Cardinal Brindisi played the role of the mediator. "Then how do you suggest we proceed, Carlo?"

"Carefully, Eminence. If he is truly an agent of Israeli intelligence, then we can use our friends in the European security services to make life very uncomfortable for him. In the meantime, we must make sure there's nothing else for him to find." Casagrande paused, then added: "I'm afraid we have one loose end remaining. After examining

 the material taken from Professor Stern's apartment, I've come to the conclusion he was working with a collaborator--a man who's given us problems in the past."

A look of annoyance rippled over the cardinal's face--a stone cast into a calm pond at sunrise--then his features regained their composure. "And the other aspects of your inquiry, Carlo? Are you any closer to identifying the brethren who leaked these documents to Professor Stern in the first place?"

Casagrande gave a frustrated shake of his head. How many hours had he spent sifting the material taken from the flat in Munich? Notebooks, computer files, address books--Casagrande had gone over everything, looking for clues to the identity of the individuals or group who'd given the information to the professor. Thus far he'd found nothing. The professor had covered his tracks well. It was as if the documents had been handed to him by a ghost.

"I'm afraid that element of the case remains a mystery, Eminence. If this act of treachery was perpetrated by someone inside the Vatican, we may never know the truth. The Curia happens to be good training ground for intrigues of this sort."

This remark elicited a flicker of a smile from Brindisi. They walked in silence for a moment. The cardinal's eyes were down.

"Two days ago, I had lunch with the Holy Father," he said finally. "As we suspected, His Holiness intends to go forward with his program of reconciliation with the Jews. I tried to dissuade him, but it was useless. He's going to the Great Synagogue of Rome next week."

Roberto Pucci spat at the ground. Carlo Casagrande exhaled heavily. He was not surprised by the cardinal's news. Casagrande and Brindisi had a source on the Holy Father's staff, a secretary who was a member of the brotherhood and kept them apprised of developments inside the appartamento. He had been warning for weeks that something like this was coming.

"He is a caretaker pope," Pucci snapped. "He needs to learn his place."

Casagrande held his breath, waiting for Pucci to suggest his favorite solution to a problem, but not even Pucci would consider such an option.

"The Holy Father is not content simply to issue another statement of remorse over our past differences with the Jews. He intends to throw open the Secret Archives as well."

"He can't be serious," said Casagrande.

"I'm afraid he's very serious. The question is, if he throws open the archives, will the historians find anything?"

"The Archives have been purged of all references to the meeting at the convent. As for the witnesses, they've been dealt with and their personnel files destroyed. If the Holy Father insists on commissioning a new study, the Archives will yield no new damaging information whatsoever. Unless, of course, the Israeli manages to reconstruct the work of Professor Stern. If that happens--"

"--then the Church, and the Institute, will find itself in very difficult straits," said the Cardinal, finishing Casagrande's sentence for him. "For the greater good of the Church and all those who believe in her, the secret of the covenant must remain just that, a secret."

"Yes, Eminence."

Roberto Pucci lit a cigarette. "Perhaps our friend in the apparta-mento can advise the Holy Father to see the error of his ways, Eminence."

I've tried that route already, Don Pucci. According to our friend,

 the Pope is determined to proceed, regardless of the advice of his secretaries or the Curia."

"From a financial point of view, the Holy Father's initiative could be disastrous," Pucci said, switching his focus from murder to money. "Many people wish to do business with the Vatican because of its good name. If the Holy Father drags that good name through the mud of history . . ."

Brindisi nodded in agreement. "In private, the Holy Father often expresses a desire to return to the days of a poor church."

"If he's not careful," said Pucci, "he'll get his wish."

Cardinal Brindisi looked at Casagrande. "This collaborator," the cardinal said. "You believe he poses a threat to us?"

"I do, Eminence."

"What do you require of me, Carlo? Other than my approval, of course."

"Just that, Eminence."

"And from Don Pucci?"

Casagrande looked into the hooded black eyes.

"I need his money."

It was early afternoon by the time Gabriel reached the northern end of Lake Garda. As he made his way southward along the shoreline, the climate and vegetation gradually changed from Alpine to Mediterranean. When he lowered his window, chill air washed over his face. The late-day sun shone on the silver-green leaves of the olive trees. Below, the lake was still and flat, like a slab of polished granite.

The town of Brenzone was shrugging off the drowsiness of the siesta, awnings opening in the bars and cafes along the waterfront, shopkeepers placing goods in the narrow cobblestone streets rising UP the steep slope of Monte Baldo. Gabriel made his way along the lakeshore until he found the Grand Hotel, a saffron-colored villa at the end of town.

As Gabriel pulled into the courtyard, a bellman set upon him the enthusiasm of a shut-in grateful for company. The lobby  place from another time. Indeed, Gabriel would not have been surprised to see Kafka perched on the edge of a dusty wing chair scribbling away at a manuscript in the deep shadows. In the adjoining dining room, a pair of bored waiters slowly set a dozen tables for dinner. If their languorous pace was any indication, most of the tables would not be occupied this evening.

The clerk behind the counter stiffened formally at Gabriel's approach. Gabriel looked at the silver-and-black nametag pinned to the left breast of his blazer: giancomo. Blond and blue-eyed, with the square-shouldered bearing of a Prussian military officer, he eyed Gabriel with a vague curiosity from behind the dais.

In labored but fluent Italian, Gabriel introduced himself as Ehud Landau from Tel Aviv. The clerk seemed pleased by this. When Gabriel asked about a man who had visited the hotel two months earlier--a professor named Benjamin Stern who left behind a pair of eyeglasses--the clerk shook his head slowly. The fifty euros that Gabriel slipped into his palm seemed to stir his memory. "Ah, yes, Herr Stern." The blue eyes danced. "The writer from Munich. I remember him well. He stayed three nights."

"Professor Stern was my brother."

"Was?"

"He was murdered in Munich ten days ago."

"Please accept my condolences, Signer Landau, but perhaps I should be talking to the police about Professor Stern and not to his brother."

When Gabriel said he was conducting his own investigation, the concierge frowned thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything of value, except that I'm quite certain Professor Stern's death had nothing to do with his stay in Brenzone. You see, your brother spent most of his time at the convent."

"The convent?"

The concierge stepped around the counter. "Follow me."

He led Gabriel across the lobby and through a set of French doors. They crossed a terrace overlooking the lake and paused at the balustrade. A short distance away, perched on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the lake, was a crenellated castle.