At 10:34 p.m., Estermann’s inquisitor spoke for the first time. The camera captured the expression on the portion of the German’s face not concealed by the blindfold. Later, the video would be analyzed by the specialists at King Saul Boulevard. All were in agreement on one point. It was a look of profound relief.

THOUGH CURSED WITH A FLAWLESS memory, Gabriel sometimes found it hard to accurately recall his mother’s face. Two of her self-portraits hung in his bedroom in Jerusalem. Each night before he drifted off to sleep, he saw her as she had seen herself, a tormented figure rendered in the manner of the German Expressionists.

Like many young women who survived the Holocaust, she struggled with the demands of caring for a child. She was prone to melancholia and violent mood swings. She could not show pleasure on festive occasions and did not partake of rich food or drink. She wore a bandage always on her left arm, over the faded numbers tattooed into her skin. 29395 … She referred to them as her mark of Jewish weakness. Her emblem of Jewish shame.

Painting, like motherhood, was an ordeal for her. Gabriel used to sit on the floor at her feet, scribbling in his sketchpad, while she labored at her easel. To distract herself, she used to tell stories of her childhood in Berlin. She spoke to Gabriel in German, in her thick Berlin accent. It was Gabriel’s first language, and even now it was the language of his dreams. His Italian, while fluent, bore the faint but unmistakable trace of a foreigner’s intonation. But not his German. No matter where he traveled in the country, no one ever assumed he was anything but a native speaker of the language, one who had been raised in the center of Berlin.

Andreas Estermann clearly assumed that was the case as well, which prompted his misplaced expression of relief. It faded quickly once Gabriel explained why he had been taken into custody. Gabriel did not identify himself, though he implied he was a secret member of the Order of St. Helena who had been asked by Herr Wolf and Bishop Richter to investigate certain financial irregularities that had recently come to their attention. These irregularities concerned the existence of a bank account in the principality of Liechtenstein. Gabriel recited the current balance and the dates on which deposits had been made. Then he read aloud the text messages Estermann had exchanged with his private banker, Herr Hassler, lest Estermann entertain any thought of wriggling off the hook.

Next Gabriel turned his attention to the source of the money that Estermann had embezzled from the Order. It was money, he said, that was supposed to have been delivered to the cardinal-electors who had agreed to vote for the Order’s candidate at the coming conclave. At the mention of the prelate’s name, Estermann gave a start and then spoke for the first time. With a single objection, he confirmed both the existence of the plot and the name of the cardinal whom the Order had selected to be the next pope.

“How do you know it’s Emmerich?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel.

“Only a handful of us are aware of the conclave operation.”

“I’m one of them.”

“But I would know who you are.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“I know the names of all the secret members of the Order.”

“Obviously,” said Gabriel, “that’s not the case.”

Receiving no further protest, Gabriel returned to the topic of the payments. It seemed several of the prelates had informed Cardinal Albanese that the agreed-upon sums of cash had not appeared in their accounts.

“But that’s not possible! Father Graf told me last week that all the cardinals had received their money.”

“Father Graf is working with me on this matter. He misled you at my request.”

“Bastard.”

“The Order forbids such language, Herr Estermann. Especially when it concerns a priest.”

“Please don’t tell Bishop Richter.”

“Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.” Gabriel paused. “But only if you tell me what you did with the money you were supposed to deliver to the cardinal-electors.”

“I wired it into their accounts, just as Herr Wolf and Bishop Richter instructed. I never stole a single euro.”

“Why would the cardinals lie?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They’re trying to extort us into paying more money.”

“What about the account in Liechtenstein?”

“It is an operational account.”

“Why is your wife the beneficiary?”

Estermann was silent for a moment. “Do Herr Wolf and Bishop Richter know about the account?”

“Not yet,” said Gabriel. “And if you do everything I tell you, they never will.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to call Herr Hassler first thing in the morning and tell him to wire that money to me.”

“Yes, of course. What else?”

Gabriel told him.

“All forty-two names? We’ll be here all night.”

“Is there somewhere else you have to be?”

“My wife is expecting me for dinner.”

“I’m afraid you missed dinner a long time ago.”

“Can you at least remove the blindfold and these restraints?”

“The names, Herr Estermann. Now.”

“Is there any particular order you want them?”

“How about alphabetically?”

“It would help if I had my phone.”

“You’re a professional. You don’t need your phone.”

Estermann tilted his head toward the ceiling and drew a breath. “Cardinal Azevedo.”

“Tegucigalpa?”

“There’s only one Azevedo in the College of Cardinals.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“One million.”

“Where’s the money?”

“Bank of Panama.”

“Next?”

Estermann cocked his head. “Ballantine of Philadelphia.”

“How much?”

“One million.”

“Where’s the money?”

“The Vatican Bank.”

“Next?”

THE LAST NAME ON ESTERMANN’S list was Cardinal Péter Zikov, the archbishop of Esztergom-Budapest, one million euros, payable to his personal account at Banco Popolare Hungary. All totaled, 42 of the 116 cardinal-electors who would choose the successor to Pope Paul VII had received money in exchange for their votes. The total cost of the operation was slightly less than $50 million. Every penny of it had come from the coffers of the Wolf Group, the global conglomerate otherwise known as the Order of St. Helena Inc.

“And that’s all of the names?” probed Gabriel. “You’re sure you haven’t left anyone out?”

Estermann shook his head vigorously. “The other eighteen cardinals who will vote for Emmerich are members of the Order. They received no payment beyond their monthly stipends.” He paused. “And then there’s Archbishop Donati, of course. Two million euros. I deposited the money after he and the Israeli broke into the Secret Archives.”

Gabriel glanced at Eli Lavon. “And you’re sure you didn’t deposit that money in an account I don’t know about?”

“No,” said Estermann. “It’s in Donati’s personal account at the Vatican Bank.”