The Confessor

LONDON

On his second day in London, Gabriel visited a used bookstore in the Charing Cross Road at dusk and purchased a single volume. He tucked it beneath his arm and walked to the Leicester Square underground station. At the entrance he removed the well-worn dust jacket and tossed it into a rubbish bin. Inside the station, he bought a ticket from the automated dispenser and rode the long escalator down to the Northern Line platform, where he endured an obligatory ten-minute delay. He used the time to leaf through the book. When he found the passage he was looking for, he circled it in red ink and folded the page to mark the place.

The train finally grumbled into the station. Gabriel squeezed into the crowded carriage and wound his arm around a metal pole. His destination was Sloane Square, which required a change of

trains at the Embankment. As the train jerked forward, he looked down at the faded gold lettering on the spine of the book, the deceivers: Peter Malone.

Malone . .. one of the most dreaded names in London. Revealer of personal and professional misdeeds, destroyer of lives and careers. An investigative reporter for The Sunday Times, Malone's list of victims was long and diverse: two Cabinet ministers, the second-ranking official at MI5, a slew of crooked businessmen, even the editor-in-chief of a rival newspaper. During the past decade, he had also published a string of sensational biographies and political exposes. The Deceivers dealt with the exploits of the Office. It had caused something of a firestorm in Tel Aviv, largely because of its telling accuracy. It included the revelation that Ari Shamron had recruited a spy from the senior ranks of MI6. The crisis that followed, Shamron would later say, was the worst between the British and the Jews since the bombing of the King David Hotel.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel was walking through the streets of Chelsea in the gathering darkness, Malone's book under his arm. He crossed Cadogan Square and paused in front of the handsome white Georgian townhouse. Lights were burning in the second-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the front door, laid the book on a braided straw mat, then turned and walked quickly away.

Parked on the opposite side of the square was a gray commercial van of American manufacture. When Gabriel tapped on the blacked-out rear window, the door swung open, revealing a darkened interior lit only by the soft glow of an instrument panel. Sitting before the console was a reedy, rabbinical looking boy named Mordecai. He offered Gabriel a bony hand and pulled him inside. Gabriel closed the door and crouched next to him. The floor was

littered with grease-spotted panini wrappers and empty Styrofoam cups. Mordecai had been living in the van for most of the past thirty-six hours.

"How many people in the house?" Gabriel asked.

Mordecai reached out and turned a knob. Over the speakers Gabriel could hear the faint voice of Peter Malone talking to one of his assistants.

"Three," Mordecai said. "Malone and two girls."

Gabriel dialed Malone's number. The ringing of his office telephone sounded like a fire alarm over Mordecai's speakers. The surveillance man reached out and turned down the volume. After three rings, the reporter answered and identified himself by name in a soft Scottish brogue.

Gabriel spoke English and made no attempt to conceal his Israeli accent. "I just left a copy of your last book outside your door. I suggest you take a look at it. I'll call you back in exactly five minutes."

Gabriel rang off and rubbed a clear patch on the fogged glass of the window. The front door opened a few inches and Malone, turtle-like, poked out his head. It swiveled from side to side as he searched in vain for the man who had just telephoned. Then he bent down and scooped up the book. Gabriel looked at Mordecai and smiled. Victory. Five minutes later, he pressed the redial button on his phone. This time Malone answered on the first ring.

"Who are you?"

"Did you see the passage I circled in the book?"

"The Abu Jihad assassination? What about it?"

"I was there that night."

"For which side?"

"The good guys."

"So you're a Palestinian?"

"No, Abu Malone, I'm not a Palestinian."

"Who are you, then?"

"I'm the agent who was code-named Sword."

"Good Lord," Malone whispered. "Where are you? What do

you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Benjamin Stern."

A long pause: "I have nothing to say to you."

Gabriel decided to push a little harder. "We found your telephone number among his things. We know you were working with him on his book. We think you might know who killed him and why."

Another long silence while Malone pondered his next move. Gabriel's use of the pronoun we was quite deliberate, and it had its intended effect.

"And if I do know something?"

"I'd like to compare notes."

"And what do I get in return?" Malone, ever the alert reporter, was going to make Gabriel sing for his supper.

"I'll talk to you about that night in Tunis," Gabriel said, then added: "And others like it."

"Are you serious?"

"Benjamin was my friend. I'd do almost anything to find the men who killed him."

"Then you have a deal." Malone's tone was suddenly brisk. "How do you want to go about this?"

"Are there assistants in the house?" Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.

"Two girls."

"Get rid of them. Leave the front door unlatched. When I see them go, I'll come inside. No tape recorders, no cameras, no fucking around. Do you understand me?"

Gabriel killed the connection before the reporter could answer then slipped the telephone into his pocket. Two minutes later, the front door opened and a pair of young women stepped outside. When they were gone, Gabriel climbed out of the van and walked across the square toward the house. The front door was unlocked, just as he had instructed. He turned the latch and stepped inside.

THEY APPRAISED each other across the marble entrance hall like captains of opposing football teams. Gabriel could see why it was difficult to watch British television without seeing Malone's face--and why he was considered one of London's most eligible bachelors. He was trim and fine-boned, immaculately dressed in wool trousers and a cardigan sweater the color of claret wine. Gabriel, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his face concealed behind a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap, seemed a man from the wrong side of town. Malone did not offer Gabriel his hand.

"You can take off that ridiculous disguise. I'm not in the habit of betraying sources."

"If you don't mind, I prefer to keep it on."

"Suit yourself. Coffee? Something stronger?"

"No, thank you."

"My office is upstairs. I think you'll find it comfortable."

It was an old drawing room, long and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and oriental carpets. In the center of the room were two antique library tables, one for Malone, another for his research assistants. Malone switched off the computer and sat down in one of the wing chairs next to the gas fire, motioning for Gabriel to do the same.

"I must say it is rather bizarre to actually be in the same room with you. I've heard so much about your exploits that I feel I actually know you. You're quite the legend. Black September, Abu Jihad, and countless others in between. Have you killed anyone lately?"

When Gabriel did not rise to the bait, Malone carried on. "While I find you morbidly fascinating, I must admit that I find the things you've done to be morally repugnant. In my opinion, a state which resorts to assassination as a matter of policy is no better than the enemy it's trying to defeat. In many respects, it's worse. You're a murderer in my book, just so you understand where I'm coming from."

Gabriel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake by coming here. He had learned long ago that arguments like this could never be won. He'd had too many just like it with himself. He sat very still, gazing at Peter Malone through his dark glasses, waiting for him to come to the point. Malone crossed his legs and picked a bit of lint from his trousers. It was a gesture that betrayed anxiety. This pleased Gabriel.

"Perhaps we should finalize the details of our arrangement before we proceed," Malone said. "I will tell you what I know about Benjamin Stern's murder. In return, you'll grant me an interview. Obviously, I've written about intelligence matters before, and I know the rules. I will do nothing to reveal your true identity, nor will I write anything that will compromise current operations. Do we have a deal?"

"We do."

Malone spent a moment gazing up at the recessed lighting, then looked down at Gabriel.

"You're right about Benjamin. I was working with him on his book. Our partnership was supposed to be confidential. I'm surprised you were able to find me."

"Why did Benjamin come to you?"

Malone stood up and walked over to the bookshelves. He removed a volume and handed it to Gabriel, crux vera: the kgb of THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

"Benjamin had something big--something dealing with the Vatican and the war."

Gabriel held up the book. "Something dealing with Crux Vera?"

Malone nodded. "Your friend was a brilliant academic, but he didn't know the first thing about investigating a story. He asked me if I would work for him as a consultant and investigator in all matters dealing with Crux Vera. I agreed, and we negotiated compensation. The money was to be paid half in advance and half on completion and acceptance of the manuscript. Needless to say, I only received the first payment."

"What did he have?"

"Unfortunately, I wasn't privy to that information. Your friend played things very close to the vest. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was one of your crowd."

"What did he want from you?"

"Access to material I'd gathered while writing the Crux Vera book. Also, he wanted me to try to track down two priests who worked at the Vatican during the war."

"What were their names?"

"Monsignors Cesare Felici and Tomaso Manzini."

"Did you ever find them?"

"I tried," Malone said. "What I discovered is that they were both missing and presumed dead. And there's something even more interesting than that. The detective from the Rome headquarters of

the Polizia di Stato who was investigating the cases was removed by his superiors and reassigned."

"Do you know the investigator's name?"

"Alessio Rossi. But for God's sake, don't tell him I gave you his name. I have a reputation to protect."

"If you know so much, why haven't you written anything?"

"What I have now is a series of murders and disappearances which I believe are linked, yet I haven't a shred of hard evidence conclusively linking them in any way. The last thing I want to do is accuse the Vatican, or someone close to the Vatican, of murder without a damned solid case. Besides, no decent editor would touch it."

"But you have a theory about who might be behind it."

"What you have to remember is that we're talking about the Vatican," Malone said. "Men linked to that venerable institution have been involved in intrigues and plots for nearly two millennia. They play the game better than anyone, and in the past, religious fervor and battles over doctrine have induced them to commit the mortal sin of murder. The Church is riddled with secret societies and cliques who might be involved in something like this."

"Who?" Gabriel repeated.

Peter Malone flashed a television smile. "In my humble opinion, you hold the answer in your hand."

Gabriel looked down, crux vera: the kgb of the catholic church.

Malone left the room, returning a moment later with a bottle of Medoc and a pair of large crystal goblets. He poured two generous measures and handed one to Gabriel. "Do you speak Latin?"

"Actually, we speak another ancient language."

Malone grinned at Gabriel over his wineglass and continued on. "Crux Vera is Latin for the True Cross. It is also the name of an ultra-secret order within the Roman Catholic Church, a sort of church within a church. If you look in the Annuario Pontificio, the Vatican yearbook, you'll find no mention of Crux Vera. If you ask the Vatican press office, you will be told that it is a fabrication, a sort of blood libel spread by the enemies of the Church in order to discredit it. But if you ask me, Crux Vera does exist, and I proved it in that book, regardless of what the Vatican says. I believe the tentacles of Crux Vera reach to the highest levels of the Vatican, and that its adherents occupy positions of power and influence around the globe."

"What is it exactly?"

"The group was created during the Spanish Civil War by an anti-Communist priest named Juan Antonio Rodriguez. Monsignor Rodriguez was very selective about the type of people he permitted to join. The vast majority of his recruits were laymen. Most were wealthy or politically connected: bankers, lawyers, industrialists, government ministers, spies, and secret policemen. You see, Rodriguez was never interested in the business of saving souls. In his opinion, that sort of thing could be left to ordinary parish priests. Rodriguez was interested in only one thing: protecting the Roman Catholic Church from its mortal enemies."

"And who were they?"

"The Bolsheviks," Malone said, then quickly added: "And the Jews, of course. Crux Vera spread quickly across Europe throughout the thirties. It established beachheads in France, Italy, Germany, the Balkans, and the Roman Curia itself. During the war, members of Crux Vera worked in the papal household and the Secretariat of State. As Crux Vera expanded, so did Monsignor Rodriguez's mission. He was no longer satisfied simply with protecting the Church from its enemies. He wanted to return the Church to the position of absolute power and supremacy that it enjoyed during the Middle Ages. That remains the core mission of Crux Vera to this day: reversing the defeats of the Reformation and the Enlightenment and making the state subservient to the Church once again. They also want to undo what they view as the heretical reforms of the Second Vatican Council: Vatican Two."

"How do they intend to do that?"

"Crux Vera may have loathed the KGB, but in many ways, it is an exact replica; hence the title of my book. It wages a secret war against those it deems enemies and acts like a secret police force within the Church, enforcing strict adherence to doctrine and crushing dissent. Oh, the dissidents and reformers are allowed to vent their spleen now and again, but if they ever pose a real threat, Crux Vera will step in and help them see the light."

"And if they refuse to yield?"

"Let's just say that several people who have run afoul of Crux Vera have died under less-than-clear circumstances. Prelates who have dared to oppose Crux Vera have fallen victim to sudden heart attacks. Journalists who have tried to investigate the order have disappeared or committed suicide. So have members of Crux Vera who've tried to leave."

"How does a religious order justify the use of violence?"

"The priests of Crux Vera aren't the ones who are resorting to violence. The priests give guidance, but it's the laymen who actually do the dirty work. Inside the order, they're known as milites Christi-- the soldiers of Christ. They're encouraged to engage in pilleria, or dirty tricks, to achieve the goals of the order. Pilleria can be anything from blackmail to murder. And when the act is done, the priests provide absolution in the secrecy of the confessional. By the way, milites Christi aren't permitted to confess to anyone but a Crux Vera priest. That way, unpleasant secrets stay inside the family."

"How do they feel about the current pope?"

"From what I hear, they're lukewarm, to say the least. Pope Paul VII talks about rebirth and renewal. To Crux Vera, those words mean reform and liberalization, and they get nervous."

"What makes you think Crux Vera was involved in Benjamin's murder?"

"They might have had a motive. If there's one thing Crux Vera detests, it's revelations of the Vatican's dirty laundry. The order sees itself first and foremost as a guardian of the Church. If your friend had proof of something damaging, he would have fallen into the category of enemy. And Crux Vera would have seen it as their duty to deal with him harshly--for the greater good of the Church, of course."

Malone finished his glass of wine and poured himself another. Gabriel's glass remained untouched. "If you've been talking to people, asking questions, poking your nose into affairs that don't concern you, it's quite possible you've already appeared on Crux Vera's radar. If they think you pose a threat, they won't hesitate to kill you."

"I appreciate your candor."

"And we had a deal." Malone picked up a notepad and a pen and suddenly the roles were reversed. "It's my turn to ask the questions now."

"Just remember the rules. If you betray me--"

"Don't worry; I'm also aware of the fact that Crux Vera is not the only secret organization to engage in pillena." Malone licked his forefinger and turned to a fresh page in his notebook. "My God, I have so many questions, I don't know where to begin."

Gabriel spent the next two hours unenthusiastically holding up his end of the bargain. Finally, he saw himself out the front door of Peter Malone's house and struck out across Cadogan Square in a steady rain. On Sloane Street, he pulled his cellular phone from his pocket and dialed Mordecai in the surveillance van. "Keep monitoring him," Gabriel said. "If he goes anywhere, go with him."

Peter Malone sat before the computer in his upstairs office, feverishly typing up his notes. He could not quite believe his good fortune. He had learned long ago that success was the result of a volatile combination of hard work and pure luck. Sometimes good stories just fell into one's lap. The difference between an average journalist and a great one is what he did next.

After an hour of steady work, his handwritten notes had been transformed into a pair of organized memos. The first dealt with the exploits of the agent code-named Sword. The second was an account of their discussion regarding Benjamin Stern. Whether it was his intention or not, the Israeli had just given Malone the hook he needed for his story. Israeli intelligence was investigating the murder of prominent historian Benjamin Stern. He would ring Tel Aviv in the morning, secure the mandatory denial from the drones at headquarters, then stitch together the other mysterious details he knew about the case. He had not told the Israeli everything he knew about Stern's murder, just as he was quite certain the Israeli had not shared all of his knowledge. That's the way the game was played.

It took an experienced reporter to know the difference between truth and misinformation, to sift through the silt to find the nuggets of gold. With a bit of luck, he might have a piece ready by the weekend.

He spent a few minutes double-checking the quotes. He decided he would call Tom Graves, his editor at The Sunday Times, and reserve some space on the front page. He reached out for the telephone, but before he could lift the receiver from the cradle, he was flung backward by a blow to the chest. He looked down and saw a small, rapidly spreading circle of blood on his shirt. Then he looked up and saw the man, standing five feet from his desk, gray-blond hair, colorless eyes. Malone had been so engrossed in his work that he had failed to hear him enter the house.

"Why?" the reporter whispered, blood in his mouth.

The killer tilted his head, as though puzzled, and stepped around the desk. "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis," he said, fingers caressing the forehead. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Then he pointed the silenced gun at Malone's head and fired one last shot.

IN THE LEXICON of the Office, the device that the surveillance artist called Mordecai had placed in Malone's office was known as a "glass." Concealed within the electronics of the telephone, it provided coverage of Malone's calls as well as conversations taking place inside the room. It had allowed Mordecai to monitor Gabriel's conversation with Malone. He had also listened in as Malone sat at his desk after Gabriel's departure, tapping away at his computer. Shortly after nine o'clock, Mordecai heard murmuring in a language he could not understand. For the next five minutes, he was

treated to the sound of file drawers opening and closing. He assumed it was Malone, but when the front door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man emerged, Mordecai knew at once that something terrible had just taken place inside the house.

The man walked quickly down the steps and started across the square, directly toward the van. Mordecai panicked. The only weaponry he had was a directional microphone and a long-lens Nikon camera. It was the Nikon he reached for. As the man drew closer to the van, Mordecai raised it calmly to his eye and snapped off three quick shots.

The last one, he was convinced, was a keeper.