“Because things might get ugly.”

“Heaven knows we’ve never been in an ugly situation before.”

“You can file a complaint with Personnel first thing tomorrow morning.”

Gabriel killed the connection and instructed Mikhail to make a left turn at the end of the street. They sped along the banks of a granite-colored river, past small hotels and holiday cottages.

“We’re less than three kilometers away,” said Estermann.

“You do remember what will happen if you try to warn him?”

“You’ll drop me down a deep hole.”

Gabriel returned Estermann’s phone. “Place the call in speaker mode.”

Estermann dialed. The phone rang unanswered. “He’s not picking up.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“Call him again.”

45

OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

JONAS WOLF WAS NOT A regular watcher of television. He regarded it as the true opiate of the masses and the source of the West’s drift into hedonism, secularism, and moral relativism. On that morning, however, he had switched on the news in his comfortable study at eleven fifteen, expecting to see the first reports of a major terrorist attack at Cologne’s historic cathedral. Instead, he had learned that a truck bomb had been discovered at a remote compound in western Germany and that a former Austrian police officer with known ties to the extreme right had been taken into custody. Die Welt had linked the man to the bombings in Berlin and Hamburg and, more ominously, to Axel Brünner and the National Democratic Party. The attacks were purportedly part of a ruthless operation by Brünner and the far right to inflame the German electorate on the eve of the general elections.

For now, at least, Wolf’s name had not been mentioned in the coverage of the unfolding scandal. He doubted he would escape scrutiny for long. But how had the Bundespolizei learned of the compound in Grosshau in the first place? And how had the reporter at Die Welt tied the bombings to Brünner’s campaign so quickly? Wolf had but one suspect.

Gabriel Allon …

It was for that reason Wolf did not answer the first call he received from Andreas Estermann’s iPhone. Now was not the time, he thought, to be talking to an accomplice who was calling from a cellular device. But when Estermann rang a second time, Wolf lifted the receiver hesitantly to his ear.

Estermann’s voice sounded an octave higher than normal. It was the voice, thought Wolf, of a man under obvious duress. It seemed a member of the Order who still worked for the Bf V had warned Estermann that he and Wolf were about to be arrested in connection with the bombings. Estermann was approaching the estate with several of his men. He wanted Wolf to be downstairs when he arrived. He had already instructed Platinum Flight Services, the fixed-base operator at Salzburg Airport, to prepare one of the Gulfstreams for departure. A flight plan had been filed for Moscow. They would be airborne in less than an hour. Wolf was to bring his passport and as much cash as he could fit in a single briefcase.

“And the gospel, Herr Wolf. Whatever you do, don’t leave it behind.”

The connection went dead. Wolf replaced the receiver and raised the volume of the television. A pack of reporters had cornered Brünner outside NDP headquarters in Berlin. His denials of involvement in the bombings had all the credibility of a murderer pleading his innocence while clutching a bloody knife in his hand.

Wolf muted the volume. Then he reached for the phone and rang Otto Kessler, the general manager of Platinum Flight Support. After an exchange of pleasantries, Wolf asked if his plane was ready for departure.

“Which plane, Herr Wolf?”

“A man from my company was supposed to have called you.”

Kessler assured Wolf that no one had contacted him. “You won’t have a problem getting a departure slot, though. There’s only one other private aircraft leaving this afternoon.”

“And who might that be?” asked Wolf indifferently.

“Martin Landesmann.”

“The Martin Landesmann?”

“It’s his plane, but I’m not sure he’ll be on board. It was empty when it arrived.”

“Where is it going?”

“Tel Aviv, with a brief stop in Rome.”

Gabriel Allon …

“And what time is Landesmann scheduled to depart?” asked Wolf.

“Two o’clock, weather permitting. The snow is forecast to worsen later this afternoon. We’ve been told to expect a complete ground stop sometime around four.”

Wolf rang off and immediately dialed Bishop Richter at the Order’s palazzo on the Janiculum Hill in Rome. “I trust you’ve seen the news, Excellency.”

“A troubling development,” replied Richter with his typical understatement.

“I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Germany is lost. At least for now. But the papacy is still within our reach. You must do everything in your power to keep our friend from the Society of Jesus away from the cardinals.”

“He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.”

“Two million and one,” said Wolf.

He hung up the phone and contemplated the river landscape hanging on the wall of his study. Painted by the Dutch Old Master Jan van Goyen, it had once belonged to a wealthy Viennese Jewish businessman named Samuel Feldman. Feldman had given it to Father Schiller, the founder of the Order, in exchange for a set of false baptismal certificates for himself and his family. Regrettably, the baptismal certificates had not arrived in time to prevent the deportation of Feldman and his kin to the Lublin district of German-occupied Poland, where they were murdered.

Concealed behind the landscape was Wolf’s safe. He worked the tumbler—87, 94, 98—and opened the heavy stainless-steel door. Inside was two million euros in cash, fifty gold ingots, a seventy-year-old Luger pistol, and the last remaining copy of the Gospel of Pilate.

Wolf removed only the gospel. He laid the book on his desk and opened it to the Roman prefect’s account of the arrest and execution of a Galilean troublemaker called Jesus of Nazareth. Ignoring the advice of Bishop Richter, Wolf had read the passage the night Father Graf brought the book from Rome. Much to his shame, he had read it many times since. Fortunately, his would be the last eyes to ever see it.

He carried the book to the window of his study. It overlooked the front of the chalet and the long road running the length of his private valley. In the distance, faintly visible through the falling snow, was the Untersberg, the mountain where Frederick Barbarossa had awaited his legendary call to rise and restore the glory of Germany. Wolf had heard the same call. The fatherland was lost. At least for now … But perhaps there was still a chance to save his Church.

The snow is forecast to worsen later this afternoon. We’ve been told to expect a complete ground stop sometime around four …

Wolf checked the time. Then he dialed Karl Weber, his security chief. As always, Weber answered on the first ring.

“Yes, Herr Wolf?”

“Andreas Estermann will be arriving any minute. He’s expecting me to meet him outside in the drive, but I’m afraid there’s been a change in plan.”