Free The Confessor by Daniel Silva Page A

professor shrugged. “A few years ago, I wrote a book on the role of the German Catholic Church during the war. Benjamin disagreed with my conclusions and said so in a very public manner. It was not a pleasant time for either of us.”
    The professor looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I have another engagement. Is there anything else I can tell you? Perhaps something more relevant to your inquiries?”
    “Last month, Benjamin made a trip to Italy. Do you happen to know why he went there? Was it connected to the book in any way?”
    “I have no idea. You see, Doctor Stern didn’t make a habit of giving me advance warning about his travel plans.” The professor finished the last of his beer and stood up. Class dismissed. “Again, my condolences, Herr Landau. I wish you luck in your inquiries.”
    Like hell you do, thought Gabriel, as he watched Professor Berger walk outside and pedal away.
     
    ON THE way back to his hotel, Gabriel entered a large student bookstore on the southern edge of the university district. He gazed at the store directory for a moment, then climbed the stairs to the travel section, where he searched a display bin filled with maps until he came across one for northern Italy.
    He spread it over a nearby table, then reached into his pocket and removed the postcard. The hotel where Benjamin had stayed was in a town called Brenzone. Judging from the photograph, the town was set on the shoreline of one of Italy’s northern lakes. He started in the west and worked his way slowly eastward, reading the names of the towns and villages surrounding each of the great northern lakes—first Maggiore, then Como, then Iseo, and finally Garda. Brenzone. There it was, on the eastern shore of the Lago di Garda, about halfway between the bulge at the southern end and the dagger-like northern tip.
    Gabriel refolded the map and carried it downstairs to the cash register. A moment later, he stepped back through the revolving doors into the street, the map and postcard resting in his jacket pocket. Instinctively, his eyes flickered over the pavement, the parked cars, the windows of the surrounding buildings.
    He turned left and started back to his hotel, wondering why Detective Axel Weiss had been sitting in the café across the street the entire time Gabriel was in the bookstore—and why he was now following him across the center of Munich.

     
    GABRIEL WAS confident he could easily evade or expose the German detective, but now was not the time to betray the fact that he was a trained professional. As far as Axel Weiss knew, Gabriel was Ehud Landau, brother of slain historian Benjamin Stern, and nothing else—which made the fact that he was following him all the more curious.
    He entered a hotel on the Maximilianstrasse. He made a brief call on a public telephone in the lobby, then went back outside and kept walking. The policeman was still there, fifty meters back, on the opposite side of the street.
    Gabriel walked directly to his hotel. He collected his key from the clerk at the front counter and rode the lift up to his room. He packed his clothing into a garment bag of black leather, then unlocked the room safe and removed the file he had been given by the Israeli consulate, along with the envelope containing Benjamin’s eyeglasses. He placed the items in the briefcase and closed the lid. Then he switched off the room lights, walked to the window, and parted the curtain. A car was parked just up the street. Gabriel could see the glow of a cigarette ember behind the wheel. Weiss. Gabriel closed the curtain and sat on the end of the bed, waiting for the phone to ring.
    Twenty minutes later: “Landau.”
    “It’s at the corner of the Seitzstrasse and the Unsöld-strasse, just south of Prinzregenten. Do you know where that is?”
    “Yes,” Gabriel said. “Give me the number.”
    Nine digits. Gabriel did not bother to write them down.
    “The keys?”
    “Standard location. Back bumper, curbside.”
    Gabriel