“Define large.”
“Six figures or more.”
“How many names are we talking about?”
“One hundred and sixteen.”
Gershon swore softly. “Are you forgetting that I have pictures of you dressed as a priest?”
“I’ll make it up to you, Yuval.”
“Who are these guys?”
“The cardinals who will elect the next pope.”
Gabriel killed the connection and dialed Yossi Gavish, the chief of the Office’s analytical division. Born in Golder’s Green, educated at Oxford, he still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced British accent.
“Father Gabriel, I presume?”
“Check your in-box, my son.”
A moment passed. “It’s lovely, boss. But who is he?”
“He’s a lay member of something called the Order of St. Helena, but I have a feeling he might be one of us. Show it around the building, and send it to Berlin Station.”
“Why Berlin?”
“He speaks German with a Bavarian accent.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Gabriel hung up the phone and placed one more call. Chiara answered, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Somewhere safe.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Soon.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have to find something first.”
“Is it good?”
“Do you remember when Eli and I found the ruins of Solomon’s Temple?”
“How could I forget?”
“This might be better.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Close your eyes,” said Gabriel. “Let me listen to you sleep.”
Gabriel spent the nighton a cot inside the station and at half past seven the next morning rang General Cesare Ferrari. He informed the general that he needed to borrow the Art Squad’s formidable laboratory to test a document. He did not say what the document was or where he had found it.
