The Confessor

night you'll try our own dining room."
    "Perhaps," said Gabriel noncommittally, pocketing the key. "I'd like to see Benjamin's bill from his stay here--especially the record of his telephone calls. It might be helpful."
    "Yes, I see your point, Signor Landau, but I'm afraid that would be a violation of the hotel's strict privacy policy. I'm sure a man like you can understand that."
    Gabriel pointed out that since Benjamin was no longer living, concerns about his privacy were surely misplaced.
    "I'm sorry, but the rules apply to the dead as well," the concierge said. "Now, if the police requested such information, we would be obliged to hand it over."
    "The information is important to me," Gabriel said. "I'd be willing to pay a surcharge in order to obtain it."
    "A surcharge? I see." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I believe the charge would be five hundred euros." A pause to allow Gabriel to digest the sum. "A processing fee. In advance, of course."
    "Yes, of course."
    Gabriel counted out the euro notes and laid them on the counter. Giancomo's hand passed over the surface and the money disappeared.
    "Go to your room, Signor Landau. I'll print out the bill and bring it to you."
    Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He locked and chained the door, then walked to the window and peered out. The lake was shimmering in the moonlight. There was no one outside--at least no one he could see. He sat on the bed and began to undress.
    An envelope appeared beneath the door and slid across the terracotta floor. Gabriel picked it up, lifted the flap, and removed the contents. He switched on the bedside lamp and examined the bill. During his two-day stay at the hotel, Benjamin had made only three telephone calls. Two were placed to his own apartment in Munich--to check messages on his answering machine, Gabriel reckoned--and the third to a number in London.
    Gabriel lifted the receiver and dialed the number.
    An answering machine picked up.
    "You've reached the office of Peter Malone. I'm sorry, but I'm not available to take your call. If you'd like to leave a--"
    Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle.
    Peter Malone? The British investigative reporter? Why would Benjamin be calling a man like him? Gabriel folded the bill and slipped it back into the envelope. He was about to drop it into Ehud Landau's briefcase when the telephone rang.
    He reached out, but hesitated. No one knew he was here--no one but the concierge and the man who'd followed Gabriel after dinner. Perhaps Malone had captured his number and was calling back. Better to know than remain ignorant, he thought. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear for a moment without speaking.
    Finally: "Yes?"
    "Mother Vincenza is lying to you, the same way she lied to your
    friend. Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you'll know the truth about what happened at the convent."
    "Who is this?"
    "Don't come back. It's not safe for you here."
    Click.
    GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND
    THE MAN WHO LIVED in the large chalet in the shadow of The Iger was a private person, even by the exacting standards of the mountains of Inner Switzerland. He made it his business to learn what was being said about him and knew that in the bars and cafes of Grindelwald there was constant speculation about his occupation. Some thought him a successful private banker from Zurich; others believed him to be the owner of a large chemical concern headquartered in Zug. There was a theory he was born to wealth and had no career at all. There was baseless gossip he was an arms dealer or a money launderer. The girl who cleaned his chalet told of a kitchen filled with expensive copper pots and cooking implements of every kind. A rumor circulated that he was a chef or restaurateur. He liked that one the best. He always thought he might have enjoyed cooking for a living, had he not fallen into his current profession.
    The limited amount of mail that arrived daily at his chalet bore the name Eric Lange. He spoke German with the accent of a Zuricher but with the sing-song cadence of those native to the valleys of Inner Switzerland. He did his shopping at the Migros supermarket in town and always paid in cash. He received no visitors and, despite his good looks, was never seen in the company of a woman. He was prone to long periods of absence. When asked for an explanation, he would murmur something about a business venture. When pressed to elaborate, his gray eyes would grow so suddenly cold that