The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,85

however, he was visited by Father Schiller, who told him that God had other plans for the brilliant, handsome son of a Nazi war criminal. He left the seminary with a new name and entered Heidelberg University, where he studied mathematics. Father Schiller gave him the money to buy his first company in 1964, and within a few years he was one of the richest men in Germany, the very embodiment of the country’s postwar economic miracle.

“How much money did Father Schiller give you?”

“I believe it was five million deutsche marks.” Wolf hauled himself into one of the chairs next to the fire. “Or perhaps it was ten. To be honest, I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Did he tell you where the money came from? That the Order had extorted it from terrified Jews like Samuel Feldman in Vienna and Emanuele Giordano in Rome?” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Now is the part when you tell me you’ve never heard of them.”

“Why bother?”

“I suppose some of their money was used to help men like your father escape.”

“Rather ironic, don’t you think?” Wolf smiled. “My father handled the Feldman case personally. One member of the family slipped through his net. A daughter, I believe. Many years after the war, she told her sad story to a private Jewish investigator in Vienna. His name escapes me.”

“I believe it was Eli Lavon.”

“Yes, that’s it. He tried to extort money from Bishop Richter.” Wolf laughed bitterly. “A fool’s errand, if there ever was one. He got what he deserved, too.”

“I take it you’re referring to the bomb that destroyed his office in Vienna.”

Wolf nodded. “Two members of his staff were killed. Both Jews, of course.”

Gabriel looked at his old friend. He had never once seen him commit an act of violence. But he was certain that Eli Lavon, if handed a loaded gun, would have used it to kill Jonas Wolf.

The German was inspecting the burns on his right hand. “He was quite the tenacious character, this man Lavon. The stereotypical stiff-necked Jew. He spent several years trying to track down my father. He never found him, of course. He lived quite comfortably in Bariloche. I visited him every two or three years. Because our names were different, no one ever suspected we were related. He became quite devout in his old age. He was very contented.”

“He had no regrets?”

“For what?” Wolf shook his head. “My father was proud of what he did.”

“I suppose you were proud, too.”

“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