The Confessor

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

The rocks of Cap Corse appeared at dawn. Chiara guided the yacht around the tip of the island and set it on a northwesterly heading. A line of gunpowder cloud stood before them, swollen with rain. The winds had increased by several knots, and it was suddenly much colder. "The mistral," Chiara said. "It's blowing hard today. I'm afraid the rest of the trip isn't going to be so pleasant."

A ferry appeared off the port side, steaming out of L'lle Rousse toward the French coast. "That one's going to Nice," she said. "We can follow his heading, then steer toward Cannes as we get closer to the coastline."

"How long?"

"Five to six hours, maybe longer because of the mistral. Take the wheel for a while. I'll go down to the galley and see if there's anything for breakfast."

"Make sure Sleeping Beauty is still with us." "I will."

Breakfast consisted of coffee, toasted bread, and a lump of hard cheese. They barely had time to eat, because thirty minutes after rounding Cap Corse, the storm closed in. For the next four hours the boat was battered by a steady onslaught of wind-driven swells rolling out of the north, and sheets of rain that reduced visibility to less than a hundred meters. At some point they lost track of the ferry. It was no matter; Chiara simply navigated by compass and GPS.

The rain quit at noon, but the wind blew ceaselessly. It seemed to grow stronger as they drew closer to the coast. Behind the storm was a mass of bitterly cold air, and for the last hour of the journey, the sun was in and out of the clouds, shining one minute, hidden the next. The color of the water changed with the sun, now gray-green, now deep blue.

Finally, directly off the prow, Cannes: the distinctive line of gleaming white hotels and apartment houses along La Croisette. Chiara guided them away from the Croisette, toward the Old Port at the other end of town. In the summer season, the promenades around the Vieux Port would be teeming with tourists and the harbor jammed with luxury yachts. Now, most of the restaurants were tightly shuttered and there were plenty of berths available in the harbor.

Chiara left Gabriel on the boat and walked a few blocks to the rue d'Antibes to rent a car. While she was away, Gabriel untied the hands and feet of the unconscious boat captain. Chiara had given him an injection four hours earlier, which meant he would remain unconscious for several more hours.

Gabriel went back up to the deck and waited for Chiara. A few minutes later, a Peugeot hatchback pulled into a parking space on the Quai St-Pierre. Chiara stepped out of the car long enough to wave in Gabriel's direction and slide over into the passenger seat. Gabriel climbed down off the boat and got behind the wheel.

"Any problems?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"We need clothes."

"Ah, shopping on the Croisette. Just what I need after spending all night and half the day on the damned boat. I can't decide between Gucci and Versace."

"I was thinking of something a little more ordinary. Maybe one of those nice places along the boulevard Carnot where the real people go to buy their clothes."

"Oh, how pedestrian."

"Exactly."

Gabriel wound his way across the old town, and a few minutes later they were heading north up the boulevard Carnot, the main thoroughfare linking the waterfront of Cannes to the inland towns. The mistral was howling; a few brave souls were out, backs bent, hands on their hats. The air was filled with dust and paper. After a few blocks, Gabriel spotted a small department store next to a bus stop. Chiara frowned. He pulled into an empty parking space, gave her a wad of cash, and recited his sizes. Chiara climbed out and walked the rest of the way.

Gabriel left the engine running and listened to the news. Still no sign of the suspected papal assassin. Italian police had stepped up security at the nation's airports and border crossings. He switched

off the radio.

Chiara emerged from the store twenty minutes later, a bulging plastic sack swinging from each hand. The wind was at her back,

blowing her hair over her face. Because of the bags of clothing, she was defenseless to do anything about it.

She tossed the bags into the backseat and got in. Gabriel headed up the boulevard Carnot. Ten minutes later, he came to a large traffic circle and followed the signs for Grasse. A four-lane highway stretched before them, rising up the slope of the hills toward the base of the Maritime Alps. Chiara reclined the seat, pulled off her fleece shirt, and shimmied out of the heavy waterproof pants. Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the road. She dug through the bags of clothing until she found the clean underwear and bra she had bought for herself.

"Don't look."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Really? Why not?"

"Just hurry up and get some clothing on, please."

"That's the first time a man has ever said that to me."

"I can see why."

She swatted his arm and quickly changed into jeans, a sweater with a thick turtleneck, and fashionable black leather boots with square toes and thick heels. She looked very much like the attractive young woman he had seen for the first time in the ghetto in Venice. When she was finished, she sat up. "Your turn. Pull over and I'll drive while you change."

Gabriel did as she asked. From a purely fashion perspective, he did not fare as well: a pair of loose fitting blue cotton trousers with an elastic waist, a thick wool fisherman's sweater, a pair of tan espadrilles that scratched his feet. He looked like a man who spent his days idling in the town square playing boule.

"I look ridiculous."

"I think you look very handsome. More importantly, you can

walk through any town in Provence and no one will think you're anything but a local."

For ten minutes, Chiara navigated the winding road through olive trees and eucalyptus. They came to the medieval town of Val-bonne. Gabriel directed her northward, to a town called Opio, and from Opio to Le Rouret. She parked outside a tabac and waited in the car while Gabriel went inside. Behind the counter was a dark-complected man with tightly curled hair and Algerian features. When Gabriel asked whether he knew an Italian woman called Carcassi, the clerk shrugged his shoulders and suggested that Gabriel speak to Marc, the bartender next-door at the brasserie.

Gabriel found Marc polishing glasses with a dirty towel. When he put the same question to him, the bartender shook his head. He knew of no one named Carcassi in the village, but there was an Italian woman who lived on the road that led to the entrance of the nature park. He tossed his towel over his shoulder and stepped outside to point Gabriel in the right direction. Gabriel thanked him and rejoined Chiara.

"That way," he said. "Across the main road, past the gendarmerie, then up the hill."

The road was narrow, little more than a one-lane paved track, and the grade of the hill was steep. There were villas among the olive and pepper trees. Some were modest homes owned by locals; others were opulent, well-tended, and shielded by hedges and high stone walls.

The villa where the Italian woman purportedly lived fell into the second category. It was a stately old estate house with a turret "sing above the main entrance. The garden was a terraced affair, surrounded by a stone wall. There was no name on the daunting, iron gate.

When Gabriel pressed the button on the intercom, dogs began to bark. A few seconds later, a pair of Belgian shepherds came galloping from the back of the villa, teeth bared, barking fanatically They charged the gate and snapped at Gabriel through the bars. He took a quick step back and put a hand on the door latch of the car He did not like dogs to begin with, and not long ago he'd had a run-in with an Alsatian that had left him with a broken arm and several dozen stitches. He inched forward cautiously so as not to further incite the dogs and pressed the intercom button once again. This time he received a response: a woman's voice, barely audible above the wild barking.

"Out?"

"Madame Carcassi?"

"My name is Huber now. Carcassi was my maiden name."

"Was your mother Regina Carcassi from Tolmezzo in the north of Italy?"

A moment's hesitation, then: "Who is this, please?"

The dogs, hearing the note of anxiety in their master's voice, began to bark even more ferociously. During the night, Gabriel had been unable to decide how to make his approach to the daughter of Regina Carcassi. Now, with the shepherds trying to tear his legs off and a gale-force wind beating down on him from the Alps, he had little patience for subterfuge and cover stories. He reached out and pressed the button once more.

"My name is Gabriel," he said, shouting over the commotion of the dogs. "I work for the government of Israel. I believe I know who killed your mother, and I believe I know why."

There was no response from the intercom, only the rapid snarling of the dogs. Gabriel feared he had taken it too far too quickly. He

reached for the intercom button again but stopped himself when he saw the front door swing open and a woman step into the courtyard. She stood there a moment, black hair flying in the wind, arms folded beneath her breasts, then walked slowly across the courtyard and examined Gabriel through the bars of the gate. Satisfied, she looked down at the dogs and scolded them in rapid French. They stopped barking and trotted off, disappearing behind the villa. Then she reached into her coat pocket, produced the remote for the gate, and pressed it with her thumb. The gate slowly opened, and she gestured them to come inside.

SHE SERVED coffee and steamed milk in a rectangular sitting room with a terracotta floor and damask-covered furniture. The French doors rattled in the mistral. Several times Gabriel found himself looking at the doors to see if someone was trying to get in, but he saw only the elaborate garden writhing in the wind.

Her name was Antonella Huber, an Italian woman, married to a German businessman, living in the south of France--a member of that itinerant class of European wealthy who are comfortable in many countries and many cultures. She was an attractive woman, mid-forties, with dark shoulder-length hair and deeply tanned skin. Her eyes were nearly black and radiated intelligence. Her gaze was direct and without apprehension. Gabriel noticed the edges of her nails were soiled with clay. He glanced around the room and saw that it was decorated with ceramics. Antonella Huber was a skilled potter.

"I'm sorry about the dogs," she said. "My husband travels for his work, so I spend a great deal of time here alone. Crime is a major problem all along the Cote d'Azur. We were robbed a half-dozen times before we bought the guard dogs. Lately, we haven't had any problems."

"I can see why."

She managed a brief smile. Gabriel used the lull in the small talk to come to the point. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and gave Antonella Huber a selective account of the events that had brought him here. He told her that his friend, the historian Benjamin Stern, had discovered that something unusual had taken place at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brenzone during the war--the same convent where her mother had lived before renouncing her vows. He told her that his friend had been killed by someone who wanted that unusual event to remain a secret. He told her that her mother was not the only person to vanish without a trace in Italy. Two priests, Felici and Manzini, had disappeared around the same time. An Italian detective named Alessio Rossi believed the disappearances were linked, but he was ordered to close his investigation after Italian police came under pressure from a man named Carlo Casagrande, who worked for the Vatican Security Office. Antonella Huber remained motionless throughout Gabriel's presentation, her eyes locked on him, her hands folded across her knee. He had the distinct impression he was telling her nothing she did not already know or suspect.

"Your mother didn't renounce her vows simply in order to marry, did she?"

A long silence, then: "No, she didn't."

"Something happened at that convent, something that made her lose her faith and renounce her vows?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Did she discuss it with Benjamin Stern?"

"I begged her not to, but she ignored my warning and spoke to him anyway."

"What were you afraid of?"

"That she would be harmed, of course. And I was right, wasn't I?"

"Have you spoken to the Italian police?"

"If you know anything about Italian politics, you'd realize that the Italian police are not to be trusted in a matter like this. Wasn't Alessio Rossi one of the men who was killed in Rome the night before last? A papal assassin?" She shook her head slowly. "My God, they'll do anything to protect their dirty little secrets."

"Do you know why they killed your mother?"

She nodded and said, "Yes, I do. I know what happened in that convent. I know why my mother renounced her vows, and her faith, and why she was killed for it."

"Will you tell me?"

"It's probably better if I show you." She stood up. "Please wait here. I won't be a moment."

She left the room and walked upstairs. Gabriel sat back and closed his eyes. Chiara, seated next to him on the couch, reached out and laid her hand on his forearm.

When Antonella Huber returned, she was holding a stack of yellowed writing paper. "My mother wrote this the night before she married my father," she said, holding up the papers for Gabriel and Chiara to see. "She gave a copy of this to Benjamin Stern. This Js the reason your friend was killed."

She sat down, placed the papers in her lap, and began to read aloud.

My name is Regina Carcassi, and I was born in Brunico, a mountain village near the Austrian border. I am the youngest of seven children and the only girl. Therefore, it was almost preordained that I become a nun. In 1937, I took my vows and became a member of the Order of Saint Ursula. I was sent to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, an Ursuline convent in the town of Brenzone on Lake Garda, and I took a position teaching in a local Catholic school for girls. I was eighteen years old.

I was very pleased with my assignment. The convent was a lovely place, an old castle located on the shores of the lake. When the war came, little about our life changed. Despite the shortages of food, we received shipments of supplies each month and always had enough to eat. Usually, we had some left over to disperse among the needy in Brenzone. I continued my teaching duties and administered to the needs of those unfortunate souls affected by the fighting.

One evening in March 1942, Mother Superior addressed us after our evening meal. She informed us that in three days' time, our convent was to be the site of an important meeting between Vatican authorities and a high-level delegation from Germany. The Convent of the Sacred Heart had been chosen because of its isolation and the beauty of its facilities. She told us that we should all be very proud that such an important gathering should be held in our home, and we all were indeed pleased. Mother Superior told us that the topic of the meeting was an initiative by the Holy Father to bring about a speedy end to the war. We were instructed, however, not to speak a word about the meeting to anyone outside the convent. Even discussion amongst ourselves was forbidden. Needless to say, none of us slept much that night.

We were all very excited about what the coming days would bring.

Because I grew up so near the Austrian border, I spoke fluent German and knew about German food and customs. Mother Superior asked me to oversee the preparations for the conference, and I eagerly agreed. I was informed that the men would share a meal, then would adjourn to discuss the business at hand. In my opinion, our dining room was far too plain for such an occasion, so I decided that the meal and the conference should take place in our common room. It was a lovely room, with a large stone fireplace and beautiful views of the lake and the Dolomites--a truly inspirational setting. Mother Superior agreed, and she permitted me to rearrange the furniture in the room as I saw fit. Dinner would be served at a large circular table next to one of the windows. For the meeting, a long rectangular table with a dark finish was set in front of the fireplace. I wanted everything to be perfect, and when I was finished, the room looked quite beautiful indeed. I was thrilled by the prospect that my work might have some role in bringing about an end to all the death and destruction the war had wrought.

The day before the meeting, a large shipment of food arrived: hams and sausages, breads and pastas, tins of caviar, bottles of fine wine and champagne--things most of us had rarely seen in our lifetimes, and certainly not since the war had begun. The next day, with the help of two other sisters, I prepared a meal that I believed would suit the palates of the men from Rome and the visitors from Berlin.

The delegates were scheduled to arrive at six in the evening, but it snowed heavily that day, and everyone was delayed. The men from the Vatican arrived first, at eight-thirty. There were three in all: Bishop Sebastiano Lorenzi of the Vatican Secretariat of State, and his two young assistants, Father Felici and Father Manzini. Bishop Lorenzi inspected the room where the meeting was to take place, then he led us to the chapel to celebrate Mass. Before leaving the chapel, he repeated Mother Superior's instruction that we never speak of the evening's events at the convent. He went on to say that anyone who violated his order would do so under the pain of excommunication. It seemed a rather needless warning to me, for none of us would ever disobey a direct request from a senior Vatican official, but I knew that the men of the Roman Curia took their obedience to the rules of secrecy very seriously.

The delegation from Germany did not arrive until nearly ten o'clock. They too were three: a driver who did not take part in the conference, an aide called Herr Beckmann, and the leader of the delegation, a man from the German Foreign Office named State Secretary Martin Luther. I would never forget that name. Imagine, a man called Martin Luther, visiting the Roman Catholic Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brenzone! At the time, it was quite a shock-So was the state secretary's appearance. He was a small, sickly looking man with thick spectacles that distorted the shape of his eyes. He seemed to be suffering from a terrible cold, because he kept rubbing his nose with a white handkerchief

They immediately sat down to dinner. Herr Luther and Herr Beckmann commented on the beauty of the room, and I felt very proud of my accomplishment. I served the food and opened the first bottles of wine. It was a pleasant meal, and there was a good deal of laughter and camaraderie among the five men seated at the table. I had the impression that Herr Luther and Bishop

Lorenzi were well acquainted. Apparently, Mother Superior had neglected to tell them that I was from Brunico in the far north, because they spoke freely in German whenever I was in the room, surely out of the mistaken impression that I did not understand the language. I heard much interesting gossip about the affairs in Berlin.

The conference began at midnight. In Italian, Bishop Lorenzi said to me, "We have much work to do, Sister. Please keep the coffee coming. If you sec an empty cup, fill it." By now, all the other sisters had gone to bed. I sat outside the common room, in the antechamber. After a few moments, our young kitchhen boy appeared, dressed in pajamas. He was an orphan who lived in the convent. The sisters nicknamed him Ciciotto, little chubby one. The child had been awakened by nightmares. I invited him to sit with me. To help calm him, we recited the rosary.

The first time I entered the room, it became clear to me that the men were not discussing a negotiated settlement to the war. State Secretary Luther was in the process of handing round a memorandum to the other four men. As I poured coffee, I was able to see it quite well. It had two columns, and the columns were divided by a vertical line. On the left were the names of countries and territories, on the right were figures. At the bottom of the page was a tally.

Herr Luther was saying, "The program to bring about the final solution to the Jewish question in Europe is well under way. The document you have before you was presented to me at a conference in Berlin in January. As you can see, by our careful estimate, there are eleven million Jews in Europe at the moment. That estimate includes territory controlled by the Reich and its allies and in countries that remain neutral or allied with the enemy."

Herr Luther paused and looked at Bishop Lorenzi. "Does the girl speak German?"

"No, no, Herr Luther. She is a poor girl from the Garda region. Her only language is Italian, and even that she speaks like a peasant. You may speak freely in front of her."

I turned and left the room, pretending not to have heard the terribly insulting things the prelate had just said about me to the German. My face must have shown my embarrassment, because when I entered the antechamber, Ciciotto said, "Is something wrong, Sister Regina?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"Shall we continue to say the rosary, Sister?"

"You say it, my child. But softly, please."

The boy resumed the rosary, but after a few moments he fell asleep with his head resting on my lap. I cracked the door a few inches so I could hear what was being said inside the common room. Herr Luther was still speaking. This is what I heard that night, recorded to the best of my recollection and ability.

"Despite our best efforts to keep the evacuations secret, word unfortunately is beginning to trickle out. It is my understanding from our own ambassador to the Vatican that some of these reports are beginning to reach the ears of the Holy Father."

Bishop Lorenzi replied, "That is indeed the case, State Secretary Luther. I'm afraid news of the evacuations has indeed reached the Vatican. The British and Americans are putting enormous pressure on the Holy Father to speak out-"

"May I speak bluntly, Bishop Lorenzi?

"That was the point of this gathering, was it not?"

"This program to settle the Jewish question once and for all is under way. The machinery is in place, and there is nothing His

Holiness can do to stop it. The only thing he can do is make matters worse for the Jews, and I know that is the last thing the Holy Father wishes to do."

"That is correct, Herr Luther. But how would a protest make

matters worse for the Jews?"

"It is imperative that the roundups and deportations go smoothly and with a minimum of struggle and histrionics. The element of surprise is a critical factor. If the Holy Father issues a protest, accompanied by an explicit warning about what deportation to the east truly means for the Jews, then it will make the roundups messy and difficult affairs. It will also mean that many Jews will go into hiding and escape our forces."

"One cannot argue with the logic of that statement, Herr Luther."

At this point, I felt it was time for me to offer the delegates more coffee. I eased the boy's head off my lap, then knocked on the door and waited for Bishop Lorenzi to invite me to enter the room.

"More coffee, Your Grace?"

"Please, Sister Regina."

There was a pause in the conversation while I refilled their cups and exited the room. Then Herr Luther resumed. Once again I left the door ajar so that I could hear what was being said.

"There is another reason why it is critical that the Holy Father not raise his voice in protest. Many of those who assist us in this necessary endeavor happen to be good Roman Catholics. If the Pope condemns their behavior, or threatens them with excommunication, it might make them think twice about the work that they are doing."

"You may rest assured, Herr Luther, that the last thing the

Holy Father would do is excommunicate Roman Catholics at a time life this."

"I wouldn't presume to give the Church advice on how to run its affairs, but there are reasons why papal silence on this matter would be best for all involved, including the Holy See."

"I'd be interested to hear your learned opinion, Hen Luther."

"Look at that figure I have laid before you. Imagine, eleven million Jews! A figure almost beyond comprehension! We are dealing with them as quickly and efficiently as possible, but it is a difficult task we have set for the Reich. What would happen if, God forbid, Germany should lose this war to Stalin and his gang of Jewish Bolsheviks? Try to imagine what would happen if there were millions of displaced Jews in Europe at the end of the war, alive and dispossessed, clamoring for the right to emigrate to Palestine. The Zionists and their friends in Washington and London would have their day. It would be impossible to prevent the creation of a Jewish national home in Palestine. Jewish control of Nazareth. Jewish control of Bethlehem. Jewish control of Jerusalem. Jewish control of all the holy sites! If they have their own state, they would have the right, as the Vatican does, to send their diplomats around the world. Judaism, the ancient enemy of the Church, would be placed on a footing equal to that of the Holy See. The Jewish state would become a platform for global Jewish domination. That would be a true disaster for the Roman Catholic Church, a setback of unimaginable proportions, and it looms just over the horizon, unless we complete the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe."

There was a long silence. I could not see inside, but in my mind, I tried to picture the scene. Bishop Lorenzi, I imagined, was fuming at so grotesque and monstrous a speech. He was preparing, in my imagination, to shatter the man from Berlin with a ringing condemnation of the Nazis and their war against the Jews. Instead, this is what I heard though the half-open door that night.

"As you know, Herr Luther, we members of Crux Vera have been very supportive of National Socialism and its crusade against the Bolsheviks. We have worked very quietly, yet diligently, to align the policies of the Vatican to meet our common goal: a world free of the Bolshevik menace. I cannot instruct the Pope what to say about this situation. I can only offer him my heartfelt advice, in the strongest possible terms, and hope that he accepts it. I can tell you this: At the moment, he is predisposed to say nothing about this matter. He believes a protest will only make the situation of German Catholics more tenuous. Furthermore, he has no love for the Jews, and he believes that in many respects they have brought this calamity upon themselves. Your thoughts on the future situation in Palestine give me a potent new weapon in my arsenal. I'm sure His Holiness will be very interested to hear about this. But at the same time, I beg of you to proceed in such a manner that you will not unintentionally force his hand. The Holy See would not want to be obliged to utter a word of disapproval."

"Obviously, I am very pleased to hear your remarks, Bishop Lorenzi. You have proven, once again, that you are a true friend of the German people and a trusted ally in our fight against Bolshevism and the Jews."

"And fortunately for you, Herr Luther, there is another true friend of the German people inside the Vatican--a man who outranks me significantly. He will listen to what I have to say. As for myself, I will be glad to be rid of them."

"I believe a toast is in order."

"As do I. Sister Regina ?" I entered the room. My legs were trembling. "Bring us a bottle of champagne," the bishop said to me in Italian, then added: "No, Sister, make that two bottles. Tonight is a night for celebration."

A moment later, I returned with the two bottles. One of them exploded when I opened it, and champagne spilled onto the floor and my habit. "I told you she was a peasant girl," the bishop said. "She must have shaken it on the way."

The others had a good laugh at my expense, and once again, I had to smile and pretend as though I had not understood. I poured out the champagne and turned to leave, but Bishop Lorenzi took my arm. "Why don't you join us in a glass, Sister Regina?" "No, I couldn't, Your Grace. It wouldn't be proper." "Nonsense!" Then he turned to Herr Luther and, in German, asked whether it would be all right if I had a glass of champagne after all my hard work preparing the meal. "Ja, Ja," shouted Herr Luther. "Indeed, I insist." And so I stood there, in my stained habit, and I drank their champagne. And I pretended not to understand when they congratulated themselves on a very successful evening of work. And as they were leaving, I shook hands with the murderer named Luther and pissed the proffered ring of his accomplice, Bishop Lorenzi. I can still taste the bitterness on my lips.

In my own room, I painstakingly transcribed the conversation I had just overheard. Then I lay awake in my bed until dawn. It was a night of perfect agony.

I am writing this now on an evening in September in the year 1947. It is the eve of my wedding day, a day I never wanted. I am about to marry a man who I am fond of but whom I do not truly love. I am doing it because it is easier this way. How can I (ell them the real reason I am leaving? Who would believe such a story?

I have no plans to tell anyone about that night, no plans to show anyone this document. It is a document of shame. The deaths of six million weigh heavily upon my conscience. I had knowledge, and I kept silent. Some nights they come to me, with their emaciated bodies and ragged prison clothing, and they ask me why I did not speak up in their defense. I do not have an acceptable answer. I was just a simple nun from the north of Italy. They were the most powerful people in the world. What could I have done? What could any of us have done?

Chiara stumbled into the powder room. A moment later, Gabriel could hear her being violently sick into the toilet. Antonella Huber sat silently, her eyes blank and damp, staring out the French doors at the garden, which was twisting in the wind. Gabriel stared at the pages in her lap; at the careful, precise script of Sister Regina Carcassi. It had been a torturous thing to hear, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by a swell of pride. An amazing document, those few yellowed pages. It dovetailed perfectly with things he had learned independently already. Had not Licio, the old man from the convent, told him about Sister Regina and Luther? Had not Alessio Rossi told him about the mysterious disappearances of two priests from the Germany desk of the Secretariat of State, Monsignors Felici and Manzini? Did not Sister Regina Carcassi place those same two priests at the side of Bishop Sebastiano Lorenzi, official of the Secretariat of State, member of Crux Vera, friend of Germany?

"And fortunately for you, Herr Luther, there is another true friend of the German people inside the Vatican--a man who outranks me significantly."

Here was an explanation of the inexplicable. Why had Pius XII remained silent in the face of the greatest case of mass murder in history? Was it because Martin Luther convinced an influential member of the Secretariat of State, a member of the secret order known as Crux Vera, that a papal condemnation of the Holocaust would ultimately lead to the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine and Jewish control of Christian holy sites? If so, it explained why Crux Vera was so desperate to keep the meeting at Brenzone a secret, for it linked the order, and by extension the Church itself, to the murders of six million Jews in Europe.

Chiara came out of the bathroom, her eyes damp and raw, and sat down next to Gabriel. Antonella Huber turned her gaze from the garden, and her dark eyes settled on Chiara's face.

"You are Jewish, yes?"

Chiara nodded and lifted her chin. "I am from Venice."

"There was a terrible roundup in Venice, wasn't there? While my mother was safe behind the walls of the Convent of the Sacred Heart, the Nazis and their friends were hunting down the Jews of Venice." She turned from Chiara and looked at Gabriel. "And what about you?"

"My family came from Germany." He said nothing more. There was nothing else to be said.

"Could my mother have done something to help them?" She looked out the French doors once more. "Am I guilty too? Do I bear my mother's original sin?"

"I don't believe in collective guilt," Gabriel said. "As for your mother, there was nothing she could have done. Even if she had defied the orders of the bishop and leaked word of the meeting at

Brenzone, nothing would have changed. Herr Luther was right. The machinery was in place, the killing had begun, and nothing but the defeat of Nazi Germany was going to stop it. Besides, no one would have believed her."

"Maybe no one will believe her now."

"It's a devastating document."

"It's a death sentence," she said. "They'll just dismiss it as a forgery. They'll say you're out to destroy the Church. That's what they do. That's what they always do."

"I have enough corroborating evidence to make it impossible for them to dismiss it as a hoax. Your mother may have been powerless to do anything in 1942, but she's not powerless any longer. Let me have this--the one she wrote with her own hand. It's important that I have the original."

"You may have it on one condition."

"And that is?"

"That you destroy the people who murdered my mother."

Gabriel held out his hand.