives as well."

"He can't be serious," said Casagrande.

"I'm afraid he's very serious. The question is, if he throws open the archives, will the historians find anything?"

"The Archives have been purged of all references to the meeting at the convent. As for the witnesses, they've been dealt with and their personnel files destroyed. If the Holy Father insists on commissioning a new study, the Archives will yield no new damaging information whatsoever. Unless, of course, the Israeli manages to reconstruct the work of Professor Stern. If that happens--"

"--then the Church, and the Institute, will find itself in very difficult straits," said the Cardinal, finishing Casagrande's sentence for him. "For the greater good of the Church and all those who believe in her, the secret of the covenant must remain just that, a secret."

"Yes, Eminence."

Roberto Pucci lit a cigarette. "Perhaps our friend in the apparta-mento can advise the Holy Father to see the error of his ways, Eminence."

I've tried that route already, Don Pucci. According to our friend,

the Pope is determined to proceed, regardless of the advice of his secretaries or the Curia."

"From a financial point of view, the Holy Father's initiative could be disastrous," Pucci said, switching his focus from murder to money. "Many people wish to do business with the Vatican because of its good name. If the Holy Father drags that good name through the mud of history . . ."

Brindisi nodded in agreement. "In private, the Holy Father often expresses a desire to return to the days of a poor church."

"If he's not careful," said Pucci, "he'll get his wish."

Cardinal Brindisi looked at Casagrande. "This collaborator," the cardinal said. "You believe he poses a threat to us?"

"I do, Eminence."

"What do you require of me, Carlo? Other than my approval, of course."

"Just that, Eminence."

"And from Don Pucci?"

Casagrande looked into the hooded black eyes.

"I need his money."

It was early afternoon by the time Gabriel reached the northern end of Lake Garda. As he made his way southward along the shoreline, the climate and vegetation gradually changed from Alpine to Mediterranean. When he lowered his window, chill air washed over his face. The late-day sun shone on the silver-green leaves of the olive trees. Below, the lake was still and flat, like a slab of polished granite.

The town of Brenzone was shrugging off the drowsiness of the siesta, awnings opening in the bars and cafes along the waterfront, shopkeepers placing goods in the narrow cobblestone streets rising UP the steep slope of Monte Baldo. Gabriel made his way along the lakeshore until he found the Grand Hotel, a saffron-colored villa at the end of town.

As Gabriel pulled into the courtyard, a bellman set upon him the enthusiasm of a shut-in grateful for company. The lobby place from another time. Indeed, Gabriel would not have been surprised to see Kafka perched on the edge of a dusty wing chair scribbling away at a manuscript in the deep shadows. In the adjoining dining room, a pair of bored waiters slowly set a dozen tables for dinner. If their languorous pace was any indication, most of the tables would not be occupied this evening.

The clerk behind the counter stiffened formally at Gabriel's approach. Gabriel looked at the silver-and-black nametag pinned to the left breast of his blazer: giancomo. Blond and blue-eyed, with the square-shouldered bearing of a Prussian military officer, he eyed Gabriel with a vague curiosity from behind the dais.

In labored but fluent Italian, Gabriel introduced himself as Ehud Landau from Tel Aviv. The clerk seemed pleased by this. When Gabriel asked about a man who had visited the hotel two months earlier--a professor named Benjamin Stern who left behind a pair of eyeglasses--the clerk shook his head slowly. The fifty euros that Gabriel slipped into his palm seemed to stir his memory. "Ah, yes, Herr Stern." The blue eyes danced. "The writer from Munich. I remember him well. He stayed three nights."

"Professor Stern was my brother."

"Was?"

"He was murdered in Munich ten days ago."

"Please accept my condolences, Signer Landau, but perhaps I should be talking to the police about Professor Stern and not to his brother."

When Gabriel said he was conducting his own investigation, the concierge frowned thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything of value, except that I'm quite certain Professor Stern's death had nothing to do with his stay in Brenzone. You see, your brother spent most of his time at the convent."

"The convent?"

The concierge stepped around the counter. "Follow me."

He led Gabriel across the lobby and through a set of French doors. They crossed a terrace overlooking the lake and paused at the balustrade. A short distance away, perched on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the lake, was a crenellated castle.

"The Convent of the Sacred Heart. In the nineteenth century it was a sanatorium. The sisters took over the property before the First War and have been there ever since."

"Do you know what my brother was doing there?"

"I'm afraid not. But why don't you ask Mother Vincenza? She's the mother superior. A lovely woman. I'm sure she'd be very happy to help you."

"Do you have a telephone number?"

The hotelier shook his head. "No phone. The sisters take their privacy very seriously."

A PAIR of towering cypress trees stood like sentinels on either side of the tall iron gate. As Gabriel pressed the bell, a cold wind rose from the lake and swirled in the courtyard, stirring the limbs of the olive trees. A moment later, an old man appeared, dressed in soiled coveralls. When Gabriel said he wished to have a brief word with Mother Vincenza, the old man nodded and disappeared into the convent. Returning a moment later, he unchained the gate and gestured for Gabriel to follow him.

The nun was waiting in the entrance hall. Her oval face was framed by a gray-and-white habit. A pair of thick glasses magnified a steadfast gaze. When Gabriel mentioned Benjamin's name, her *ace broke into a wide genuine smile. "Yes, of course I remember arched portals. There was something of the catacombs in this place. Gabriel had a sudden vision of hunted souls moving about by torchlight and speaking in whispers.

Mother Vincenza led him along the passageway, pausing at each portal to play the beam of her flashlight over the interior of a cramped chamber. The stonework shone with damp, and the smell of the lake was overwhelming. Gabriel thought he could hear water lapping above their heads.

"It was the only place where the sisters thought the refugees would be safe," the nun said finally, disturbing the silence. "As you can feel for yourself, it was bitterly cold in the winter. I'm afraid they suffered terribly, especially the children."

"How many?"

"Usually about a dozen. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer."

"Why fewer?"

"Some moved on to other conventi. One family tried to make it to Switzerland. They were caught at the border by a Swiss patrol and handed over to the Germans. I'm told they died at Auschwitz. I was just a little girl during the war, of course. My family lived in Turin."

"It must have been very dangerous for the women living here."

"Yes, very. In those days, Fascist gangs were roaming the country looking for Jews. Bribes were paid. Jews were denounced for money. Anyone who concealed Jews was subject to terrible reprisals. The sisters accepted these people at great risk to themselves."