The Confessor

Stern was an agent of Israeli intelligence when you hired me to kill him?"
    My God, thought Casagrande. How does he know? He weighed the advantages of lying, but thought better of it. "No," he said. "I did not know that the professor was connected to them in any way."
    "You should have." There was a sudden edge to his voice, the blade of a trench knife. "And did you know that an agent named Gabriel Allon is investigating his death, along with the activities of your little group?"
    "I didn't know his name until this moment. Obviously, you've done some investigating of your own."
    "I make it my business to know when someone is hunting me. I also know that Allon was at the Pensione Abruzzi in Rome meeting with Inspector Alessio Rossi when you sent an army of carabinieri in there to kill him. You should have come to me with your problems, General. Allon would be dead now."
    How? How does this monster know about the Israeli and Rossi? How is such a thing possible? He's a bully, thought Casagrande. Bullies like to be placated. He decided to play the role of the appeaser. It was not a role that came naturally to him.
    "You're right," he said, his tone conciliatory. "I should have come to you. Obviously, it would have been better for both of us. May I sit down?"
    The light lingered on his face for a few more seconds, then it fell upon an armchair, a few inches from the spot where Casagrande was standing. He sat down and placed his hands on his knees. The light remained in his eyes.
    "The question is, General, can I trust you enough to work for you again, especially on something like this?"
    "Perhaps I can earn your trust."
    "With what?"
    "Money, of course."
    "It would take a great deal of money."
    "The figure I had in mind was substantial," Casagrande said. "A sum of money that most men would consider sufficient to live on for a very long time."
    "I'm listening."
    "Four million dollars."
    "Five million," countered the assassin. "Half now, half on completion."
    Casagrande squeezed his kneecaps, trying to conceal his rising tension. It was not like quarreling with Cardinal Brindisi. The Leopard's sanctions tended to be irrevocable.
    "Five million," Casagrande said in agreement. "But you will be paid only one million of that in advance. If you choose to steal my money without fulfilling the terms of the contract, that's your business. If you want the remaining four million dollars--" Casagrande paused. "I'm afraid trust cuts both ways."
    There was a long, uncomfortable silence, long enough for Casagrande
    to inch forward out of his chair and prepare to take his leave. He froze when the assassin said, "Tell me how it would be done."
    Casagrande spoke for the next hour--a veteran policeman, calmly recounting the timeline of a rather mundane series of street crimes. All the while the light bored into his face. It was making him hot. His suit jacket was soaked with sweat and was clinging to his back like a wet blanket. He wished he'd turn the damned thing off. He'd rather sit in the dark with the monster than stare into the light any longer.
    "Did you bring the down payment?"
    Casagrande reached down and patted the side of his attaché case.
    "Let me see it."
    Casagrande placed the attaché case on the table, opened it, and turned it so the assassin could see his money.
    "Do you know what will happen to you if you betray me?"
    "I'm certain I can imagine," Casagrande said. "But surely a downpayment of that magnitude is enough to demonstrate my good faith."
    "Faith? Is that what leads you to perform this act?"
    "There are some things you're not permitted to know. Do you accept the contract?"
    The assassin closed the attaché case and it disappeared into the darkness.
    "There's just one last thing," Casagrande said. "You'll need Security Office identification to get past the Swiss Guards and the carabinieri. Did you bring the photograph ?"
    Casagrande heard the rustle of fabric, then a hand appeared, holding a passport photo. Poor quality. Casagrande reckoned it had been made by an automated machine. He looked at the image and wondered whether it was truly the face of the killing machine known as the Leopard. The assassin seemed to sense his thoughts, for a few seconds later the Stechkin reappeared. It was pointed directly at Casagrande's heart.
    "You wish to ask me a question?"
    Casagrande shook his head.
    "Good," the assassin said. "Get out."
    The Acqua Alta lapped against the steps of the Church of San Zaccaria as Francesco