The Confessor (38 page)

My God,
thought Casagrande.
How does he know?
He weighed the advantages of lying, but thought better of it. “No,” he said. “I did not know that the professor was connected to them in any way.”

“You should have.” There was a sudden edge to his voice, the blade of a trench knife. “And did you know that an agent named Gabriel Allon is investigating his death, along with the activities of your little group?”

“I didn’t know his name until this moment. Obviously, you’ve done some investigating of your own.”

“I make it my business to know when someone is hunting me. I also know that Allon was at the Pensione Abruzzi in Rome meeting with Inspector Alessio Rossi when you sent an army of
carabinieri
in there to kill him. You should have come to me with your problems, General. Allon would be dead now.”

How? How does this monster know about the Israeli and Rossi? How is such a thing possible? He’s a bully,
thought Casagrande.
Bullies like to be placated.
He decided to play the role of the appeaser. It was not a role that came naturally to him.

“You’re right,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I should have come to you. Obviously, it would have been better for both of us. May I sit down?”

The light lingered on his face for a few more seconds, then it fell upon an armchair, a few inches from the spot where Casagrande was standing. He sat down and placed his hands on his knees. The light remained in his eyes.

“The question is, General, can I trust you enough to work for you again, especially on something like this?”

“Perhaps I can earn your trust.”

“With what?”

“Money, of course.”

“It would take a great deal of money.”

“The figure I had in mind was substantial,” Casagrande said. “A sum of money that most men would consider sufficient to live on for a very long time.”

“I’m listening.”

“Four million dollars.”

“Five million,” countered the assassin. “Half now, half on completion.”

Casagrande squeezed his kneecaps, trying to conceal his rising tension. It was not like quarreling with Cardinal Brindisi. The Leopard’s sanctions tended to be irrevocable.

“Five million,” Casagrande said in agreement. “But you will be paid only
one
million of that in advance. If you choose to steal my money without fulfilling the terms of the contract, that’s your business. If you want the remaining four million dollars—” Casagrande paused. “I’m afraid trust cuts both ways.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, long enough for Casagrande to inch forward out of his chair and prepare to take his leave. He froze when the assassin said, “Tell me how it would be done.”

Casagrande spoke for the next hour—a veteran policeman, calmly recounting the timeline of a rather mundane series of street crimes. All the while the light bored into his face. It was making him hot. His suit jacket was soaked with sweat and was clinging to his back like a wet blanket. He wished he’d turn the damned thing off. He’d rather sit in the dark with the monster than stare into the light any longer.

“Did you bring the down payment?”

Casagrande reached down and patted the side of his attaché case.

“Let me see it.”

Casagrande placed the attaché case on the table, opened it, and turned it so the assassin could see his money.

“Do you know what will happen to you if you betray me?”

“I’m certain I can imagine,” Casagrande said. “But surely a down payment of that magnitude is enough to demonstrate my good faith.”

“Faith? Is that what leads you to perform this act?”

“There are some things you’re not permitted to know. Do you accept the contract?”

The assassin closed the attaché case and it disappeared into the darkness.

“There’s just one last thing,” Casagrande said. “You’ll need Security Office identification to get past the Swiss Guards and the
carabinieri.
Did you bring the photograph?”

Casagrande heard the rustle of fabric, then a hand appeared, holding a passport photo. Poor quality. Casagrande reckoned it had been made by an automated machine. He looked at the image and wondered whether it was truly the face of the killing machine known as the Leopard. The assassin seemed to sense his thoughts, for a few seconds later the Stechkin reappeared. It was pointed directly at Casagrande’s heart.

“You wish to ask me a question?”

Casagrande shook his head.

“Good,” the assassin said. “Get out.”

T
HE
ACQUA ALTA
LAPPED
against the steps of the Church of San Zaccaria as Francesco Tiepolo, dressed in an oilskin coat and rubber knee-length boots, made his way ponderously across the flooded square through the gathering dusk. He entered the church and sacrilegiously shouted out that it was time to close up for the night. Adriana Zinetti seemed to float down from her perch high atop the main altar. Antonio Politi yawned elaborately and struck a series of contortionist yoga poses, all designed to demonstrate to Tiepolo the harsh toll the day had taken on his young body. Tiepolo looked toward the Bellini. The shroud remained in place, but the fluorescent lamps were extinguished. With great effort, he resisted the impulse to scream.

Antonio Politi appeared at Tiepolo’s side and laid a paint-smudged paw on his heavy shoulder. “When, Francesco? When are you going to get it through your head he’s not coming back?”

When indeed?
The boy wasn’t ready for the Bellini masterpiece, but Tiepolo had no choice, not if the church was going to reopen to the public in time for the spring tourist season. “Give him one more day,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the darkened painting. “If he’s not back by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll let you finish it.”

Antonio’s joy was tempered by his unreserved interest in the tall, striking creature making her way apprehensively across the nave. She had black eyes and a head of abundant, uncontrollable dark hair. Tiepolo knew faces. Bone structure. He’d bet his fee for the San Zaccaria project she was a Jewess. She seemed familiar to him. He thought he might have seen her once or twice in the church, watching the restorers working.

Antonio started toward her. Tiepolo thrust out a thick arm, blocking his path, and summoned a watery smile.

“Is there something I can help you with, signorina?”

“I’m looking for Francesco Tiepolo.”

Deflated, Antonio skulked away. Tiepolo laid a hand on his chest—
You’ve found him, my treasure.

“I’m a friend of Mario Delvecchio.”

Tiepolo’s flirtatious gaze turned suddenly cold. He folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Where in God’s name is he?”

The woman said nothing, just reached out and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded the note and read the words written there:

He looked up and stared at her in disbelief.

“Who are you?”

“It’s not important, Signor Tiepolo.”

He held up the note in his big paw. “Where
is
he?”

“Will you help him save your friend’s life?”

“I’ll listen to what he has to say. If my friend is truly in some sort of danger, of course I’ll help.”

“Then you have to come with me.”

“Now?”

“Please, Signor Tiepolo. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

“Where are we going?”

But she just seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the door.

CANNAREGIO SMELLED
of salt and the lagoon. The woman led Tiepolo across a bridge spanning the Rio di Ghetto Nuovo, then into the clammy gloom of the
sottoportego.
A figure appeared at the opposite end of the passageway, a small man with his hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, surrounded by a halo of yellow sodium light. Tiepolo stopped walking.

“
WOULD YOU
mind telling me what the
fuck
is going on?”

“Obviously, you got my note.”

“Interesting. But you must admit it was short on details, as well as one critical piece of information. How would you, an art restorer named Mario Delvecchio, know that the Pope’s life is in danger?”

“Because restoration is something of a hobby for me. I have another job—a job that very few people know about. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Francesco?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who I work for is not important.”

“It’s
damned
important if you want me to help you get to the Pope.”

“I work for an intelligence service. Not always, just under special circumstances.”

“Like a death in the family.”

“Actually, yes.”

“Which intelligence service do you work for?”

“I would prefer not to answer that question.”

“I’m sure you would, but if you want me to talk to the Pope, you’re going to answer my questions. I repeat: What service do you work for? SISDE? Vatican intelligence?”

“I’m not Italian, Francesco.”

“Not Italian! That’s very funny, Mario.”

“My name isn’t Mario.”

THEY WALKED
the perimeter of the square, Gabriel and Tiepolo side by side, Chiara a few paces behind. It took a long time for Tiepolo to process the information he had just been given. He was a shrewd man, a sophisticated Venetian, politically and socially connected, yet the situation confronting him now was well beyond anything he had ever experienced. It was as if he had just been told that the Titian altarpiece in the Frari was a reproduction painted by a Russian. Finally, he drew a deep breath, a tenor preparing himself for the climactic passage of an aria, and twisted his head toward Gabriel.

“I remember when you came here as a boy. It was seventy-four or seventy-five, wasn’t it?” Tiepolo’s eyes were on Gabriel, but his memory was fixed on Venice, twenty-five years earlier, a little workshop filled with eager young faces. “I remember when you served your apprenticeship with Umberto Conti. You were gifted, even then. You were better than everyone else. You were going to be great one day. Umberto knew it. So did I.” Tiepolo stroked his tangled beard with his big hand. “Did Umberto know the truth about you? Did he know you were an Israeli agent?”

“Umberto knew nothing.”

“You deceived Umberto Conti? You should be ashamed of yourself. He
believed
in Mario Delvecchio.” Tiepolo paused, checked his anger, lowered his voice. “He believed Mario Delvecchio would be one of the greatest restorers ever.”

“I always wanted to tell Umberto the truth, but I couldn’t. I have enemies, Francesco. Men who destroyed my family. Men who wish to kill me today for things that happened thirty years ago. If you think Italians have long memories, you should spend some time in the Middle East. We’re the ones who invented the
vendetta,
not the Sicilians.”

“Cain slew Abel, and east of Eden he was cast. And you were cast here, to our swampy island in the lagoon, to heal paintings.”

It was a peace offering. Gabriel accepted it with a conciliatory smile. “Do you realize that in my profession I have just committed a mortal sin? I revealed myself to you, because I fear your friend is in grave danger.”

“Do you really think they intend to kill him?”

“They’ve killed many people already. They killed my friend.”

Tiepolo looked around at the vacant
campo.
“I knew John Paul the First as well—Albino Luciani. He was going to clean up the Vatican. Sell off the Church’s assets, give the money to the poor people. Revolutionize the Church. He died after thirty-three days. A heart attack, the Vatican said.” Tiepolo shook his head. “There was nothing wrong with his heart. He had the heart of a lion. The courage of one, too. The changes he planned to bring to the Church were going to make a lot of people angry. And so—”