Daniel Silva - The Confessor

"This assassin of yours is quite efficient," he said.

"Unfortunately, he's had a good deal of practice."

"Tell me about him."

"It's my job to protect you from things like that, Eminence."

"I don't ask out of morbid curiosity, Carlo. My only concern is that this matter is being dealt with in an efficient manner."

They came to the Galleria Borghese. Casagrande sat down on a marble bench in front of the museum and motioned for Brindisi to do the same. The cardinal made a vast show of brushing away the dust before gingerly settling himself on the cold stone. Casagrande then spent the next five minutes reluctantly reciting everything he knew about the assassin called the Leopard, beginning with his long and bloody association with left-wing and Palestinian terrorist groups, and concluding with his transformation into a highly paid professional killer. Casagrande had the distinct impression that the cardinal was enjoying his vicarious association with evil.

"His real name?"

"Not clear, Eminence."

"His nationality?"

"The prevailing sentiment among European security officials is that he is Swiss, although that too is a matter of some speculation."

"You've actually met this man?"

"We've been in the same room, Eminence. We've done business but I still wouldn't say that I've actually met him. I doubt whether anyone truly has."

"Is he intelligent?"

"Highly."

"Educated?"

"There is evidence to suggest that he studied theology briefly at the University of Fribourg before he was lured away by the call of leftist violence and terror. There is also evidence to suggest that he attended a novitiate in Zurich when he was a young man."

"You mean to tell me this monster actually studied for the priesthood?" Cardinal Brindisi shook his head slowly. "I don't suppose he still considers himself a Catholic?"

"The Leopard? I'm not sure he believes in anything but himself."

"And now a man who once killed for the Communists works for Carlo Casagrande, the man who helped the Polish pope bring down the Evil Empire."

"Politics, as they say, does make for strange bedfellows." Casagrande stood up. "Come, let's walk."

They set out down a path lined with stone pine. The cardinal was taller than the security man by a narrow head. His vestments had the effect of softening his appearance. Dressed as he was now, in civilian clothing, Marco Brindisi was a hard, menacing figure. A man who instilled fear rather than trust.

They sat on a bench overlooking the Piazza di Sienna Casagrande thought of his wife, of sitting with her in this very spot and watching the horses parade around the oval track. He could almost smell the strawberries on her hands. Angelina had loved to eat strawberries and drink spumanti in springtime in the Villa Borghese.

Cardinal Brindisi shattered Casagrande's unsettling memory by raising the subject of the man known as Ehud Landau. The Vatican security man told the cardinal about Landau's visit to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brenzone.

"My God," the cardinal murmured beneath his breath. "How did Mother Vincenza hold up?"

"Apparently quite well. She told him the cover story we devised and saw him on his way. But the next morning, he returned to the convent and asked about Sister Regina."

"Sister Regina! This is a disaster. How could he have known?"

Casagrande shook his head. It was a question he had been asking himself since Mother Vincenza's second telephone call. How could he have known? Benjamin Stern's apartment had been thoroughly searched. Everything dealing with the convent had been removed and destroyed. Obviously, some piece of evidence had slipped through Casagrande's net and landed in the hands of his adversary from Israel.

"Where is he now?" the cardinal asked.

"I'm afraid I haven't a clue. I put a man on him in Brenzone, but he slipped away from him in Verona. He's obviously a trained professional. We haven't heard from him again since."

"How do you plan to deal with him?"

Casagrande turned his gaze from the ancient racetrack and looked into the pale eyes of the cardinal. "As secretary of state, you should be aware that the Security Office has identified a man it be-"eves is intent on assassinating the Holy Father."

"So noted," the cardinal said formally. "What steps have you taken to make certain he does not succeed?"

"I brought Achille Bartoletti into the picture, and he has responded as you might expect. A task force has been formed, and a round-the-clock search for this man is now underway."

"I suppose that at some point the Holy Father will need to be told about this threat as well. Perhaps we can use this information to influence his decision about going to the ghetto next week."

"My thoughts exactly," Casagrande said. "Is our business concluded?"

"One more item, actually." The cardinal told Casagrande about the reporter from La Repubblica who was investigating the Holy Father's childhood. "Exposure of a Vatican deceit, even a harmless one, would not be a welcome development at this time. See if there's something you can do to put this meddlesome reporter in his place."

"I'll work on it," Casagrande said. "What did you say to the Holy Father?"

"I told him it might be helpful if he prepared a memorandum summarizing the unhappy details of his childhood."

"How did he respond?"

"He agreed, but I don't want to wait for him. I'd like you to pursue your own investigation. It's important that we learn the truth before it's printed in the pages of La Repubblica.'"

"I'll put a man on it right away."

"Very well," the cardinal said. "Now, I believe our business is concluded."

"One of my men will be trailing you. At the right moment, the van will appear. It will take you back to the Vatican--unless you'd like to walk back to the Via Veneto. We could have a glass of rascati and watch Rome go by?"

The cardinal smiled, never an encouraging development. "Actually, Carlo, I prefer the view of Rome from the windows of the Apostolic Palace."

With that, he turned and walked away. A moment later, he vanished into the darkness.

Early the next morning Eric Lange crossed the English Channel on the Newhaven-to-Dieppe ferry. He parked his rented Peugeot in a public lot near the ferry terminal and walked to the Quai Henri IV for breakfast. In a cafe overlooking the harbor, he had brioche and cafeau lait and read the morning papers. There was no mention of the murder of British investigative journalist Peter Malone, nor had there been any news on the radio. Lange was quite certain the body had not yet been discovered. That would take place at approximately ten o'clock London time, when his research assistants arrived for work. The police, when they launched their investigation, would have no shortage of suspects. Malone had made many powerful enemies over the years. Any one of them would have been more than happy to end Malone's life.

Lange ordered more brioche and another bowl of coffee. He found that he was in no hurry to leave. The long night of driving had left him drowsy, and the idea of spending the day traveling back to Zurich depressed him. He thought of Katrine, her secluded villa on the edge of a dense Norman forest, the pleasures that could be found in her enormous canopied bed.

He left a few euros on the table and walked along the quay to the Poissonnerie, Dieppe's old covered fish market. He moved from stall to stall, carefully examining the catch, chatting easily with the fishmongers in perfect French. He selected a pair of lovely sea bass and an assortment of shellfish. Then he left the market and headed for the Grand Rue, Dieppe's main shopping street. He bought bread from the boulangerie and several fresh farm cheeses from the charcuterie. His last stop was the cave, where he purchased a half-dozen bottles of wine and a Calvados, the famed apple brandy of Normandy.