The Confessor

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 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."