The Confessor

balance. And it worked out better than Father Donati could have hoped. Carlo Casagrande sent his assassin against Cardinal Brindisi and then killed himself. Then Father Donati rewarded Benedetto Fó
    by giving him the dirt on Crux Vera. The group is discredited and disgraced."
    "And the Curia is free of its poisonous influence, at least for the moment." The Pope took hold of Gabriel's hand and looked directly into his eyes. "And now I have a question for you. Will you grant me forgiveness for the murder of your friend?"
    "It's not mine to give, Holiness."
    The Pope lifted his gaze toward the river. "Some nights, when the wind is right, I swear I can still hear it. The rumble of the German trucks. The pleading for the Pope to do something. Sometimes now, when I look at my hands, I see blood. The blood of Benjamin. We used him to do our dirty work. It is because of us that he is
    dead." He turned and looked at Gabriel. "I need your forgiveness. I need to sleep."
    Gabriel looked into his eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly. The Pope raised his right hand, fingers extended, but stopped himself. He placed his palms on Gabriel's shoulders and pulled him to his breast.
    Father Donati saw him out. At the Bronze Doors, he handed Gabriel an envelope. "Somehow, the Leopard managed to get into the papal study before he killed Cardinal Brindisi. He left this on the Pope's desk. I thought you might like to see it."
    Then he shook Gabriel's hand and disappeared into the palace once more. Gabriel crossed the deserted expanse of St. Peter's Square as the bells of the Basilica tolled nine o'clock. An Office car was waiting near St. Anne's Gate. There was still time to catch the night train for Venice.
    He opened the envelope. The short, handwritten note was a photocopy. The nine-millimeter bullet was not.
    This could have been yours, Holiness.
    Gabriel crushed the note into a tight ball. A moment later, crossing the Tiber, he tossed it into the black water. The bullet he slipped into his jacket pocket.
    GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND:
    Five months later the snows had come EARLY. overnight, a November gale had swept over the spires of the Eiger and the Jungfrau and left a half-meter of downy powder on the slopes below Kleine Scheidegg. Eric Lange pushed himself clear of the chairlift, the last of the day, and floated gracefully down the slope through the lengthening shadows of late afternoon.
    At the bottom of the slope, he turned off the trail and entered a stand of pine. The sun had slipped behind the massif, and the grove was deep in shadow. Lange navigated by memory, picking his way effortlessly between the trees.
    His chalet appeared, perched at the edge of the wood, staring out over the valley toward Grindelwald. He skied to the back entrance, removed his gloves, and punched the security code into the keypad located next to the door.
    He heard a sound. Footfalls on new snow. He turned and saw a man walking toward him. Dark-blue anorak, short hair, gray at the temples. Sunglasses. Lange ripped open his ski jacket and reached inside for his Stechkin. It was too late. The man in the blue anorak already had a Beretta aimed at Lange's chest, and he was walking faster now.
    The Israeli. . . Lange was sure of it. He knew the way they were trained to kill. Advance on the target while shooting. Keep shooting until the target is dead.
    Lange seized the grip of the Stechkin and was trying to bring it into play when the Israeli fired--a single shot, which struck Lange perfectly in the heart. He toppled backward into the snow. The Stechkin slipped from his fingers.
    The Israeli stood over him. Lange braced himself for the pain of more bullets, but the Israeli just pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead and stood there, watching Lange curiously. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green. They were the last thing Lange ever saw.
    he HIKED down the valley through the gathering dusk. The car was waiting for him, parked at the edge of a rocky stream. The engine turned over as he approached. Chiara leaned across the passenger seat and pushed open the door. Gabriel climbed in and closed his eyes. For you, Beni, he thought. For you.
    AUTHOR'S NOTE
    The Confessor is a work of fiction. The cardinals and clergy, spies and assassins, secret policemen and secret Church societies portrayed in this novel are products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The Convent