Free The Confessor by Daniel Silva

and learned their habits were code-named ayin . A qoph was a communications officer. Benjamin Stern had been a heth, a logistician. His job was to procure transport and lodging in ways that could never be traced to the Office. Sometimes he doubled as a getaway driver. Indeed, Benjamin had been behind the wheel of the green Fiat that carried Gabriel away from the Piazza Annibaliano the night he assassinated Black September’s chief in Italy. On the way to the airport, Gabriel had forced Benjamin to pull to the side of the road so he could be sick. Even now, he could hear Benjamin shouting at him to get back into the car.
    “Give me a minute.”
    “You’ll miss your flight.”
    “I said give me a minute!”
    “What’s wrong with you? That bastard deserved to die!”
    “You didn’t see his face, Beni. You didn’t see his fucking face.”
    Over the next eighteen months, Shamron’s team assassinated a dozen members of Black September. Gabriel personally killed six men. When it was over, Benjamin resumed his academic career. Gabriel tried to go back to Betsal’el and do the same, but his ability to paint had been chased away by the ghosts of the men he had killed, so he left Leah behind in Israel and moved to Venice to study restoration with Umberto Conti. In restoration, he found healing. Conti, who knew nothing of Gabriel’s past, seemed to understand this. Late at night he would come to Gabriel’s room in a sagging pensione and drag him into the streets of Venice to look at art. One evening, standing before the great Titian altarpiece in the Frari church, he seized Gabriel by the arm.
    “A man who is pleased with himself can be an adequate restorer but not a great restorer. Only a man with a damaged canvas of his own can truly be a great restorer. It is a meditation for you. A ritual. One day you will be a great restorer. You will be better than I am. I’m sure of it.”
    And though Conti did not know it, those were the same words Shamron had said to Gabriel the night before he sent him to Rome to kill his first Palestinian.
     
    GABRIEL WAS standing outside the Gastätte Atzinger at six-thirty sharp. The first thing he saw of Professor Helmut Berger was the headlamp on his bicycle floating above the Amalienstrasse. Then his form appeared, legs pumping rhythmically, his thinning gray hair floating above his large ears like wings. A brown leather satchel hung across his back.
    The endearing quality of the professor’s arrival evaporated in short order. Like many German intellectuals, Helmut Berger had the put-upon air of a man who had spent the day grappling with beings of inferior intelligence. He claimed to have time only for a small glass of beer, but he invited Gabriel to select something from the menu. Gabriel ordered only mineral water, which the German seemed to find deeply scandalous.
    “I’m very sorry about your brother. Excuse me, your half brother. He was a valuable member of the faculty. His death was a shock to us all.” He spoke these lines without genuine emotion, as though they had been written for him by a graduate student. “How can I help you, Herr Landau?”
    “Is it true that Benjamin was on a sabbatical at the time of his murder?”
    “Yes, that’s correct. He was working on another book.”
    “Do you know the subject of that book?”
    “Actually, I don’t.”
    “Really?” Gabriel was genuinely surprised. “Is it typical for someone to leave your department to work on a book without telling you the subject matter?”
    “No, but Benjamin was very secretive about this project from the very beginning.”
    Gabriel decided he could not press the issue. “Did you know anything about the kind of threats Benjamin received?”
    “There were so many, it was hard to keep them straight. Benjamin’s theories about a collective German wartime guilt made him, shall we say, highly unpopular in many quarters.”
    “It sounds to me as though you didn’t share Benjamin’s views.”
    The