The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,61

reforms put in place by Lucchesi and Donati. All power would be centralized in the Apostolic Palace. All dissent would be ruthlessly repressed. There would be no more talk of women in the priesthood or allowing priests to marry. Nor would there be any heartfelt encyclicals about climate change, the poor, the rights of workers and immigrants, and the dangers posed by the rise of the far right in Western Europe. Indeed, the new secretary of state would forge close ties between the Holy See and the authoritarian leaders of Italy, Germany, Austria, and France—all doctrinaire Catholics who would serve as a bulwark against secularism, democratic socialism, and, of course, Islam.

Albanese moved toward the altar. Behind it was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, with its swirling cyclone of souls rising toward heaven or falling into the depths of hell. It never failed to stir Albanese. It was the reason he had become a priest, the fear that he would suffer for all eternity in the emptiness of the underworld.

That fear, after lying dormant within Albanese for many years, had risen again. It was true that Bishop Richter had granted him absolution for his role in the murder of Pietro Lucchesi. But in his heart Albanese did not believe such a mortal sin could truly be forgiven. Granted, it was Father Graf who had done the deed. But Albanese had been an accessory before and after the fact. He had played his role flawlessly, with one exception. He had failed to find the letter—the letter Lucchesi was writing to Gabriel Allon about the book he had found in the Secret Archives. The only explanation was that the Janson boy had taken it. Father Graf had killed him as well. Two murders. Two black marks on Albanese’s soul.

All the more reason why the conclave had to go precisely as planned. It was Albanese’s job to make certain the cardinal-electors who had accepted the Order’s money cast their ballots for Emmerich at the appropriate time. A sudden and decisive move toward the Austrian would raise suspicion of tampering. His support had to build gradually, ballot by ballot, so that nothing looked amiss. Once Emmerich was clad in white, the Order would face no threat of exposure. The Vatican was one of the world’s last absolute monarchies, a divine dictatorship. There would be no investigation, no exhumation of the dead pontiff’s body. It would almost be as though it had never happened.

Unless, thought Albanese, there was another unexpected development like the one that had occurred the previous morning at the Secret Archives. Gabriel Allon and Archbishop Donati had undoubtedly found something. What it was, Albanese could not say. He only knew that after leaving the Archives, Allon and Donati had traveled to Assisi, where they had met with a certain Father Robert Jordan, the Church’s foremost expert on the apocryphal gospels. Afterward, they had returned to Rome, where they had met with one Alessandro Ricci, the world’s foremost expert on the Order of St. Helena. It was hardly an encouraging sign.

“Truly magnificent, is it not?”

Albanese turned with a start.

“Forgive me,” said Bishop Richter. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Albanese addressed his superior general with a cool and distant formality. “Good morning, Excellency. What brings you to the Sistina?”

“I was told I might find the camerlengo here.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. In fact, I have rather good news.”

“What’s that?”

Richter smiled. “Gabriel Allon just left Rome.”

35

ZURICH

IT WAS HALF PAST FOUR when Gabriel arrived in Zurich. He rode in a taxi to the Paradeplatz, the St. Peter’s Square of Swiss banking, and then walked along the stately Bahnhofstrasse to the northern tip of the Zürichsee. A BMW sedan drew alongside him on the General-Guisan-Quai. Behind the wheel was Christoph Bittel. Bald and bespectacled, he looked like just another gnome heading home to the lakeside suburbs after a long day spent tabulating the hidden riches of Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.

Gabriel dropped into the passenger seat. “Where were we?”

“The man in the sketch.” Bittel eased into the rush-hour traffic. “I’m sorry it took me so long to make the connection. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Estermann,” said Bittel. “Andreas Estermann.”

AS GABRIEL SUSPECTED, ESTERMANN WAS a professional. For thirty years he had worked for the Bf V, Germany’s internal security service. Not surprisingly, the Bf V maintained close links with its sister service in Switzerland, the NDB. Early in his career, Bittel had traveled to Cologne to brief his German counterparts on Soviet espionage activity