The Confessor

sins of some of the Church's sons and daughters. Other prelates have apologized as well. Some, such as our brethren in France, have gone much further than I would have preferred. But the Jews and their friends in the media will not be satisfied until we admit that we were wrong--that His Holiness Pope Pius the Twelfth, a great and saintly man, was wrong. What they do not understand--and what you seem to be forgetting, Holiness--is
    that the Church, as the embodiment of Christ on earth, cannot be wrong. The Church is truth itself. If we admit that the Church, or a pope, was wrong . . ." He left his sentence unfinished, then added: "It would be an error for you to go forward with this initiative of yours, Holiness. A grave error."
    "Behind these walls, Marco, error is a loaded word. Surely it is not your intention to level such an accusation at me."
    "I have no intention of parsing my words, Holiness."
    "And what if the documents contained in the Secret Archives tell a different story?"
    "Those documents must never be released."
    "I am the only one with the power to release documents from the Secret Archives, and I have decided that it will be done."
    The cardinal fingered his pectoral cross. "When do you intend to announce this . .. initiative ?"
    "Next week."
    "Where?"
    "Across the river," the Pope said. "At the Great Synagogue."
    "Out of the question! The Curia hasn't had time to give the matter the thought and preparation it deserves."
    "I'm seventy-two years old. I don't have time to wait for the mandarins of the Curia to give the matter thought and preparation. That, I'm afraid, is how things are buried and forgotten. The rabbi and I have spoken. I'm going to the ghetto next week, with or without the support of the Curia--or my secretary of state, for that matter. The truth, Eminence, shall make us free."
    "And you, the street-urchin pope from the Veneto, pretend to know the truth."
    "Only God knows the truth, Marco, but Thomas Aquinas wrote
    of a cultivated ignorance, an ignorantia affectata. A willful lack of
    knowledge designed to protect one from the harm. It is time to shed
    our ignorantia affectata. Our Savior said that he was the light of the
    world, but here in the Vatican, we live in darkness. I intend to turn
    on the lights."
    "My memory seems to be playing tricks on me, Holiness, but it
    is my recollection of the conclave that we elected a Catholic Pope." "You did, Eminence, but you also elected a human one." "If it were not for me, you would still be wearing red." "It is the Holy Spirit who chooses popes. We just cast his ballots." "Another example of your shocking naivety." "Will you be at my side next week in Trastevere?" "I believe I'm going to be suffering from the flu next week."
    The cardinal stood up abruptly. "Thank you, Holiness. Another
    pleasant meal."
    "Until next Friday?"
    "That remains to be seen."
    The Pope held out his hand. Cardinal Brindisi looked down at
    the fisherman's ring shining in the lamplight, then turned around
    and walked out without kissing it.
    Father Donati listened to the quarrel between the Holy Father and the cardinal from the adjoining pantry. When Brindisi had gone, he entered the dining room and found the Pope looking tired and drawn, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger squeezing the bridge of his nose. Father Donati sat in the cardinal's chair and pushed away the half-drunk cup of espresso.
    "I know that must have been unpleasant, Holiness, but it was necessary."
    The Pope finally looked up. "We have just disturbed a sleeping cobra, Luigi."
    "Yes, Holiness." Donati leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now let us pray that in its rage, the cobra makes a miscalculation and bites itself."
    MUNICH
    Gabriel spent the better part of the following morning trying to track down Doctor Helmut Berger, chairman of the department of modern history at Ludwig-Maximilian University. He left two messages on the professor's home answering machine, a second on his cellular phone, and a third with a surly secretary in the department. Over lunch in the shadowed courtyard of the hotel, he considered waiting in ambush outside the professor's office. Then the concierge appeared with a message slip in his hand. The good professor had agreed to meet with Herr Landau at six-thirty at a restaurant called the Gastatte Atzinger on the Amalienstrasse.
    That left five hours to kill. The afternoon was clear and blustery, so Gabriel decided to take a walk. Leaving the hotel, he wandered up a