The car bore them smoothly up the private valley to the chalet, a modern citadel of stone and glass set against the base of the towering mountains. A dozen other vehicles lined the drive, watched over by a small battalion of armed security men. All wore black ski jackets emblazoned with the logo of the Wolf Group, a Munich-based conglomerate.
Estermann escorted Bishop Richter and Father Graf inside and up a flight of stairs. To the left was an anteroom filled with aides and dark-suited security men. Bishop Richter handed Father Graf his overcoat and followed Estermann into the great hall.
It was sixty feet by fifty, with a single enormous window gazing northward across the Obersalzberg. The walls were hung with Gobelin tapestries and several oil paintings, including what appeared to beVenus and Amorby Bordone. A bust of Richard Wagner frowned at Richter from its perch atop a plinth. The longcase clock, which was crowned by a heraldic Roman-style eagle, read nine o’clock. Richter, as usual, had arrived precisely on time.
He surveyed the others with a jaundiced eye. They were, without exception, an unappetizing lot, scoundrels and grifters, each and every one. But they were also a necessary evil, a means to an end. The laborites and secular social democrats were thecause of Europe’s calamitous plight. Only these creatures were prepared to undertake the hard work necessary to undo the damage of seventy-five years of postwar liberal twaddle.
There was, for example, Axel Brünner. His fancy suit and rimless spectacles could not conceal the fact that he was a former skinhead and street brawler whose only claim to fame was a distant blood relationship to the infamous Nazi who had rounded up the Jews of Paris. He was chatting with Cécile Leclerc, his comely counterpart from France, who had inherited her anti-immigrant party from her father, a moron from Marseilles.
Richter felt a warm blast of coffee-scented breath and, turning, found himself shaking the oily paw of the Italian prime minister, Giuseppe Saviano. The next hand he grasped was attached to Peter van der Meer, the platinum-haired, putty-skinned Catholic from Amsterdam who had promised to rid his country of all Muslims by 2025, an admirable if entirely unattainable goal. Jörg Kaufmann, the camera-ready Austrian chancellor, greeted Bishop Richter like an old friend, which he was. Richter had presided over Kaufmann’s baptism and First Communion, along with his recent wedding to Austria’s most famous fashion model, a union Richter approved with considerable misgivings.
Presiding over this menagerie was Jonas Wolf. He wore a heavy roll-neck sweater and flannel dress trousers. His silver mane of hair was swept back from his face, which was dominated by a bird-of-prey nose. It was a face to be stamped on a coin, thought Richter. Perhaps one day, when the Muslim invaders had been cast out and the Roman Catholic Church was once again ascendant, it would be.
At five minutes past nine, Wolf took his place at the head of theconference table, which had been placed near the soaring window. Andreas Estermann had been assigned the seat at Wolf’s right hand; Bishop Richter, at his left. At the German’s request, Richter led the assemblage in a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.
“And may you grant us the strength and determination to complete our sacred mission,” intoned Richter in conclusion. “We do this in your name, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.”
“Amen,” came the response along the table.
Jonas Wolf opened a leather folder. The conference was now in session.
The mountain peakswere receding into darkness when Wolf finally gaveled the session to a close. A fire was lit, cocktails served. Richter, who drank only room-temperature mineral water, somehow became entangled with Cécile Leclerc, who insisted on addressing him in her impenetrable French-accented German. Richter managed to decipher every fourth or fifth word, which was a blessing. Like her father, Cécile was no intellectual. Somehow she had managed to acquire a law degree from an elite Paris institution of learning. Still, one could easily picture her behind the counter of a Provençalboucheriewith a bloody apron around her ample waist.
Therefore, Richter was relieved when Jonas Wolf, perhaps sensing his discomfort, cut in like a dancer on a ballroom floor and asked whether they might have a word in private. Followed by Andreas Estermann, they walked through the unpopulated rooms of the chalet to Wolf’s chapel. It was the size of a typicalparish church. The walls were hung with German and Dutch Old Master paintings. Above the altar was a magnificentCrucifixionby Lucas Cranach the Elder.
Wolf genuflected and then rose unsteadily to his feet. “All in all, a productive session, don’t you think, Excellency?”
“I must admit, I was a bit distracted by Van der Meer’s hair.”
Wolf nodded sympathetically. “I’ve spoken to him about it. He insists it’s part of his branding.”
“Branding?”
“It’s a modern word used to describe one’s image on social media.” Wolf gestured toward Estermann. “Andreas is our expert on that sort of thing. He’s convinced Van der Meer’s hair is a political asset.”
“He looks like Kim Novak inVertigo. And that ridiculous comb-over! How on earth does he maneuver it all into place?”
“Apparently, it takes a great deal of time and effort. He buys hair spray by the case. He’s the only man in Holland who doesn’t go outside when it rains.”
“It conveys a sense of vanity and deep insecurity. Our candidates must be above reproach.”
“They can’t all be as polished as Jörg Kaufmann. Brünner has his problems, too. Fortunately, the bombings in Berlin and Hamburg have given his campaign a badly needed boost.”
“The new polls are encouraging. But can he win?”
“If there is another attack,” said Wolf, “his victory will be all but assured.”
He sat down in the first pew. Richter joined him. There followed a companionable silence. Richter might have despaired of the rabble upstairs, but Jonas Wolf he truly admired. Wolf was one of the few men who had been a member of the Orderlonger than Richter. He was its most prominent layman, a co–superior general in everything but name. For more than a decade, he and Richter had been engaged in a clandestine crusade to transform Western Europe and the Church of Rome. Sometimes even they were astounded by the speed with which they had succeeded. Italy and Austria were already theirs. Now the German Federal Chancellery was within their grasp, as was the Apostolic Palace. The seizure of power was nearly complete. Lesser men would serve as their public standard-bearers, but it would be Jonas Wolf and Bishop Hans Richter of the Order of St. Helena who would be whispering in their ears. They saw themselves in apocalyptic terms. Western civilization was dying. Only they could save it.
Andreas Estermann was the third member of their holy trinity. He was the Project’s irreplaceable man. Estermann dispersed the money, worked with the local parties to hone their platforms and recruit presentable candidates, and oversaw a network of operatives drawn from Western European intelligence services and police forces. In a computer-filled warehouse outside Munich, he had established an information warfare unit that flooded social media daily with false or misleading stories about the threat posed by Muslim immigrants. Estermann’s cyber unit also possessed the ability to hack phones and crack computer networks, a capability that had produced mountains of invaluable compromising material.
At present, Estermann was pacing silently along the right side of the nave. Bishop Richter could see that something was troubling him. It was Jonas Wolf who explained. The previous evening, Archbishop Donati and Gabriel Allon had traveled to Canton Fribourg, where they had met with Stefani Hoffmann.
“I thought she told you she didn’t know anything.”
“I had the distinct impression she wasn’t telling the truth,” answered Estermann.
“Was the Janson boy in possession of the letter when he was killed?”
