“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 certainly cannot be deliberately wrong.”

“Because if the Church was wrong, your father would have been wrong, too. There would have been no religious justification for his actions. He would have been just another genocidal maniac.”

Gabriel allowed the poker to fall from his grasp. He was suddenly exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to leave Germany and never come back again. He would be forced to leave without the Gospel of Pilate. But he resolved that he would not leave empty-handed.

He looked down at Wolf. The German was clutching his ruined elbow. “You might find this hard to believe, but things are about to get much worse for you.”

“Is there no way we can reach some sort of accommodation?”

“Only if you give me the Gospel of Pilate.”

“I burned it, Allon. It’s gone.”

“In that case, I suppose there’s no deal to be made. You might, however, want to consider doing at least one good deed before they lock you up. Think of it as a mitzvah.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“It wouldn’t be right for me to suggest something. It has to come from the heart, Wolf.”

Wolf closed his eyes in pain. “In my study you will find a rather fine river landscape, about forty by sixty centimeters. It was painted by a minor Dutch Old Master named—”

“Jan van Goyen.”

Gabriel and Wolf both turned toward the sound of the voice. It belonged to Eli Lavon.

“How do you know that?” asked Wolf, astonished.

“A few years ago, a woman from Vienna told me a sad story.”

“Are you—”

“Yes,” said Lavon. “I am.”

“Is she still alive?”

“I believe so.”

“Then please give her the painting. Behind it you’ll find my safe. Take as much cash and gold as you can carry. The combination is—”

Gabriel supplied it for him. “Eighty-seven, ninety-four, ninety-eight.”

Wolf glared at Estermann. “Is there anything you didn’t tell him?”

It was Gabriel who answered. “He didn’t know why you chose such a peculiar combination. The only explanation is that it was your father’s SS number. Eight, seven, nine, four, nine, eight. He must have joined in 1932, a few months before Hitler seized power.”

“My father knew which way the wind was blowing.”

“You must have been very proud of him.”

“Perhaps you should be leaving, Allon.” Wolf managed a hideous smile. “They say the storm is going to get much worse.”

GABRIEL REMOVED THE PAINTING FROM its stretcher while Eli Lavon packed the bundles of banknotes and the gleaming gold ingots into one of Wolf’s costly titanium suitcases. When the safe was cleaned out, he placed the Luger inside, along with the HK 9mm they had taken from Karl Weber.

“Too bad we can’t squeeze Wolf and Estermann in there as well.” Lavon closed the door and spun the tumbler. “What are we going to do with them?”

“I suppose we could take them to Israel.”

“I’d rather walk to Israel than fly there with the likes of Jonas Wolf.”

“I thought for a minute you were going to kill him.”

“Me?” Lavon shook his head. “I’ve never been one for the rough stuff. But I did enjoy watching you hit him with that poker.”

Gabriel’s phone pulsed. It was Uzi Navot calling from King Saul Boulevard. “Are you planning to stay for dinner?” he asked.

Gabriel laughed in spite of himself. “Can this wait? We’re a bit busy at the moment.”

“I thought you should know that I just got a call from my new best friend, Gerhardt Schmidt. The Bundespolizei are on their way to arrest Wolf. You might want to vacate the premises before they arrive.”

Gabriel killed the connection. “Time to go.”

Lavon closed the lid of the suitcase and with Gabriel’s help tipped it onto its wheels. “It’s a good thing we’re flying on a private plane. This thing must weigh seventy kilos at least.”

Together they wheeled the suitcase into the next room. Estermann and Karl Weber were tending to Wolf’s injuries, watched over by Mikhail and Oded. Yossi was inspecting one of the Gobelin tapestries. Yaakov was standing in front of the open window, listening to the distant wail of sirens.

“They’re definitely getting louder,” he said.

“That’s because they’re on their way here.” Gabriel beckoned to Mikhail and Oded and started toward the door.

Wolf called out to him from across the room. “Who do you think it will be?”

Gabriel stopped. “What’s that, Wolf?”

“The conclave. Who’s going to be the next pope?”

“They say Navarro is already ordering new furniture for the appartamento.”

“Yes,” said Wolf, smiling. “That’s what they say.”

PART THREE

EXTRA OMNES

48

JESUIT CURIA, ROME

LUIGI DONATI WAS A MAN of many virtues and admirable traits, but patience was not one of them. He was by nature a pacer and a twirler of pens who did not suffer fools or even minor delays gladly. Rome tested him daily. So had life behind the walls of the Vatican, where nearly every encounter with the backbiting bureaucrats of the Curia had driven him to utter distraction. All conversations within the Apostolic Palace were coded and cautious and laden with ambition and fear of a misstep that could doom an otherwise promising career. One seldom said what one was really thinking, and one never, never, put it in writing. It was far too dangerous. The Curia did not reward boldness or creativity. Inertia was its sacred calling.