memorial monuments teetered among the overgrown weeds like a ragged army in retreat. Gabriel stood there a moment, hands on hips, depressed by the prospect of wandering the graveyard in the gathering darkness looking for a marker bearing the name of Otto Krebs.
He walked back to the front of the church. Chiara was waiting for him in the shadows of the courtyard. He pulled on the heavy oaken door of the church and found it was unlocked. Chiara followed him inside. Cool air settled over his face, as did a fragrance he had not smelled since leaving Venice: the mixture of candle wax, incense, wood polish, and mildew, the unmistakable scent of a Catholic church. How different this was from the Church of San Giovanni Crisostomo in Cannaregio. No gilded altar, no marble columns or soaring apses or glorious altarpieces. A severe wooden crucifix hung over the unadorned altar, and a bank of memorial candles flickered softly before a statue of the Virgin. The stained-glass windows along the side of the nave had lost their color in the dying twilight.
Gabriel walked hesitantly up the center aisle. Just then, a dark figure emerged from the vestry and strode across the altar. He paused before the crucifix, genuflected, then turned to face Gabriel. He was small and thin, dressed in black trousers, a black short-sleeved shirt, and a Roman collar. His hair was neatly trimmed and gray at the temples, his face handsome and dark, with a hint of red across the cheeks. He did not seem surprised by the presence of two strangers in his church. Gabriel approached him slowly. The priest held out his hand and identified himself as Father Ruben Morales.
“My name is Rene Duran,” Gabriel said. “I’m from Montreal.”
At this the priest nodded, as though used to visitors from abroad.
“What can I do for you, Monsieur Duran?”
Gabriel offered the same explanation he had given to the woman at the Barilocher Tageblatt earlier that morning-that he had come to Patagonia looking for a man he believed was his mother’s brother, a man named Otto Krebs. While Gabriel spoke, the priest folded his hands and watched him with a pair of warm and gentle eyes. How different this pastoral man seemed from Monsignor Donati, the professional Church bureaucrat, or Bishop Drexler, the acid rector of the Anima. Gabriel felt badly about misleading him.
“I knew Otto Krebs very well,” Father Morales said. “And I’m sorry to say that he could not possibly be the man you’re searching for. You see, Herr Krebs had no brothers or sisters. He had no family of any kind. By the time he managed to work himself into a position to support a wife and children, he was…” The priest’s voice trailed off. “How shall I put this delicately? He was no longer such a fine catch. The years had taken their toll on him.”
“Did he ever talk to you about his family?” Gabriel paused, then added, “Or the war?”
The priest raised his eyebrows. “I was his confessor and his friend, Monsieur Duran. We discussed a great many things in the years before his death. Herr Krebs, like many men of his era, had seen much death and destruction. He had also committed acts for which he was deeply ashamed and in need of absolution.”
“And you granted that absolution?”
“I granted him peace of mind, Monsieur Duran. I heard his confessions, I ordered penance. Within the confines of Catholic belief, I prepared his soul to meet Christ. But do I, a simple priest from a rural parish, really possess the power to absolve such sins? Even I’m not sure about that.”
“May I ask you about some of the things you discussed?” Gabriel asked tentatively. He knew he was on shaky theological ground, and the answer was what he expected.
“Many of my discussions with Herr Krebs were conducted under the seal of confession. The rest were conducted under the seal of friendship. It would not be proper for me to relate the nature of those conversations to you now.”
“But he’s been dead for twenty years.”
“Even the dead have a right to privacy.”
Gabriel heard the voice of his mother, the opening line of her testimony: I will not tell all the things I saw. I cannot. I owe this much to the dead.
“It might help me determine whether this man is my uncle.”
Father Morales gave a disarming smile. “I’m a simple country priest, Monsieur Duran, but I’m not a complete fool. I also know my parishioners very well. Do you really believe you’re the first person to come here pretending to be looking for a lost relative? I’m quite certain that Otto Krebs could not possibly be your uncle. I’m less certain that you’re really Rene Duran from Montreal. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He turned to leave. Gabriel touched his arm.
“Will you at least show me his grave?”
The priest sighed, then looked up at the stained-glass windows. They had turned to black.
“It’s dark,” he said. “Give me a moment.”
He crossed the altar and disappeared into the vestry. A moment later he emerged wearing a tan windbreaker and carrying a large flashlight. He led them out a side portal, then along a gravel walkway between the church and the rectory. At the end of the path was a lych-gate. Father Morales lifted the latch, then switched on the flashlight and led the way into the cemetery. Gabriel walked at the priest’s side along a narrow footpath overgrown with weeds. Chiara was a step behind.
“Did you celebrate his funeral mass, Father Morales?”
“Yes, of course. In fact, I had to see to the arrangements myself. There was no one else to do it.”
A cat slipped out from behind a grave marker and paused on the footpath in front of them, its eyes reflecting like yellow beacons in the glow of the priest’s flashlight. Father Morales hissed, and the cat vanished into the tall grass.
They drew nearer the trees at the bottom of the cemetery. The priest turned left and led them through knee- deep grass. Here the path was too narrow to walk side by side, so they moved single file, with Chiara holding Gabriel’s hand for support.
Father Morales, nearing the end of a row of gravestones, stopped walking and shone his flashlight down at a 45-degree angle. The beam fell upon a simple headstone bearing the name OTTOKREBS. It listed the year of his birth as 1913 and the year of his death as 1983. Above the name, beneath a small oval of scratched and weathered glass, was a photograph.
GABRIEL CROUCHED AND, brushing away a layer of powdery dust, examined the face. Evidently it had been taken some years before his death, because the man it depicted was middle-aged, perhaps in his late forties. Gabriel was certain of only one thing. It was not the face of Erich Radek.
“I assume it’s not your uncle, Monsieur Duran?”
“Are you certain the photograph is of him?”
“Yes, of course. I found it myself, in a strongbox containing a few of his private things.”
“I don’t suppose you’d allow me to see his things?”
“I no longer have them. And even if I did-”
Father Morales, leaving the thought unfinished, handed Gabriel the flashlight. “I’ll leave you alone now. I can find my way without the light. If you would be so kind as to leave it at the rectory door on your way out. It was a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Duran.”
With that, he turned and vanished among the gravestones.
Gabriel looked up at Chiara. “It should be Radek’s picture. Radek went to Rome and obtained a Red Cross passport in the name of Otto Krebs. Krebs went to Damascus in 1948, then emigrated to Argentina in 1963. Krebs registered with the Argentine police in this district. Thisshould be Radek.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone else went to Rome posing as Radek.” Gabriel pointed at the photograph on the gravestone. “It was this man. This is the Austrian who went to the Anima seeking help from Bishop Hudal. Radek was somewhere else, probably still hiding in Europe. Why else would he go to such lengths? He wanted people to believe he was long gone. And in the event someone ever went looking for him, they would follow the trail from Rome to Damascus to Argentina and then find the wrong man-Otto Krebs, a lowly hotel worker who’d scraped together enough money to buy a few acres along the Chilean border.”
“You still have one major problem,” Chiara said. “You can’t prove Ludwig Vogel is really Erich Radek.”
“One step at a time,” Gabriel said. “Making a man disappear is not so simple. Radek would have needed help. Someone else has to know about this.”
“Yes, but is he still alive?”
