The Confessor

greatest crime--the murder of God himself?"
    "Then why did so many Jews thank the Pope after the war?"
    "The Jews who stayed in Italy were more interested in reaching out to Christians than raising uncomfortable questions about the past. In 1945, preventing another Holocaust was more important than learning the truth. For the shattered remnants of the community, it was simply a matter of survival."
    Gabriel and Rabbi Zolli arrived back at their starting point, the Casa Israelitica di Riposo, and once more stood side by side staring through the window at the elderly Jews sitting before their television.
    "What was it Christ said? 'Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers'? Look at us now: the oldest continuous Jewish community in Europe, reduced to this. A few families, a few old people too sick, too near to death, to ever leave. Most nights I say Ma'ariv alone. Even on Shabbat, we have only a handful who bother to attend. Most are visitors to Venice."
    He turned and looked carefully at Gabriel's face, as though he could see the telltale traces of a childhood spent on an agricultural settlement in the Jezreel Valley.
    "What is your interest in this matter, Signor Delvecchio? And before you answer that question, please try to remember you are speaking to a rabbi."
    "I'm afraid that falls into the category of an uncomfortable question that is better not asked."
    "I feared you might say that. Just remember one thing. Memories are long in this part of the world, and things are not so good at the moment. The war, the suicide bombers.... It might not be best to stir up a hornets' nest. So tread carefully, my friend. For us."
    ROME
    L'Eau Vi was one of the few places in Rome where Carlo Casagrande felt at ease without a bodyguard. Located on the narrow Via Monterone, near the Pantheon, its entrance was marked only by a pair of hissing gas lamps. As Casagrande stepped inside, he was immediately confronted by a large statue of the Virgin Mary. A woman greeted him warmly by name and took his overcoat and hat. She had skin the color of coffee and wore a bright frock from her native Ivory Coast. Like all the employees of L'Eau Vive, she was a member of the Missionary Workers of the Immaculate Conception, a lay group for women connected to the Carmelites. Most came from Asia and Africa.
    "Your guest has arrived, Signor Casagrande." Her Italian was heavily accented but fluent. "Follow me, please."
    The humble entrance suggested a dark, cramped Roman charn with a handful of tables, but the room into which Casagrande was shown was large and open, with cheerful white walls and a soaring open-beam ceiling. As usual, every seat was filled, though, unlike other restaurants in Rome, the clientele was all male and almost exclusively Vatican. Casagrande spotted no fewer than four cardinals. Many of the other clerics looked like ordinary priests, but Casagrande's trained eye easily picked out the gold chains that marked bishops and the purple piping that revealed the Monsignori. Besides, no simple priest could afford to eat at L'Eau Vive, not unless he was receiving support from a well-to-do relative back home. Even Casagrande's modest Vatican salary would be pushed to the breaking point by a meal at L'Eau Vive. Tonight was business, however, and the cost would be covered by his generous operational expense account.
    The conversations fell virtually silent as Casagrande made his way toward his usual corner table. The reason was simple. Part of his job was to enforce the Vatican's strict code of silence. L'Eau Vive, despite its reputation for discretion, was also a beehive of Curial gossip. Enterprising journalists had been known to don cassocks and reserve tables at L'Eau Vive to try to pick up tasty morsels of Vatican scandal.
    Achille Bartoletti stood up as Casagrande approached. He was twenty years younger than Casagrande, at the peak of his personal and professional power. His suit was restrained and carefully pressed, "is face tanned and fit, his handshake firm and proper in duration. there was just enough gray in his full head of hair to make him look serious but not too old. The tight mouth and the rows of small, uneven teeth hinted at a cruel streak, which Casagrande knew was not too far from the truth. Indeed, there was little the Vatican
    security chief did not know about Achille Bartoletti. He was a man whose every move had been devoted to the advancement of his career. He had kept his mouth shut, avoided controversy, taken