The Confessor

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
    LAKE GARDA, ITALY
    It 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.
    The town of Brenzone was shrugging off the drowsiness of the siesta, awnings opening in the bars and cafes along the waterfront, shopkeepers placing goods in the narrow cobblestone streets rising UP the steep slope of Monte Baldo. Gabriel made his way along the lakeshore until he found the Grand Hotel, a saffron-colored villa at the end of town.
    As Gabriel pulled into the courtyard, a bellman set upon him the enthusiasm of a shut-in grateful for company. The lobby
    place from another time. Indeed, Gabriel would not have been surprised to see Kafka perched on the edge of a dusty wing chair scribbling away at a manuscript in the deep shadows. In the adjoining dining room, a pair of bored waiters slowly set a dozen tables for dinner. If their languorous pace was any indication, most of the tables would not be occupied this evening.
    The clerk behind the counter stiffened formally at Gabriel's approach. Gabriel looked at the silver-and-black nametag pinned to the left breast of his blazer: giancomo. Blond and blue-eyed, with the square-shouldered bearing of a Prussian military officer, he eyed Gabriel with a vague curiosity from behind the dais.
    In labored but fluent Italian, Gabriel introduced himself as Ehud Landau from Tel Aviv. The clerk seemed pleased by this. When Gabriel asked about a man who had visited the hotel two months earlier--a professor named Benjamin Stern who left behind a pair of eyeglasses--the clerk shook his head slowly. The fifty euros that Gabriel slipped into his palm seemed to stir his memory. "Ah, yes, Herr Stern." The blue eyes danced. "The writer from Munich. I remember him well. He stayed three nights."
    "Professor Stern was my brother."
    "Was?"
    "He was murdered in Munich ten days ago."
    "Please accept my condolences, Signer Landau, but perhaps I should be talking to the police about Professor Stern and not to his brother."
    When Gabriel said he was conducting his own investigation, the concierge frowned thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything of value, except that I'm quite certain Professor Stern's death had nothing to do with his stay in Brenzone. You see, your brother spent most of his time at the convent."
    "The convent?"
    The concierge stepped around the counter. "Follow me."
    He led Gabriel across the lobby and through a set of French doors. They crossed a terrace overlooking the lake and paused at the balustrade. A short distance away, perched on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the lake, was a crenellated castle.
    "The Convent of the Sacred Heart. In the nineteenth century it was a sanatorium. The sisters took over the property before the First War and have been there ever since."
    "Do you know what my brother was doing there?"
    "I'm afraid not. But why don't you ask Mother Vincenza? She's the mother superior. A lovely woman. I'm sure she'd be very happy to help you."
    "Do you have a telephone number?"
    The hotelier shook his head. "No phone. The sisters take their privacy very seriously."
    A PAIR of towering cypress trees stood like sentinels on either