“I doubt Gunther would have cared much. He was always a bit of a Nazi.”

Gabriel looked at Eli Lavon, who seemed to be locked in a staring contest with the Wagner bust. After a moment he placed a hand on the large wooden cabinet upon which it stood. “This is where the speakers for the projection system were hidden.” He pointed toward the wall above. “And the screen was behind that tapestry. He could raise it when he wanted to show a film to his guests.”

Gabriel sidestepped a long rectangular table and stood before the massive window. “And this could be lowered, right, Eli? Unfortunately, when he drew up the plans for the Berghof, he put the garage directly beneath the great room. When the wind was right, the stench of petrol was unbearable.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Wolf. “I’m sure you didn’t make the same mistake.”

“I have a separate garage,” boasted Wolf.

“Where’s the button for the window?”

“On the wall to the right.”

Gabriel flipped the switch and the glass glided soundlessly into its pocket. Snow blew into the room. It was coming down harder now. He watched a plane rising slowly into the sky above Salzburg, then cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch.

“You should probably be on your way, Allon. That Gulfstream you borrowed from Martin Landesmann is scheduled to leave for Rome at two.” Wolf conjured an arrogant smile. “It’s a forty-minute drive to the airport at least.”

“Actually, I was thinking about staying long enough to watch the Bundespolizei put you in handcuffs. The German far right will never recover from this, Wolf. It’s over.”

“That’s what they said about us after the war. But now we’re everywhere. The police, the intelligence and security services, the courts.”

“But not the Reich Chancellery. And not the Apostolic Palace.”

“I own that conclave.”

“Not anymore.” Gabriel turned away from the open window and surveyed the room. It was beginning to make him feel ill. “This must have taken a great deal of work.”

“The furnishings were the most difficult part. Everything had to be custom-made based on old photographs. The room is exactly the way it was, with the exception of that table. There was usually a vase of flowers in the center. I use it to display cherished photographs.”

They were framed in silver and precisely arranged. Wolf with his beautiful wife. Wolf with his two sons. Wolf at the tiller of a sailboat. Wolf cutting the ceremonial ribbon at a new factory. Wolf kissing the ring of Bishop Hans Richter, superior general of the poisonous Order of St. Helena.

One photograph was larger than the others, and its frame was more ornate. It was a photograph of Adolf Hitler sitting at the original table with a child, a boy of two or three, balanced on his knee. The retractable window was open. Hitler looked drawn and gray. The boy looked frightened. Only the man wearing the uniform of a senior SS officer appeared pleased. Smiling, he was standing with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back with obvious delight.

“I assume you recognize the Führer,” said Wolf.

“I recognize the SS officer, too.” Gabriel contemplated Wolf for a moment. “The resemblance is quite striking.”

Gabriel returned the photograph to the table. Another plane was clawing its way skyward above Salzburg. He checked his wristwatch. It was approaching one o’clock. Time enough, he reckoned, for one last story.

47

OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

ELI LAVON RECOGNIZED WOLF’S FATHER. He was Rudolf Fromm, a desk-murderer from Department IVB4 of the Reich Main Security Office, the division of the SS that carried out the Final Solution. Fromm was an Austrian by birth and a Roman Catholic by religion, as was his wife, Ingrid. They were both from Linz, the town along the Danube where Hitler was born. Wolf was their only child. His real name was Peter—Peter Wolfgang Fromm. The photograph was taken in 1945 during Hitler’s last visit to the Berghof. Wolf’s mother had been chatting off camera with Eva Braun when it was snapped. Exhausted, his hand trembling uncontrollably, Hitler had refused to pose for another.

A month after the visit, with the Red Army closing in on Berlin, Rudolf Fromm stripped off his SS uniform and went into hiding. He managed to evade capture and in 1948, with the help of a priest from the Order of St. Helena, made his way to Rome. There he acquired a Red Cross identification card and passage on a ship bound from Genoa to Buenos Aires. Fromm’s son remained in Berlin with his mother until 1950, when she hanged herself in their squalid single-room apartment. Alone in the world, he was taken in by the same priest from the Order who had helped his father.

He entered the Order’s seminary in Bergen and studied for the priesthood. At eighteen, 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.”