Daniel Silva - The Confessor

NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Eric Lange arrived in Zurich. He parked his car on a rather unpleasant street north of the train station and walked to the Hotel St. Gotthard, just off the gentle sweep of the Bahnhofstrasse. A room had been reserved for him. The absence of luggage did not surprise the clerk. Because of its location and reputation for discretion, the hotel was often used for business meetings too confidential to take place even on the premises of a private bank. Hitler himself was rumored to have stayed at the St. Gotthard when he was in Zurich to meet with his Swiss bankers.

Lange took the lift up to his room. He drew the curtains and spent a moment rearranging the furniture. He pushed an armchair into the center of the room, facing the door, and in front of the chair placed a low, circular coffee table. On the table he left two items, a small but powerful flashlight and the Stechkin. Then he sat down and switched off the lights. The darkness was absolute.

He sipped a disappointing red wine from the minibar while waiting for the client to arrive. As a condition of employment, he refused to deal with cutouts or couriers. If a man wanted his services, he had to have the courage to present himself in person and show his face. Lange insisted on this not out of ego but for his own protection. His services were so costly that only very wealthy men could afford him, men skilled in the art of betrayal, men who knew how to set up others to pay the price for their sins.

At 8:15 p.m., the precise time Lange had requested, there was a knock at the door. Lange picked up the Stechkin with one hand and the flashlight with the other and gave his visitor permission to enter the pitch-black room. When the door had closed again, he switched on the light. The beam fell upon a small, well-dressed man, late sixties, with a monkish fringe of iron-gray hair. Lange knew him: General Carlo Casagrande, the former Carabinieri chief of counter-terrorism, now keeper of all things secret at the Vatican. How many of the general's former foes would love to be in Lange's position now--pointing a loaded gun at the great Casagrande, slayer of the Brigate Rossa, savior of Italy. The Brigades had tried to kill him, but

Casagrande had lived underground during the war, moving from bunker to bunker, barracks to barracks. Instead, they'd massacred his wife and daughter. The old general was never the same after that, which probably explained why he was here now, in a darkened hotel room in Zurich, hiring a professional killer.

"It's like a confessional in here," Casagrande said in Italian.

"That's the point," Lange replied in the same language. "You can kneel if it makes you more comfortable."

"I think I'll remain standing."

"You have the dossier?"

Casagrande held up his attaché case. Lange lifted the Stechkin into the beam of light so the man from the Vatican could see it. Casagrande moved with the slowness of a man handling high explosives. He opened his briefcase, removed a large manila envelope, and laid it on the coffee table. Lange scooped it up with his gun hand and shook the contents into his lap. A moment later, he looked up.

"I'm disappointed. I was hoping you were coming here to ask me to kill the Pope."

"You would have done it, wouldn't you? You would have killed your Pope."

"He's not my pope, but the answer to your question is yes, I would have killed him. And if they'd hired me to do it, instead of that maniacal Turk, the Pole would have died that afternoon in St. Peter's."

"Then I suppose I should be thankful that the KGB didn't hire you. God knows you did enough other dirty work for them."

"The KGB? I don't think so, General, and neither do you. The K.GB wasn't fond of the Pole, but they weren't foolish enough to kill him, either. Even you don't believe it was the KGB. From what * hear, you believe the conspiracy to kill the Pope originated closer to home--within the Church itself. That's why the findings of your inquiry were kept secret. The prospect of revealing the true identity of the plotters was too embarrassing for all concerned. It was also convenient to keep the finger of unsubstantiated blame pointed eastward, toward Moscow, the true enemies of the Vatican."

"The days when we settled our differences by murdering popes ended with the Middle Ages."

"Please, General, such statements are beneath a man of your intelligence and experience." Lange dropped the dossier on the coffee table. "The links between this man and the Jew professor are too strong. I won't do it. Find someone else."

"There is no one else like you. And I don't have time to find another suitable candidate."

"Then it will cost you."

"How much?"

A pause, then: "Five hundred thousand, paid in advance."

"That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"No, I don't."

Casagrande made a show of thought, then nodded. "After you kill him, I want you to search his office and remove any material linking him to the professor or the book. I also want you to bring me his computer. Carry the items back to Zurich and leave them in the same safe-deposit account where you left the material from Munich."

"Transporting the computer of a man you've just killed is not the wisest thing for an assassin to do."

Casagrande looked at the ceiling. "How much?"

"An additional one hundred thousand."

"Done."

"When I see that the money has been deposited in my account, I'll move against the target. Is there a deadline?"

"Yesterday."

"Then you should have come to me two days ago."

Casagrande turned and let himself out. Eric Lange switched off the light and sat there in the dark, finishing his wine.

Casagrande walked down Bahnhofstrasse into a swirling wind blowing off the lake. He felt an appalling desire to fall on his knees in a confessional and unburden his sins to a priest. He could not. Under the rules of the Institute, he could confess only to a priest who was a member of the brotherhood. Because of the sensitive nature of Casagrande's work, his confessor was none other than Cardinal Marco Brindisi.

He came to the Talstrasse, a quiet street lined with graystone buildings and modern office blocks. Casagrande walked a short distance, until he arrived at a plain doorway. On the wall next to the doorway was a brass plaque:

Becker & Puhl

Private Bankers

Talstrasse 26

Next to the plaque was a button, which Casagrande pressed with his thumb. He glanced up into the fisheye of the security camera over the door, then looked away. A moment later, the deadbolt tapped back and Casagrande stepped into a small antechamber. Herr Becker was waiting for him. Starched, fussy and very bald,

Becker was known for absolute discretion, even in the highly secretive world of the Bahnhofstrasse. The exchange of information that took place next was brief and largely a needless formality. Casagrande and Becker were well acquainted and had done much business over the years, though Becker had no idea who Casagrande was or where his money came from. As usual, Casagrande had to struggle to hear Becker's voice, for it rose barely above a whisper even in normal conversation. As he followed him down the corridor to the strongbox room, the fall of Becker's Bally loafers on the polished marble floor made no sound.

They entered a windowless chamber, empty of furniture except for a high viewing table. Herr Becker left Casagrande alone, then returned a moment later with a metal a safe-deposit box. "Leave it on the table when you're finished," the banker said. "I'll be just outside the door if there's anything else you require."

The Swiss banker went out. Casagrande unbuttoned his overcoat and unzipped the false lining. Hidden inside were several bound stacks of currency, courtesy of Roberto Pucci. One by one, the Italian placed the bundles of cash into the box.