The Confessor

one that had been authenticated and one that was thought to have been painted by the same artist. It was impossible to tell with the naked eye, but he had learned long ago that the face-recognition software in Research rarely made a mistake. Then he closed his eyes and saw different faces. The faces of the dead: Felici... Manzini... Carcassi... Bent... Rossi.... Lastly, he saw a man in a white cassock, entering a synagogue by the river in Rome. A cassock stained with blood.
    He opened his eyes and looked at Shamron. "We need to get a message to this Pope that his life may be in grave danger."
    Shamron folded his arms and lowered his chin to his chest. "And how shall we do that? Call Rome information and ask for the Pope's private number? Everything goes through channels, and the Curia is famous for its slowness. If our ambassador goes through the Secretariat of State, it could take weeks to arrange an audience with the Pope. If I try to get to him through the Vatican Security Office, we'll run straight into Carlo Casagrande and his Crux Vera goons. We need to find someone who can take us up the back staircase of the Apostolic Palace to see the Pope privately. And we need to do it before Friday. Otherwise, His Holiness might never leave the Great Synagogue of Rome alive--and that's the last thing we need."
    A long silence hung over the room. It was broken by Gabriel. "I know someone who can get us in to see the Pope," he said calmly. "But you have to get me back into Venice."
    ZURICH
    Carlo Casagrande strode the chandeliered hallway on the fourth floor of the Hotel St. Gotthard and presented himself at the door of Room 423. He glanced at his watch--7:20 p.m., the precise time he had been instructed to come--then knocked twice. A confident knock, firm enough to make his presence known, not enough to disturb the occupants of the neighboring rooms. From the other side of the door came a voice in Italian instructing Casagrande to enter the room. He spoke Italian well for a foreigner. The fact that it lacked even the hint of a German accent sent acid flooding into Casagrande's stomach.
    He pushed open the door and stepped inside, pausing on the threshold. A wedge of light from the chandelier in the corridor illuminated a portion of the room, and for an instant Casagrande could see the outline of a figure seated in a wing chair. When the
    door swung shut, the darkness was complete. Casagrande inched forward through the gloom until his shin collided with an unseen coffee table. He was made to stand there, enveloped in black, for several painful seconds. Finally a powerful lamp burst on, like a searchlight in a guard tower, and shone directly into his face. He raised his hand and tried to shield his eyes from the glare. It felt like a needle in his cornea.
    "Good evening, General." A seductive voice, like warm oil. "Did you bring the dossier?"
    Casagrande held up the briefcase. The silenced Stechkin moved into the light and prodded him onward. Casagrande removed the file and laid it on the coffee table like an offertory. The beam of light tilted downward, while the hand holding the weapon lifted the cover of the dossier. The light. . . Suddenly Casagrande was standing on the pavement outside his apartment in Rome, viewing the mutilated bodies of Angelina and his daughter by the beam of a carabinieri flashlight. "Death was instantaneous, General Casagrande. You can at least take comfort in the knowledge that your loved ones did not suffer."
    The light tilted suddenly upward. Too late, Casagrande tried to shield his eyes, but the beam found his retina, and for the next several seconds he had the sensation he was being swallowed by a giant, undulating orange sphere.
    "So much for the Middle Ages being over," the assassin said. The dossier slid across the table toward Casagrande. "He's too heavily protected. This is an assignment for a martyr, not a professional. Find someone else."
    "I need you."
    "How can I be sure I won't be set up to take the fall, like that
    idiot from Istanbul ? The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of my life rotting away in some Italian jail, begging a pope for forgiveness."
    "I give you my word that you will not be used as a pawn or a patsy in some larger game. You will perform this service for me, then, with my help, you will be permitted to escape."
    "The word of a murderer. How reassuring. Why should I trust you?"
    "Because I would do nothing to betray you."
    "Really? Did you know Benjamin