The Confessor (41 page)

“I am not angry with you for bringing me this information, Mr. Shamron. As painful as these documents are, they must be made public, so that they can be examined by historians and ordinary Jews and Catholics alike and placed in their proper context.”

Shamron laid the documents in front of the Pope. “We have no desire to make them public. We leave them in your hands to do with them what you will.”

The Pope tilted his head down at the papers, but his gaze was distant, his eyes lost in thought. “He was not as wicked as his enemies have made him out to be, our Pope Pius the Twelfth. But unfortunately, neither was he as virtuous as his defenders, the Church included, have claimed. He had his reasons for silence—fear of dividing German Catholics, fear of German retaliation against the Vatican, a desire to play a diplomatic role as a peacemaker—but we must face the painful fact that the Allies wanted him to speak out against the Holocaust and Adolf Hitler wanted him to remain silent. For whatever reason—his hatred of Communism, his love of Germany, the fact that he was surrounded by Germans in his papal household—Pius chose the course Hitler wanted, and the shadow of that choice hangs over us to this day. He wanted to be a statesman when what the world needed most was a priest—a man in a cassock to shout at the murderers at the top of his lungs to stop what they were doing, in the name of God and all that was decent.”

The Pope looked up and studied the faces before him—first Lavon, then Gabriel, then finally Shamron, where his gaze lingered longest. “We must face the uncomfortable fact that silence was a weapon in the hands of the Germans. It allowed the roundups and deportations to go forward with a minimum of resistance. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Catholics who took part in rescuing Jews. But had the priests and nuns of Europe received instructions or simply the blessing from their pope to resist the Holocaust, many more Catholics would have sheltered Jews, and many more Jews would have survived the war as a result. Had the German episcopacy spoken up against the murder of Jews early on, it is possible that the Holocaust might never have reached its feverish pitch. Pope Pius knew that the wholesale mechanized murder of the European Jews was under way, but he chose to keep that information largely to himself. Why did he not tell the world? Why did he not even tell his bishops in the countries where roundups were taking place? Was he honoring a covenant of evil reached on the shores of a lake?”

The Pope reached for the pot in the center of the table. When Father Donati leaned forward to help him, he raised his hand, as if to say His Holiness still knew how to pour a cup of tea. He spent a moment reflectively stirring in the milk and sugar before resuming.

“I’m afraid the behavior of Pius is only one aspect of the war that needs examination. We must face the uncomfortable truth that, among Catholics, there were many more killers than there were rescuers. Catholic chaplains ministered to the very German forces committing the slaughter of the Jews. They heard their confessions and provided them the sacrament of Holy Communion. In Vichy France, Catholic priests actually helped French and German forces round up Jews for deportation and death. In Lithuania, the hierarchy actually forbade priests to rescue Jews. In Slovakia, a country ruled by a priest, the government actually
paid
the Germans to take away their Jews to the death camps. In Catholic Croatia, clergymen actually took part in the killings themselves. A Franciscan nicknamed Brother Satan ran a Croatian concentration camp where twenty thousand Jews were murdered.” The Pope paused to sip his tea, as though he needed to remove a bitter taste from his mouth. “We must also face the truth that after the war, the Church sought leniency for the murderers and helped hundreds escape justice altogether.”

Shamron stirred restlessly in his seat but said nothing.

“Tomorrow, at the Great Synagogue of Rome, the Catholic Church will begin to confront those questions honestly for the first time.”

“Your words are compelling, Your Holiness,” said Shamron, “but it might not be safe for you to venture across the river and say them aloud in a synagogue for the world to hear.”

“A synagogue is the only place for these words to be spoken—especially the synagogue in the Roman ghetto, where the Jews were rounded up beneath the very windows of the Pope without so much as a murmur of protest. My predecessor went there once to begin this journey. His heart was in the right place, but I’m afraid many segments of the Curia were not with him, and so his journey stopped short of its destination. I will finish it for him, tomorrow, in the place where he started it.”

“It appears you have something else in common with your predecessor, Holiness,” Shamron said. “There are elements within the Church—quite probably here in Rome—who do not support a candid examination of the Vatican’s role in the Holocaust. They have proven themselves willing to commit murder to keep the past a secret, and you should act on the assumption that your life is now in danger as well.”

“You’re referring to Crux Vera?”

“Does such an organization exist within the Church?”

The Pope and Father Donati exchanged a long look. Then the Pope’s gaze settled once more on Shamron. “I’m afraid Crux Vera does indeed exist, Mr. Shamron. The society was allowed to flourish during the thirties and throughout the Cold War because it proved to be an effective weapon in the fight against Bolshevism. Unfortunately, many of the excesses committed in the name of that fight can be laid directly at the feet of Crux Vera and its allies.”

“And now that the Cold War is over?” asked Gabriel.

“Crux Vera has adapted with the times. It has proved itself a useful tool for maintaining doctrinal discipline. In Latin America, Crux Vera has battled the adherents of liberation theology, sometimes resorting to ghastly violence to keep rebellious priests in line. It has waged a ceaseless fight against liberalism, relativism, and the tenets of the Second Vatican Council. As a result, many of those inside the Church who support the goals of Crux Vera have turned a blind eye to some of its more unseemly methods.”

“Is Crux Vera also engaged in an effort to keep unpleasant Church secrets from coming to light?”

“Without a doubt,” answered Father Donati.

“Is Carlo Casagrande a member of Crux Vera?”

“I suppose that in your line of work he would be known as the director of operations.”

“Are there other members inside the Vatican itself?”

This time it was the Pope who answered Gabriel’s question. “My secretary of state, Cardinal Marco Brindisi, is the leader of Crux Vera,” the Pope said gloomily.

“If you know Brindisi and Casagrande are members of Crux Vera, why do you allow them to keep their jobs?”

“Was it not Stalin who said keep your allies close but your enemies closer?” A smile flashed over the Pope’s face, then quickly evaporated. “Besides, Cardinal Brindisi is untouchable. If I tried to move against him, his allies in the Curia and the College of Cardinals would revolt and the Church would be hopelessly divided. I’m afraid that, for now, I’m stuck with him and his henchmen.”

“Which brings us back to my original point, Holiness. Your security is being handled by men who oppose you and your mission. Under the circumstances, I think it would be wise for you to postpone your visit to the synagogue until a safer moment presents itself.”

Then Shamron laid a file on the table and opened it—the dossier on the assassin codenamed the Leopard that he had taken from King Saul Boulevard. “We believe this man is working for Crux Vera. He is without a doubt one of the world’s most dangerous assassins. We’re virtually certain he was the man who killed Peter Malone in London. We suspect he also killed Benjamin Stern. We must assume that he will now try to kill you.”

The Pope looked at the photographs, then at Shamron. “What you must remember, Mr. Shamron, is that I am under the protection of these men wherever I am, inside the Vatican walls or beyond them. The threat to me is the same whether I am standing in the papal apartments or in the Great Synagogue of Rome.”

“Point taken, Holiness.”

Father Donati leaned forward. “Once the Holy Father steps beyond the walls of the Vatican, onto Italian soil, his security is augmented by Italian police. Thanks to the false papal-assassin plot engineered by Carlo Casagrande, security for tomorrow’s event at the synagogue will be unprecedented. We believe that it is safe enough for His Holiness to make the appearance.”

“And what if this man is a member of the Pope’s security contingent?”

“The Holy Spirit will protect me during this journey,” the Pope replied.

“With all due respect, Holiness, I would feel better if someone else was looking over your shoulder as well.”

“You have a suggestion, Mr. Shamron?”

“I do, Holiness.” Shamron put a rough hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’d like Gabriel to accompany you and Father Donati into the synagogue. He’s an experienced officer who knows a thing or two about this sort of business.”

The Pope looked at Father Donati. “Luigi? Surely, this can be accomplished, can it not?”

“It
can,
Holiness. But there is one problem.”

“You’re referring to the fact that Carlo Casagrande has portrayed Mr. Allon as a papal assassin?”

“I am, Holiness.”

“Obviously, the situation will have to be handled carefully, but if there’s one person the Swiss Guards will listen to, it’s me.” He looked at Shamron. “I will make this pilgrimage to the ghetto as scheduled, and you will be at my side, protecting me, as we should have been at yours sixty years ago. Quite fitting, don’t you think, Mr. Shamron?”

Shamron gave a curt nod and an iron smile. Indeed, it was.

TWENTY MINUTES
later, the arrangements for the morning complete, Father Donati and the Pope left the safe flat and sped along the river toward the Vatican. At St. Anne’s Gate, the car braked to a halt. Father Donati lowered his window as a Swiss Guard stepped out of his sentry post.

“Father Donati? What in the world is—”

The guardsman fell silent as Pope Paul VII leaned into view. Then the Swiss Guard snapped to attention.

“Holiness!”

“No one must know about this,” the Pope said evenly. “Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Holiness!”

“If you tell anyone—even your superiors—that you’ve seen me tonight, you’ll have to answer to me. And I promise you, it won’t be a pleasant experience.”

“I won’t say a word, Holiness. I swear.”

“I hope so, young man—for
your
sake.”

The Pope leaned back in his seat. Father Donati raised his window and sped toward the Apostolic Palace. “I’m not sure that poor fellow is ever going to get over that,” he said, suppressing laughter.

“Was that really necessary, Luigi?”

“I’m afraid so, Holiness.”

“God forgive us,” the Pope said. Then he added: “For everything we’ve done.”

“It will all be over soon, Holiness.”

“I pray you’re right.”

E
RIC
L
ANGE DID NOT
sleep well that night. A rare bout of conscience? Nerves? Perhaps it was the furnacelike heat of Katrine’s body nestled against him on the tiny cot. Whatever the reason, he awoke at three-thirty and lay there, wide-eyed, Katrine pressing against his ribs, until the first gray shreds of light entered the window of Carlo Casagrande’s hateful room.

He swung his legs out of the bed and crept naked across the bare floor to the window, parted the net curtains, and peered down into the street. His motorcycle was there, parked outside the entrance of the tenement house. There were no signs of surveillance. He released the curtain and it fell back into place. Katrine stirred, wrestled with the blanket, then rolled over and slept on.

Lange brewed a pot of espresso on the electric ring and drank several cups before entering the bathroom. He spent the next hour there, carefully grooming and altering his appearance. He darkened his hair with dye, transformed his gray eyes to brown with a pair of contact lenses. Lastly, he added eyeglasses, black-rimmed and cheap-looking, the spectacles of a priest. When he finished, the face staring back at him in the fogged glass was that of a stranger. He compared it to the photograph on the badge Casagrande had prepared for him:
Manfred Beck, Special Investigation Division, Vatican Security Office.
Satisfied, he went back into the main room.