The Order

by Daniel Silva

  “Very,” admitted Wolf.

  Gabriel felt as though a knife had been thrust into his heart. He calmed himself before speaking again. “In my experience, most children of Nazi war criminals don’t share the fanaticism of their fathers. Oh, they have no love for the Jews, but they don’t dream of finishing the job their parents started.”

  “You obviously need to get out more, Allon. The dream is alive and well. It’s not just some empty chant at a pro-Palestinian rally any longer. You have to be blind not to see where all this is leading.”

  “I see quite well, Wolf.”

  “But not even the great Gabriel Allon can stop it. There isn’t a country in Western Europe where it’s safe to be a Jew. You’ve also worn out your welcome in the United States, the other Jewish homeland. The white nationalists in America oppose immigration and the dilution of their political power, but the real focus of their hatred is the Jews. Just ask the fellow who shot up that synagogue in Pennsylvania. Or those fine young men who carried their torches through that college town in Virginia. Who do you think they were emulating, with their haircuts and their Nazi salutes?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Your Jewish sense of humor is perhaps your least endearing trait.”

  “Right now, it’s the only thing preventing me from blowing your brains out.” Gabriel returned to the seating area before the fire. Almost nothing remained of the book. He took up the poker and stirred the embers. “What did it say, Wolf?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Gabriel wheeled around and brought the heavy iron tool down with all his strength against Wolf’s left elbow. The cracking of bone was audible.

  Wolf writhed in agony. “Bastard!”

  “Come on, Wolf. You can do better than that.”

  “I’m made of much sterner stuff than Estermann. You can beat me to a pulp with that thing, but I’ll never tell you what was in that book.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “The Roman Catholic Church cannot be wrong. And it most certainly cannot be deliberately wrong.”

  “Because if the Church was wrong, your father would have been wrong, too. There would have been no religious justification for his actions. He would have been just another genocidal maniac.”

  Gabriel allowed the poker to fall from his grasp. He was suddenly exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to leave Germany and never come back again. He would be forced to leave without the Gospel of Pilate. But he resolved that he would not leave empty-handed.

  He looked down at Wolf. The German was clutching his ruined elbow. “You might find this hard to believe, but things are about to get much worse for you.”

  “Is there no way we can reach some sort of accommodation?”

  “Only if you give me the Gospel of Pilate.”

  “I burned it, Allon. It’s gone.”

  “In that case, I suppose there’s no deal to be made. You might, however, want to consider doing at least one good deed before they lock you up. Think of it as a mitzvah.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “It wouldn’t be right for me to suggest something. It has to come from the heart, Wolf.”

  Wolf closed his eyes in pain. “In my study you will find a rather fine river landscape, about forty by sixty centimeters. It was painted by a minor Dutch Old Master named—”

  “Jan van Goyen.”

  Gabriel and Wolf both turned toward the sound of the voice. It belonged to Eli Lavon.

  “How do you know that?” asked Wolf, astonished.

  “A few years ago, a woman from Vienna told me a sad story.”

  “Are you—”

  “Yes,” said Lavon. “I am.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then please give her the painting. Behind it you’ll find my safe. Take as much cash and gold as you can carry. The combination is—”

  Gabriel supplied it for him. “Eighty-seven, ninety-four, ninety-eight.”

  Wolf glared at Estermann. “Is there anything you didn’t tell him?”

  It was Gabriel who answered. “He didn’t know why you chose such a peculiar combination. The only explanation is that it was your father’s SS number. Eight, seven, nine, four, nine, eight. He must have joined in 1932, a few months before Hitler seized power.”

  “My father knew which way the wind was blowing.”

  “You must have been very proud of him.”

  “Perhaps you should be leaving, Allon.” Wolf managed a hideous smile. “They say the storm is going to get much worse.”

  GABRIEL REMOVED THE PAINTING FROM its stretcher while Eli Lavon packed the bundles of banknotes and the gleaming gold ingots into one of Wolf’s costly titanium suitcases. When the safe was cleaned out, he placed the Luger inside, along with the HK 9mm they had taken from Karl Weber.

  “Too bad we can’t squeeze Wolf and Estermann in there as well.” Lavon closed the door and spun the tumbler. “What are we going to do with them?”

  “I suppose we could take them to Israel.”

  “I’d rather walk to Israel than fly there with the likes of Jonas Wolf.”

  “I thought for a minute you were going to kill him.”

  “Me?” Lavon shook his head. “I’ve never been one for the rough stuff. But I did enjoy watching you hit him with that poker.”

  Gabriel’s phone pulsed. It was Uzi Navot calling from King Saul Boulevard. “Are you planning to stay for dinner?” he asked.

  Gabriel laughed in spite of himself. “Can this wait? We’re a bit busy at the moment.”

  “I thought you should know that I just got a call from my new best friend, Gerhardt Schmidt. The Bundespolizei are on their way to arrest Wolf. You might want to vacate the premises before they arrive.”

  Gabriel killed the connection. “Time to go.”

  Lavon closed the lid of the suitcase and with Gabriel’s help tipped it onto its wheels. “It’s a good thing we’re flying on a private plane. This thing must weigh seventy kilos at least.”

  Together they wheeled the suitcase into the next room. Estermann and Karl Weber were tending to Wolf’s injuries, watched over by Mikhail and Oded. Yossi was inspecting one of the Gobelin tapestries. Yaakov was standing in front of the open window, listening to the distant wail of sirens.

  “They’re definitely getting louder,” he said.

  “That’s because they’re on their way here.” Gabriel beckoned to Mikhail and Oded and started toward the door.

  Wolf called out to him from across the room. “Who do you think it will be?”

  Gabriel stopped. “What’s that, Wolf?”

  “The conclave. Who’s going to be the next pope?”

  “They say Navarro is already ordering new furniture for the appartamento.”

  “Yes,” said Wolf, smiling. “That’s what they say.”

  PART THREE

  EXTRA OMNES

  48

  JESUIT CURIA, ROME

  LUIGI DONATI WAS A MAN of many virtues and admirable traits, but patience was not one of them. He was by nature a pacer and a twirler of pens who did not suffer fools or even minor delays gladly. Rome tested him daily. So had life behind the walls of the Vatican, where nearly every encounter with the backbiting bureaucrats of the Curia had driven him to utter distraction. All conversations within the Apostolic Palace were coded and cautious and laden with ambition and fear of a misstep that could doom an otherwise promising career. One seldom said what one was really thinking, and one never, never, put it in writing. It was far too dangerous. The Curia did not reward boldness or creativity. Inertia was its sacred calling.

  But at least Donati had never been bored. And with the exception of the six weeks he had spent in the Gemelli Clinic recovering from a bullet wound, he had never been powerless. At present, however, he was both. When combined with his aforementioned lack of forbearance, it was a lethal combination.

  His old friend Gabriel
Allon was to blame. In the three days since he had left Rome, Donati had heard from him only once, at 5:20 that morning. “I have everything you need,” Gabriel had promised. Unfortunately, he neglected to tell Donati what it was he had discovered. Only that it was a twelve on the Bishop Richter scale—a rather clever pun, Donati had to admit—and that there was an additional complication involving someone close to the previous pope. A complication that could not be discussed over the phone.

  For the subsequent eleven hours, Donati had heard not so much as a ping from his old friend. Hence, he had passed a thoroughly unpleasant day behind the walls of the Jesuit Curia. The news from Germany, while shocking, at least provided a distraction. Donati watched it with a few of his colleagues on the television in the common room. The German police had prevented a truck bombing targeting Cologne Cathedral. The purported terrorists were not from the Islamic State but a shadowy neo-Nazi organization with links to the far-right politician Axel Brünner. One member of the cell, an Austrian national, had been arrested, as had Brünner himself. At four thirty Germany’s interior minister announced that two other men implicated in the scandal had been found dead at an estate in the Obersalzberg. Both had been killed by the same handgun in what appeared to be a case of murder-suicide. The murder victim was a former German intelligence officer named Andreas Estermann. The suicide was the reclusive billionaire Jonas Wolf.

  “Dear God,” whispered Donati.

  Just then, his Nokia shivered with an incoming call. He tapped answer and raised the device to his ear.

  “Sorry,” said Gabriel. “The traffic in this town is a nightmare.”

  “Have you seen the news from Germany?”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “Is that what you meant by tying up one or two loose ends?”

  “You know what they say about idle hands.”

  “Please tell me you—”

  “I didn’t pull the trigger, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Donati sighed. “Where are you?”

  “Waiting for you to let me in.”

  GABRIEL STOOD IN THE ENTRANCE, framed by the doorway. The last three days had been unkind to his appearance. Truth be told, he looked like something the cat had dragged in. Donati led him upstairs to his rooms and chained the door. He checked the time. It was 4:39.

  “You mentioned something about a twelve on the Bishop Richter scale. Perhaps you can be a bit more specific.”

  Gabriel delivered his briefing while peering through the blinds into the street. It was swift but thorough and only lightly redacted. It detailed the Order’s plan to erase Islam from Western Europe, the circumstances surrounding the murder of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, and the macabre room in which Jonas Wolf, the son of a Nazi war criminal, burned the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate. Central to the Order’s sweeping political ambitions was control of the papacy. Forty-two cardinal-electors had accepted money in exchange for their votes at the conclave. Another eighteen were secret members of the Order who planned to cast their ballots for Bishop Richter’s proxy supreme pontiff: Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the archbishop of Vienna.

  “And the best part is that I have it all on video.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. “Is that specific enough for you?”

  “That’s only sixty votes. They need seventy-eight to secure the papacy.”

  “They’re counting on momentum to carry Emmerich over the top.”

  “Do you know the names of all forty-two cardinals?”

  “I can list them alphabetically if you like. I also know how much each was paid and where the money was deposited.” Gabriel released the blind and turned. “And I’m afraid it only gets worse.”

  He tapped the touchscreen of his phone. A moment later it emitted the sound of two men speaking German.

  He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.

  Two million and one …

  He paused the recording.

  “Bishop Richter and Jonas Wolf, I presume?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “What are the two million reasons why I shouldn’t tell the conclave what I know about the Order’s plot?”

  “It’s the amount of money Wolf and Richter put in your account at the Vatican Bank.”

  “They want to make it appear as though I’m as corrupt as they are?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And the one?”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  Donati’s eyes flashed with anger. “And to think they wasted two million dollars on such an obvious ploy.”

  “Perhaps you can put it to good use.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Donati dialed Angelo Francona, dean of the College of Cardinals. There was no answer.

  He checked the time again. It was 4:45.

  “I suppose you should give me the names.”

  “Azevedo of Tegucigalpa,” said Gabriel. “One million. Bank of Panama.”

  “Next?”

  “Ballantine of Philadelphia. One million. Vatican Bank.”

  “Next?”

  AT THAT SAME MOMENT, Cardinal Angelo Francona was standing like a sentinel near the reception desk of the Casa Santa Marta. Resting on the white marble floor at his feet was a large aluminum case filled with several dozen mobile phones, tablets, and notebook computers, all carefully labeled with the owners’ names. For security reasons, the switchboard of the clerical guesthouse remained operative, but the phones, televisions, and radios had been removed from its 128 rooms and suites. Francona’s telefonino was in the pocket of his cassock, silenced but still functioning. He planned to switch it off the instant the last cardinal walked through the door. At that point, the men who would select the next supreme Roman pontiff would effectively be cut off from the outside world.

  At present, 112 of the 116 voting-eligible cardinals were safely beneath the Casa Santa Marta’s roof. Several were milling about the lobby, including Navarro and Gaubert, the two leading contenders to succeed Lucchesi. At last check, Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese was upstairs in his suite. A migraine. Or so he claimed.

  Francona felt a pre-conclave headache coming on as well. Only once before had he taken part in the election of a pope. It was the conclave that had shocked the Catholic world by choosing a diminutive, little-known patriarch from Venice to succeed Wojtyla the Great. Francona had been among the group of liberals who had tipped the conclave in Lucchesi’s favor. Regrettably, Lucchesi’s papacy would be remembered for the terrorist attack on the basilica and the sexual abuse scandal that had left the Church on the brink of moral and financial collapse.

  Therefore, the conclave that would commence the following afternoon had to be utterly above reproach. Already a cloud was hanging over it. It had been placed there by the murder of that poor Swiss Guard in Florence. There was more to the story, Francona was sure of it. His task now was to preside over a scandal-free conclave, one that would produce a pontiff who could heal the Church’s wounds, unite its factions, and lead it into the future. He wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible. Secretly, he feared it was spinning out of control and that anything could happen.

  The double glass doors of the guesthouse opened, and Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the doctrinaire archbishop of Vienna, flowed into the lobby as though propelled by a private conveyor belt. The suitcase he was towing was the size of a steamer trunk. At the reception desk, he collected a room key from the nuns and then reluctantly surrendered his iPhone to Francona.

  “I don’t suppose I was lucky enough to be assigned to one of the suites.”

  “I’m afraid not, Cardinal Emmerich.”

  “In that case, I hope we reach a decision quickly.”

  The Austrian made for the elevators. Alone again, Francona checked his phone and was surprised to see he had three missed calls. All were from the same person. There were no messages, which was not his typical style.

  Francona hesitated, forefinger floating above the touchscreen. It was unorthodox, bu
t strictly speaking it was not a violation of the rules governing the conduct of the conclave, as laid out in Universi Dominici Gregis.

  Francona dithered for another precious minute before finally dialing the number and lifting the phone to his ear. A few seconds later he closed his eyes. It was spinning out of control, he thought. Anything could happen. Anything …

  THE CONVERSATION LASTED THREE MINUTES and forty-seven seconds. Donati was selective in what he revealed. Indeed, he focused only on the immediate matter at hand, which was the plot by the reactionary Order of St. Helena to seize the papacy and drag Western Europe into the dark ages of its fascist past.

  “Emmerich?” Francona was incredulous. “But you and Lucchesi were the ones who gave him his red hat.”

  “In retrospect, a mistake.”

  “How many cardinal-electors are involved?”

  Donati answered.

  “Dear God! Can you prove any of it?”

  “Twelve of the cardinals asked the Order to deposit the money in the Vatican Bank.”

  “You’ve been snooping through the accounts, have you?”

  “The information was given to me.”

  “By your Israeli friend?”

  “Angelo, please! We haven’t time.”

  Francona sounded suddenly short of breath.

  “Are you all right, Eminence?”

  “The news comes as quite a shock, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure it does. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

  There was a silence. At last, Francona said, “Give me the names of the cardinals. I’ll discuss it with them privately.”

  “You are a good and decent man, Cardinal Francona.” Donati paused. “Too decent for something like this.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Let me talk to the cardinals. All of them. At the same time.”

  “The Casa Santa Marta is closed to everyone but the cardinal-electors and the staff.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to make an exception. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to seek a public forum.”

  “The media? You wouldn’t dare.”