Page 92 of The Order

Wolf rang off and immediately dialed Bishop Richter at the Order’s palazzo on the Janiculum Hill in Rome. “I trust you’ve seen the news, Excellency.”

“A troubling development,” replied Richter with his typical understatement.

“I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Germany is lost. At least for now. But the papacy is still within our reach. You must do everything in your power to keep our friend from the Society of Jesus away from the cardinals.”

“He has two million reasons to keep his mouth shut.”

“Two million and one,” said Wolf.

He hung up the phone and contemplated the river landscape hanging on the wall of his study. Painted by the Dutch Old Master Jan van Goyen, it had once belonged to a wealthy Viennese Jewish businessman named Samuel Feldman. Feldman had given it to Father Schiller, the founder of the Order, in exchange for a set of false baptismal certificates for himself and his family. Regrettably, the baptismal certificates had not arrived in time to prevent the deportation of Feldman and his kin to the Lublin district of German-occupied Poland, where they were murdered.

Concealed behind the landscape was Wolf’s safe. He worked the tumbler—87, 94, 98—and opened the heavy stainless-steel door. Inside was two million euros in cash, fifty gold ingots, a seventy-year-old Luger pistol, and the last remaining copy of the Gospel of Pilate.

Wolf removed only the gospel. He laid the book on his desk and opened it to the Roman prefect’s account of the arrest and execution of a Galilean troublemaker called Jesus of Nazareth. Ignoring the advice of Bishop Richter, Wolf had read the passage the night Father Graf brought the book from Rome. Muchto his shame, he had read it many times since. Fortunately, his would be the last eyes to ever see it.

He carried the book to the window of his study. It overlooked the front of the chalet and the long road running the length of his private valley. In the distance, faintly visible through the falling snow, was the Untersberg, the mountain where Frederick Barbarossa had awaited his legendary call to rise and restore the glory of Germany. Wolf had heard the same call. The fatherland was lost.At least for now...But perhaps there was still a chance to save his Church.

The snow is forecast to worsen later this afternoon. We’ve been told to expect a complete ground stop sometime around four...

Wolf checked the time. Then he dialed Karl Weber, his security chief. As always, Weber answered on the first ring.

“Yes, Herr Wolf?”

“Andreas Estermann will be arriving any minute. He’s expecting me to meet him outside in the drive, but I’m afraid there’s been a change in plan.”

Mikhail turned onto Wolf’s private road and climbed steadily through a dense forest of spruce and birch. After a moment the trees broke and a valley opened before them, ringed on three sides by towering mountains. Clouds draped the highest peaks.

Estermann gave an involuntary start when Gabriel drew his Beretta.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. Unless, of course, you give me the flimsiest of excuses.”

“The guardhouse is on the left side of the road.”

“Your point?”

“I’m seated on the passenger side. If there’s an exchange of gunfire, I might be caught in the crossfire.”

“Thus increasing my chances of survival.”

Behind them, Yaakov flashed his headlamps.

“What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.

“I imagine he’d like to overtake us before we reach the checkpoint.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?”

“Can you shoot and drive at the same time?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“There is no pope right now, Mikhail. That’s why we’re about to have a conclave.”

The guardhouse appeared before them, veiled by snowfall. Two security men in black ski jackets stood in the middle of the road, each holding an HK MP5 submachine pistol. They didn’t appear concerned by the two cars approaching at high speed. Nor did they give any indication that they were planning to move out of the way.