The Confessor

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    "Our hero and heroine have surfaced."
    "Where are they?" asked Ari Shamron.
    Lavon looked down at the fax and found the telephone number of the transmitting machine. "It appears they're in Munich."
    Shamron closed his eyes. "Where in Munich?"
    Lavon consulted the fax once more, and this time he was smiling when he looked up. "It looks as though our boy has found his way back to the bosom of his people."
    "And the document?"
    "I'm afraid Italian is not one of my languages, but based on the first line, I'd say he found Sister Regina."
    "Let me see that."
    Lavon handed the fax pages to Shamron. He read the first line aloud--"Mi chiamo Regina Carcassi.. ."--then looked up sharply at Lavon.
    "Do you know anyone who speaks Italian?"
    "I can find someone."
    "Now, Eli."
    When Gabriel woke the darkness was complete. He raised his wrist to his face and focused his gaze on the luminous dial of his watch. Ten o'clock. He reached down toward the floor and groped through his clothing until he found Sister Regina's letter. He breathed again.
    Chiara lay next to him. At some point she had left her own bed and, like a small child, crawled into his. Her back was turned to him,
    and her hair lay across his pillow. When he touched her shoulder, she rolled over and faced him. Her eyes were damp.
    "What's wrong?"
    "I was just thinking."
    "About what?"
    A long silence, broken by the blare of a car horn outside their window. "I used to pop into the Church of San Zaccaria while you were working. I'd see you up there on your scaffolding, hidden behind your shroud. Sometimes, I'd peer around the edge and see you staring at the face of the Virgin."
    "Obviously, I'm going to have to get a bigger shroud."
    "It's her, isn't it? When you look at the Virgin, you see the face of your wife. You see her scars." When Gabriel made no response, Chiara propped her head on her elbow and studied his face, running her forefinger down the length of his nose, as though it were sculpture. "I feel so sorry for you."
    "I have no one to blame but myself. I was a fool to bring her into the field."
    "That's why I feel sorry for you. If you could blame someone else, it might be easier."
    She laid her head on his chest and was silent for a moment. "God, but I hate this place. Munich. The place where it all started. Did you know Hitler had a headquarters a few streets over?"
    "I know."
    "I used to think everything had changed for the better. Six
    months ago, someone put a coffin outside my father's synagogue.
    There was a swastika on the lid. Inside was a note. 'This coffin is
    for the Jews of Venice! The ones we didn't get the first time!'"
    "It's not real," Gabriel said. "At least, the threat isn't real."
    "It frightened the old ones. You see, they remember when it was real."
    She lifted her hand to her face and pushed a tear from her cheek. "Do you really think Beni had something else?"
    "I'd stake my life on it."
    "What else do we need? A bishop from the Vatican sat down with Martin Luther in 1942 and gave his blessing to the murder of millions. Sixty years later, Crux Vera killed your friend and many more to keep it a secret."
    "I don't want Crux Vera to succeed. I want to expose the secret, and I need more than Sister Regina's letter in order to do that."
    "Do you know what this will do to the Vatican?"
    "I'm afraid that's not my concern."
    "You'll destroy it," she said. "Then you'll go back to the Church of San Zaccaria and finish restoring your Bellini. You're a man of contradictions, aren't you?"
    "So I've been told."
    She lifted her head, resting her chin on his breastbone, and stared into his eyes. Her hair spilled over his cheeks. "Why do they hate us, Gabriel? What did we ever do to them?"
    The Peugeot was where they had left it, parked at the side entrance of the community center, glistening beneath a yellow streetlamp. Gabriel drove carefully through the wet streets. He skirted the city center on the Thomas Winner Ring, a broad boulevard encircling the heart of old Munich, then headed toward Schwabing on the Ludwigstrasse. At the entrance of a U-Bahn station, he saw a stack of blue fliers beneath the weight of a red brick. Chiara darted out, scooped up the papers, and brought them back to the car.
    Gabriel twice drove past Adalbertstrasse 68 before deciding itwas safe to proceed. He parked around the corner, on the Barer-strasse, and killed the engine. A streetcar rattled past, empty but for a single old woman gazing hopelessly through the fogged