"The Convent of the Sacred Heart. In the nineteenth century it was a sanatorium. The sisters took over the property before the First War and have been there ever since."

"Do you know what my brother was doing there?"

"I'm afraid not. But why don't you ask Mother Vincenza? She's the mother superior. A lovely woman. I'm sure she'd be very happy to help you."

"Do you have a telephone number?"

The hotelier shook his head. "No phone. The sisters take their privacy very seriously."

A PAIR of towering cypress trees stood like sentinels on either side of the tall iron gate. As Gabriel pressed the bell, a cold wind rose from the lake and swirled in the courtyard, stirring the limbs of the olive trees. A moment later, an old man appeared, dressed in soiled coveralls. When Gabriel said he wished to have a brief word with Mother Vincenza, the old man nodded and disappeared into the convent. Returning a moment later, he unchained the gate and gestured for Gabriel to follow him.

The nun was waiting in the entrance hall. Her oval face was framed by a gray-and-white habit. A pair of thick glasses magnified a steadfast gaze. When Gabriel mentioned Benjamin's name, her *ace broke into a wide genuine smile. "Yes, of course I remember  arched portals. There was something of the catacombs in this place. Gabriel had a sudden vision of hunted souls moving about by torchlight and speaking in whispers.

Mother Vincenza led him along the passageway, pausing at each portal to play the beam of her flashlight over the interior of a cramped chamber. The stonework shone with damp, and the smell of the lake was overwhelming. Gabriel thought he could hear water lapping above their heads.

"It was the only place where the sisters thought the refugees would be safe," the nun said finally, disturbing the silence. "As you can feel for yourself, it was bitterly cold in the winter. I'm afraid they suffered terribly, especially the children."

"How many?"

"Usually about a dozen. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer."

"Why fewer?"

"Some moved on to other conventi. One family tried to make it to Switzerland. They were caught at the border by a Swiss patrol and handed over to the Germans. I'm told they died at Auschwitz. I was just a little girl during the war, of course. My family lived in Turin."

"It must have been very dangerous for the women living here."

"Yes, very. In those days, Fascist gangs were roaming the country looking for Jews. Bribes were paid. Jews were denounced for money. Anyone who concealed Jews was subject to terrible reprisals. The sisters accepted these people at great risk to themselves."

"So why did they do it?"

She smiled warmly and squeezed his arm. "There is a great tradition in the Church, Signor Landau. Priests and nuns feel a special duty to assist fugitives. To help those unjustly accused. The sisters of Brenzone helped the Jews out of Christian goodness. And they did it because the Holy Father told them to do it."

"Pope Pius instructed the convents to take in Jews?" The nuns eyes widened. "Indeed. Convents, monasteries, schools, hospitals. All Church institutions and properties were ordered by the Holy Father to throw open their doors to the Jews."

The beam of Mother Vincenza's flashlight fell upon an obese rat. It scurried away, claws scratching against the stones, yellow eyes glowing.

"Thank you, Mother Vincenza," Gabriel said. "I think I've seen enough."

"As you wish." The nun remained motionless, her unfaltering gaze lingering on him. "You should not be saddened by this place, Signor Landau. Because of the sisters of Brenzone, the people who took shelter here managed to survive. This is no place for tears. It is a place of joy. Of hope."

When Gabriel made no response, Mother Vincenza turned and led him up the stairs. As she walked across the gravel forecourt, the night wind lifted the skirt of her habit.

"We're about to sit down for our evening meal. You're welcome to join us if you like."

"You're very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude. Besides, I've taken enough of your time."

"Not at all."

At the front gate Gabriel stopped and turned to face her. "Do you know the names of people who took shelter here?" he asked suddenly.

The nun seemed surprised by his question. She studied him a moment, then shook her head deliberately. "I'm afraid the names have been lost over the years."

"That's a shame."

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly.

"May I ask you one more question, Mother Vincenza?"

"Certainly."

"Did the Vatican give you permission to speak with Benjamin?"

She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't need some bureaucrat in the Curia to tell me when to talk and when to keep silent. Only my God can tell me that, and God told me to talk to your brother about the Jews of Brenzone."

Mother Vincenza kept a small office on the second floor of the convent, in a pleasant room overlooking the lake. She closed and locked the door, then sat down at her modest desk and pulled open the top drawer. There, concealed behind a small cardboard box filled with pencils and paperclips, was a sleek cellular telephone. Technically, it was against the strict rules of the convent to keep such a device, but the man from the Vatican had assured her that, given the circumstances, it would not constitute a violation, moral or otherwise.

She powered on the phone, just as he had taught her, and carefully entered the number in Rome. After a few seconds of silence, she could hear a telephone ringing. This surprised her. A moment later, when a male voice, came on the line, it surprised her even more.

"This is Mother Vincenza--"

"I know who this is," the man said, his tone brusque and businesslike. Then she remembered his instructions about never using names on the telephone. She felt a fool.

"You asked me to call if anyone came to the convent to ask questions about the professor." She hesitated, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing. "Someone came this afternoon."

"What did he call himself?"

"Landau," she said. ''Ehud Landau, from Tel Aviv. He said he Was the man's brother."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he's staying at the old hotel."

"Can you find out?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Find out--then call me back."

The connection went dead.

Mother Vincenza placed the telephone back in its hiding place and quietly closed the drawer.

Gabriel decided to spend the night in Brenzone and return to Venice first thing in the morning. After leaving the convent, he walked back to the hotel and took a room. The prospect of eating supper in the dreary hotel dining room depressed him, so he walked down to the lakeshore through the chill March evening and ate fish in a cheerful restaurant filled with townspeople. The white wine was local and very cold.

The images of the case flashed through his mind while he ate: The Odin Rune and the Three-Bladed Swastika painted on Benjamin's wall; the blood on the floor where Benjamin had died; Detective Weiss tailing him through the streets of Munich; Mother Vincenza leading him down the stairs to the dank cellar of the convent by the lake.

Gabriel was convinced Benjamin had been killed by someone who wished to silence him. Only that would explain why his computer was missing and why his apartment contained no evidence at all that he was writing a book. If Gabriel could recreate Benjamin's book--or at least the subject matter--he might be able to identify who killed him and why. Unfortunately, he had next to nothing---only an elderly nun who claimed Benjamin was working on a book about Jews taking refuge in Church properties during the war. Generally speaking, it was not the type of subject matter that could get a man killed.

He paid his check and started back to the hotel. He took his time, wandering the quiet streets of the old town, paying little attention to where he was going, following the narrow passageways wherever they happened to lead him. His thoughts mirrored his path through Brenzone. Instinctively, he approached the problem as though it were a restoration, as though Benjamin's book were a painting that had suffered such heavy losses that it was little more than a bare canvas with a few swaths of color and a fragment of an underdrawing. If Benjamin were an Old Master painter, Gabriel would study all his similar works. He would analyze his technique and his influences at the time the work was painted. In short, he would absorb every possible detail about the artist, no matter how seemingly mundane, before setting to work on the canvas.