The Confessor

like you. And I don't have time to find another suitable candidate."
    "Then it will cost you."
    "How much?"
    A pause, then: "Five hundred thousand, paid in advance."
    "That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"
    "No, I don't."
    Casagrande made a show of thought, then nodded. "After you kill him, I want you to search his office and remove any material linking him to the professor or the book. I also want you to bring me his computer. Carry the items back to Zurich and leave them in the same safe-deposit account where you left the material from Munich."
    "Transporting the computer of a man you've just killed is not the wisest thing for an assassin to do."
    Casagrande looked at the ceiling. "How much?"
    "An additional one hundred thousand."
    "Done."
    "When I see that the money has been deposited in my account, I'll move against the target. Is there a deadline?"
    "Yesterday."
    "Then you should have come to me two days ago."
    Casagrande turned and let himself out. Eric Lange switched off the light and sat there in the dark, finishing his wine.
    Casagrande walked down Bahnhofstrasse into a swirling wind blowing off the lake. He felt an appalling desire to fall on his knees in a confessional and unburden his sins to a priest. He could not. Under the rules of the Institute, he could confess only to a priest who was a member of the brotherhood. Because of the sensitive nature of Casagrande's work, his confessor was none other than Cardinal Marco Brindisi.
    He came to the Talstrasse, a quiet street lined with graystone buildings and modern office blocks. Casagrande walked a short distance, until he arrived at a plain doorway. On the wall next to the doorway was a brass plaque:
    Becker & Puhl
    Private Bankers
    Talstrasse 26
    Next to the plaque was a button, which Casagrande pressed with his thumb. He glanced up into the fisheye of the security camera over the door, then looked away. A moment later, the deadbolt tapped back and Casagrande stepped into a small antechamber. Herr Becker was waiting for him. Starched, fussy and very bald,
    Becker was known for absolute discretion, even in the highly secretive world of the Bahnhofstrasse. The exchange of information that took place next was brief and largely a needless formality. Casagrande and Becker were well acquainted and had done much business over the years, though Becker had no idea who Casagrande was or where his money came from. As usual, Casagrande had to struggle to hear Becker's voice, for it rose barely above a whisper even in normal conversation. As he followed him down the corridor to the strongbox room, the fall of Becker's Bally loafers on the polished marble floor made no sound.
    They entered a windowless chamber, empty of furniture except for a high viewing table. Herr Becker left Casagrande alone, then returned a moment later with a metal a safe-deposit box. "Leave it on the table when you're finished," the banker said. "I'll be just outside the door if there's anything else you require."
    The Swiss banker went out. Casagrande unbuttoned his overcoat and unzipped the false lining. Hidden inside were several bound stacks of currency, courtesy of Roberto Pucci. One by one, the Italian placed the bundles of cash into the box.
    When Casagrande was finished, he summoned Herr Becker. The little Swiss banker saw him out and bid him a pleasant evening. As Casagrande walked back up the Bahnhofstrasse, he found himself reciting the familiar and comforting words of the Act of Contrition.
    VENICE
    Gabriel returned to Venice early the following morning. He left the Opel in the carpark adjacent to the train station and took a water taxi to the Church of San Zaccaria. He entered without greeting the other members of the team, then climbed his scaffolding and concealed himself behind the shroud. After an absence of three days, they were strangers to each other, Gabriel and his virgin, but as the hours slowly passed they grew comfortable in each other's presence. As always, she blanketed him with a sense of peace, and the concentration required by his work pushed the investigation of Benjamin's death into a quiet corner of his mind.
    He took a break to replenish his palette. For a moment, his mind left the Bellini and returned to Brenzone. After taking breakfast that morning in his hotel, he had walked to the convent and rung the bell at the front gate to summon Mother Vincenza. When she
    appeared, Gabriel had asked if he could speak to a woman called Sister Regina. The nun's face