Page 41 of The Order

“Papal security.”

“First name?”

“Maximillian.”

“Swiss?”

“German. Probably from Bavaria, judging by the accent.”

“He phoned you?”

“No. He showed up at the restaurant unannounced, like you and Herr Kiever.”

“What did he want?”

“The same thing Metzler wanted. Where was Niklaus?”

“And when you told him you didn’t know?”

“I’m not sure he believed me.”

“Describe him, please.”

It was Gabriel who had posed the question. Stefani Hoffmann lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

“Tall, well dressed, late forties, maybe early fifties.”

With his expression, Gabriel made it clear her answer was a disappointment. “Come now, Stefani. You can do better than that. You’re an artist, after all.”

“I’m a contemporary painter who reveres Rothko and Pollock. Portraits aren’t my specialty.”

“But surely you could produce one in a pinch.”

“Not a good one. And not from memory.”

“Perhaps I can be of help.”

“How?”

“Bring me your sketchpad and a box of acrylic pencils, and I’ll show you.”

They worked without pausefor the better part of the next hour, side by side at the kitchen table, with Donati watching anxiously over their shoulders. As Gabriel suspected, Stefani Hoffmann’s memory of the man she knew as Maximillian Bauer was far sharper than even she had imagined. All it took were the right sort of questions posed by an expert draftsman and student of human anatomy—a gifted restorer who could mimic the brushstrokes of Bellini and Titian and Tintoretto, a healer who had repaired the tattered face of Mary and the pierced hand of Christ.

It was a noble face she described. High cheekbones, a slender nose, a refined chin, a thin mouth that did not smile easily, all crowned by a shock of gray-blond hair. He was a worthy opponent, thought Gabriel. A man not to be trifled with. A man who never lost at games of chance.

“So much for the occasional watercolor on holiday,” said Stefani Hoffmann. “You’re obviously a professional. But I’m afraid the eyes are all wrong.”

“I drew the eyes the way you described them.”

“Not quite.”

She took the pad and on a blank page sketched a pair of humorless eyes set deeply beneath the ledge of a prominent brow. Gabriel then sketched the rest of the face around them.

“That’s him. That’s the man who came to see me.”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder at Donati. “Do you recognize him?”

“I’m afraid not.”