Daniel Silva - The Confessor

mind. Were the two cases linked? Did Manzini and Felici know each other? Had they ever worked together? Rossi decided it was time to talk to the Vatican. He approached the Vatican Security Office and requested the personnel files for each of the missing priests. The Vatican denied Rossi's request. Instead, he was given a memorandum that purported to summarize the Curial careers of each priest. According to the memorandum, both had worked in a series of low-level staff assignments, each more trivial than the last. Frustrated, Rossi asked one more question. Did they know each other? They may have bumped into each other socially, Rossi was told, but they had never worked together.

Rossi was convinced that the Vatican was hiding something. He decided to bypass the Security Office altogether and get the complete files for himself. Rossi's wife had a brother who was a priest assigned to the Vatican. Rossi pleaded for help, and the priest reluctantly agreed. A week later, Rossi had copies of the complete personnel files.

"Did they know each other?"

"One would assume so. You see, both Felici and Manzini worked in the Secretariat of State during the war."

"Which section?"

"The German desk."

Rossi tooka long look into the street before continuing. About a week later he had received a response to his original request for reports of other missing clergy. This one didn't match the criteria perfectly, but the local police had decided to forward the report to Rossi anyway. Near the Austrian border, in the town of Tolmezzo, an elderly widow had vanished. Local authorities had given up the

search, and she was now presumed dead. Why had her disappearance been brought to Rossi's attention? Because for ten years she had been a nun, before renouncing her vows in 1947 in order to marry.

Rossi decided to bring his superiors into the picture. He wrote up his findings and presented them to his section chief, then requested permission to press Vatican authorities for more information on the two missing priests. Request denied. The nun had a daughter living in France, in a town called Le Rouret in the hills above Cannes. Rossi requested authorization to travel to France to question her. Request denied. Word had come down from on high that there was no link between the disappearances and nothing to be found by poking around behind the walls of the Vatican.

"Who sent down the word?"

"The old man himself," Rossi said. "Carlo Casagrande."

"Casagrande? Why do I know that name?"

"General Carlo Casagrande was the chief of counterterrorism at L'arma dei Carabinieri during the seventies and eighties. He's the man who routed the Red Brigades and made Italy safe again. For that, he's something of a national hero. He works for the Vatican Security Office now, but inside the Italian intelligence and security community he's still a god. He's infallible. When Casagrande speaks, everyone listens. When Casagrande wants a case closed, it's closed.

"Who's doing the killing?" Gabriel asked.

The detective shrugged--We're talking about the Vatican, my friend. "Whoever's behind it, the Vatican doesn't want the matter pursued. The code of silence is being strictly enforced, and Casagrande is using his influence to keep the Italian police on a short leash."

"The nun who disappeared in Tolmezzo--what was her name?"

"Regina Carcassi."

Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you'll know the truth about what happened at the convent.

"And what was the name of the convent where she lived during the war, before she renounced her vows?"

"Someplace up north, I think." Rossi hesitated for a moment, searching his memory. "Ah, yes, the Convent of the Sacred Heart. It's on Lake Garda, in a town called Brenzone. Nice place."

Something in the street below caught Rossi's attention. He leaned forward and pulled aside the curtain, peering through the window intently. Then he leaped to his feet and seized Gabriel's arm.

"Come with me. Now!"

THE FIRST police officers poured through the front door of the pensione: two plainclothes Polizia di Stato followed by a half-dozen carabinieri with submachine guns across their chests. Rossi led the way across the common room, then down a short corridor to a metal door that opened onto a darkened interior courtyard. Gabriel could hear the police hammering up the stairs toward his empty room. They had successfully eluded the first wave. More were sure to follow.

Across the courtyard was a passageway leading to the street that ran parallel to the Via Gioberti. Rossi grabbed Gabriel by the forearm and pulled him toward it. Behind them, on the second floor of the pensione, Gabriel could hear the carabinieri breaking down his door.

Rossi froze as two more carabinieri came through the passageway at a run, weapons at the ready. Gabriel gave Rossi a shove and they started moving again. The carabinieri reached the courtyard and clattered to a stop. Immediately their submachine guns swung

up to the firing position. Gabriel could see that surrender was not an option. He dived to the ground, landing heavily on his chest, as the first rounds scorched over his head. Rossi was not quick enough. A shot struck him in the shoulder and threw him to the ground.

The Beretta fell from his grasp and landed three feet from Gabriel's left hand. Gabriel reached out and pulled the gun to him. Without hesitating, he rose to his elbows and started firing. One carabiniere fell, then the other.

Gabriel crawled over to Rossi. He was bleeding heavily from a wound to his right shoulder.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" "Can you walk?" "Help me up."

Gabriel pulled Rossi to his feet, wrapped his arm around the Italian's waist, and shepherded him toward the passageway. As they passed the two dead carabinieri, Gabriel heard shouting behind him. He released his hold on Rossi and scooped up one of the submachine guns, then dropped to one knee and raked the side of the pensione with automatic fire. He heard screaming and saw! men diving for cover.

Gabriel grabbed a spare magazine, rammed it into the weapon, and shoved Rossi's Beretta nine-millimeter into the waistband of his trousers. Then he hooked his arm through Rossi's left elbow and pulled him through the passageway. As they neared the street, two more carabinieri appeared. Gabriel fired instantly, blowing both men from their feet.

As they reached the pavement, Gabriel hesitated. From the left, a car was racing toward him, lights flashing, siren blaring. From the right, four men were approaching on foot. Across the street was the entrance of a trattoria.

As Gabriel stepped forward, shots erupted from inside the passageway. He lunged to his left, behind the cover of the wall, and tried to pulled Rossi toward him, but the Italian was hit twice in the back. He froze, his arms flung wide, his head back, as one final round tore through the right side of his abdomen.

There was nothing Gabriel could do for him now. He sprinted across the street and threw open the door of the restaurant. As he burst into the dining room with the machine gun in his hands, there was pandemonium.

In Italian, he shouted: "Terrorists! Terrorists! Get out! Now!"

Everyone in the room rose in unison and rushed toward the door. As Gabriel ran toward the kitchen, he could hear frustrated carabinieri screaming at the patrons to get out of the way.

Gabriel raced through the tiny kitchen, past startled cooks and waiters, and kicked open the back door. He found himself in a narrow alleyway, not four feet wide, foul-smelling and dark as a mine-shaft. He slammed the door behind him and kept running. A few seconds later, the door flew open again. Gabriel turned and sprayed the alleyway with gunfire. The door slammed shut.

At the end of the alley, he came to a broad boulevard. To his right was the facade of the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; to his left, the expanse of the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. He dropped the submachine gun in the alley and crossed the street, weaving his way through the traffic. Sirens rang out from every direction.