“And thus,” said Estermann, “his fate was sealed.”

“How did you know about the letter?”

“I planted a transmitter in the papal study years ago. I heard the Holy Father telling Donati that he was writing to you.”

“But Lucchesi didn’t tell Donati why he was writing to me.”

“I heard the pope tell someone else. I was never able to determine who he was talking to. In fact, I couldn’t hear the other person’s voice.”

“Why was the Order so worried about the prospect of Lucchesi giving me the book?”

“Let me count the ways.”

“You were afraid it called into question the historical accuracy of the Gospels.”

“Obviously.”

“But you were also concerned about the book’s provenance. It was given to the Order in 1938 by a wealthy Roman Jew named Emanuele Giordano, along with a large sum of cash and several works of art. Signore Giordano did not make this contribution out of the goodness of his heart. The Order was running quite an extortion racket in the thirties. It targeted wealthy Jews, who were promised protection and lifesaving baptismal certificates in exchange for cash and valuables. That money was the venture capital for the Wolf Group.” Gabriel paused. “All of which I would have exposed if Lucchesi had placed the book in my hands.”

“Not bad, Allon. I always heard you were good.”

“How did the Gospel of Pilate end up in the Secret Archives?”

“Father Schiller turned it over to Pius the Twelfth in 1954. His Holiness should have burned it. He buried it in the Archives instead. If Father Joshua hadn’t found it, Lucchesi would still be alive.”

“How did Father Graf kill him?”

The question surprised Estermann. After a moment’s hesitation he held up the first two fingers of his right hand and moved his thumb as though squeezing the plunger of a syringe.

“What was in it?”

“Fentanyl. Apparently, the old man put up quite a fight. Father Graf gave him the injection through his soutane and held his hand over his mouth as he was dying. One of the tasks of the camerlengo is to supervise the preparation of the Holy Father’s body for burial. Albanese made certain no one noticed the small hole in his right thigh.”

“I think I’ll put a hole in Father Graf the next time I see him.” Gabriel laid a photograph on the table. A man in a motorcycle helmet on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, right arm extended, a gun in his hand. “He’s a rather good shot.”

“I trained him myself.”

“Did Niklaus let him into the papal apartments the night of the murder?”

Estermann nodded.

“Did he know what Father Graf was planning to do?”

“Saint Niklaus?” Estermann shook his head. “He loved the Holy Father and Donati. Father Graf manipulated him into opening the door. I heard Niklaus go into the study a few minutes after Father Graf left. That’s when he took the letter off the desk.”

Gabriel placed it on the table, next to the photograph.

“Where did you find it?”

“It was in his pocket when he was killed.”

“What does it say?”

“It says you’d better tell me what happened to the Gospel of Pilate after Albanese removed it from the study.”

“He gave it to Bishop Richter.”

“And what did Bishop Richter do with it?”

“He did what Father Schiller and Pius the Twelfth should have done a long time ago.”

“He destroyed it?”

The German nodded.

Gabriel drew the Beretta from the small of his back. “How do you want the story to end?”

“I want to see my children again.”

“Correct answer. Now let’s try for two in a row.” Gabriel leveled the Beretta at Estermann’s head. “Where’s the book?”

THERE WAS A HEATED QUARREL, but then no Office operation was complete without one. Yaakov Rossman appointed himself the spokesman for the opposition. The team, he argued, had already pulled off the near impossible. Hastily assembled in a city on high alert, it had succeeded in making a former German intelligence officer disappear without a trace. Under skillful interrogation, he had surrendered the information necessary to prevent the Catholic Church from falling into the hands of a malignant, reactionary order with ties to Europe’s far right. What was more, the proverbial tree had fallen in the operational forest without a sound. It was better not to push their luck with a risky final gambit, said Yaakov. Better to put Estermann on ice and make a leisurely run for Munich Airport.

“I’m not leaving without that book,” said Gabriel. “And Estermann is going to get it for me.”

“What makes you think he’ll agree to do it?”

“Because it’s better than the alternative.”

“What if he’s lying?” asked Yaakov. “What if he’s sending you on a wild-goose chase?”

“He isn’t. Besides, his story is easily verifiable.”

“How?”

“The phone.”

The phone to which Gabriel was referring belonged to Father Markus Graf. Gabriel ordered Unit 8200, which had gained access to the device after acquiring its number, to check the GPS data stored in the operating system. Shortly after five a.m. Munich time, Yuval Gershon called back with the Unit’s findings. The GPS data matched Estermann’s story.

At which point all debate ended. There was, however, a minor problem of transport.

“If things go sideways up there,” said Eli Lavon, “you won’t be able to get back to Rome tonight.”

“Not without a private plane,” conceded Gabriel.

“Where are we going to get a plane?”

“I suppose we could just steal one.”

“Could be messy.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “we’ll borrow one instead.”

MARTIN LANDESMANN, THE SWISS FINANCIER and philanthropist, famously slept only three hours a night. Therefore, when he answered his phone at five fifteen, he sounded alert and full of entrepreneurial vitality. Yes, he said, business was good. Quite good, in fact. No, he replied with a mirthless laugh, he was not selling nuclear components to the Iranians again. Because of Gabriel, all that was in Landesmann’s past.

“And you?” he asked earnestly. “How’s your business these days?”

“International chaos is a growth industry.”

“I’m always looking for investment opportunities.”

“Financing isn’t a problem, Martin. What I need is a plane.”

“I’m taking the Boeing Business Jet to London later this morning, but the Gulfstream is available.”

“I suppose it will have to do.”

“Where and when?”

Gabriel told him.

“Destination?”

“Tel Aviv, with a brief stopover at Ciampino in Rome.”

“Where shall I send the bill?”

“Put it on my tab.”

Gabriel rang off and called Donati in Rome.

“I was beginning to think I would never hear from you,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I have everything you need.”

“How bad is it?”