The Confessor (11 page)

Casagrande had heard the sermon many times before, and he allowed his mind to drift. His thoughts turned to the situation in Munich and the report he had received from his operative about the Israeli called Landau. He sensed further trouble, an ominous threat to the Church and the brotherhood itself. He required the blessing of the cardinal, and the money of Roberto Pucci, to deal with it.

“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,”
the cardinal recited. “For this is the chalice of my blood, of the new and eternal testament, the mystery of faith, which shall be shed for you and for many unto the remission of sins.”

Casagrande’s attention returned to the Mass. Five minutes later, when the Liturgy of the Eucharist was complete, he rose to his feet and filed toward the altar behind Roberto Pucci. The financier received the sacrament of Communion, then Casagrande stepped forward.

Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi held the host aloft, stared directly into Casagrande’s eyes, and said in Latin: “May the body of our Lord Jesus Christ keep your soul unto life everlasting.”

Carlo Casagrande whispered, “Amen.”

BUSINESS WAS
never discussed in the chapel. That was reserved for a sumptuous buffet lunch, served in a large gallery hung with tapestries overlooking the terrace. Casagrande was distracted and had no appetite. During his long war against the Red Brigades, he had been forced to live in hiding in a series of underground bunkers and military barracks, surrounded by the rough company of his staff officers. He had never grown used to the luxurious privilege of life behind the Vatican walls. Nor did he share the enthusiasm of the other guests for Roberto Pucci’s food.

He pushed a piece of smoked salmon around his plate while Cardinal Brindisi deftly conducted the meeting. Brindisi was a lifelong Vatican bureaucrat, but he loathed the circular logic and duplicity that characterized most discussions inside the Curia. The cardinal was a man of action, and there was a boardroom quality to the way he presided over the agenda. Had he not become a priest, thought Casagrande, he might very well have been Roberto Pucci’s fiercest competitor.

The men seated around the room considered democracy a messy and inefficient means of governance, and the brotherhood, like the Roman Catholic Church itself, was no democracy. Brindisi had been entrusted with power and would wield it until his death. In the lexicon of the Institute, each man in the room was a Director. He would return home and hold a similar gathering with the men who reported to him. In that way, Brindisi’s orders would be dispersed throughout the vast organization. There was no tolerance for creativity or independent action among middle management. Members were sworn to absolute obedience.

Casagrande’s work was never discussed among the Directorate. He spoke only in executive session, which in this case consisted of a stroll through the magnificent terraced gardens of the Villa Galatina with Brindisi and Pucci during a break in the proceedings. Brindisi walked with his chin up and his fingers interlaced across his abdomen, Casagrande on his left, Pucci on his right. The three most powerful men in the brotherhood: Brindisi, spiritual leader; Pucci, minister of finance; Casagrande, chief of security and operations. The members of the Institute privately referred to them as the Holy Trinity.

The Institute did not have an intelligence section of its own. Casagrande was beholden to a small cadre of Vatican policemen and Swiss Guards loyal to him and the brotherhood. His legendary status among the Italian police and intelligence forces gave him access to their resources as well. In addition, he had built a worldwide network of intelligence and security officials, including a senior administrator of the American FBI, all willing to do his bidding. Axel Weiss, the Munich detective, was a member of Casagrande’s network. So was the minister of the interior in the heavily Catholic state of Bavaria. At the suggestion of the minister, Weiss had been assigned to the Stern case. He had removed sensitive material from the historian’s apartment and had controlled the direction of the investigation. Stern’s assassination had been linked to neo-Nazis, just as Casagrande had intended. Now, with the appearance of the Israeli called Landau, he feared the situation in Munich was beginning to unravel. He expressed his concerns to Cardinal Brindisi and Roberto Pucci in the garden of the Villa Galatina.

“Why don’t you just kill him?” Pucci said in his gravelly voice.

Yes, kill him,
thought Casagrande.
The Pucci solution.
Casagrande had lost count of how many murders had been linked to the shadowy financier. He chose his words carefully, for he had no wish to openly cross swords with him. Pucci had once ordered a man killed for leering at Pucci’s daughter, and his assassins were far more skilled than the fanatical children of the Red Brigades.

“We took a calculated risk by liquidating Benjamin Stern, but it was forced upon us by the material in his possession.” Casagrande spoke in a measured, deliberate manner. “Based upon the actions of this man Landau, it is now safe to conclude that the Israeli secret service does not believe the murder of their former operative was carried out by a neo-Nazi extremist.”

“Which brings us back to my original suggestion,” Pucci interrupted. “Why don’t you just kill him?”

“This is not the Italian service that I’m talking about, Don Pucci. This is the
Israeli
service. As director of security, it is my job to protect the Institute. In my opinion, it would be a grave mistake to involve us in a shooting war with the Israeli secret service. They have assassins of their own—assassins who have killed on the streets of Rome and slipped away without a trace.” Casagrande looked across the cardinal toward Pucci. “Assassins who could penetrate the walls of this old abbey, Don Pucci.”

Cardinal Brindisi played the role of the mediator. “Then how do you suggest we proceed, Carlo?”

“Carefully, Eminence. If he is truly an agent of Israeli intelligence, then we can use our friends in the European security services to make life very uncomfortable for him. In the meantime, we must make sure there’s nothing else for him to find.” Casagrande paused, then added: “I’m afraid we have one loose end remaining. After examining the material taken from Professor Stern’s apartment, I’ve come to the conclusion he was working with a collaborator—a man who’s given us problems in the past.”

A look of annoyance rippled over the cardinal’s face—a stone cast into a calm pond at sunrise—then his features regained their composure. “And the other aspects of your inquiry, Carlo? Are you any closer to identifying the brethren who leaked these documents to Professor Stern in the first place?”

Casagrande gave a frustrated shake of his head. How many hours had he spent sifting the material taken from the flat in Munich? Notebooks, computer files, address books—Casagrande had gone over everything, looking for clues to the identity of the individuals or group who’d given the information to the professor. Thus far he’d found nothing. The professor had covered his tracks well. It was as if the documents had been handed to him by a ghost.

“I’m afraid that element of the case remains a mystery, Eminence. If this act of treachery was perpetrated by someone inside the Vatican, we may never know the truth. The Curia happens to be good training ground for intrigues of this sort.”

This remark elicited a flicker of a smile from Brindisi. They walked in silence for a moment. The cardinal’s eyes were down.

“Two days ago, I had lunch with the Holy Father,” he said finally. “As we suspected, His Holiness intends to go forward with his program of reconciliation with the Jews. I tried to dissuade him, but it was useless. He’s going to the Great Synagogue of Rome next week.”

Roberto Pucci spat at the ground. Carlo Casagrande exhaled heavily. He was not surprised by the cardinal’s news. Casagrande and Brindisi had a source on the Holy Father’s staff, a secretary who was a member of the brotherhood and kept them apprised of developments inside the
appartamento
. He had been warning for weeks that something like this was coming.

“He is a caretaker pope,” Pucci snapped. “He needs to learn his place.”

Casagrande held his breath, waiting for Pucci to suggest his favorite solution to a problem, but not even Pucci would consider such an option.

“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
appartamento
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.”

PART TWO
A CONVENT BY THE LAKE

I
T 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.