So he followed the tire tracks, a simple job thanks to the sparse traffic and the slackening of the heavy snow.

The undercarriage of the Volvo scraped hard against a rock now. Stratton stopped and, taking a flashlight with him, continued up the slope on foot.

“Then I kept looking for the sergeant after the war,” Morgen continued his story. “But the sergeant, like many of his comrades, had successfully disappeared.”

Morgen slowly got up and went for the coffeepot that he had set back in the fireplace to keep warm. “In addition, I tried as best I could to verify the sergeant’s contention that Hitler had blackmailed the Pope. That had two results.” He bent over and fetched the pot with the padded mitt. “The first,” he said as he walked back to the table, “was a meeting with a small group of people in the Curia who were dedicated to making sure that no other Pope ever had to yield to such moral or theological blackmail.”

“The priest in the park,” Seth said. “In Amsterdam.” He looked questioningly up at Morgen.

Morgen nodded sadly. “Father Smith. I had sent him to follow you. To protect you.”

“Just before he died he said something about ‘brown.’ What could that mean?”

Morgen looked as though he had been slapped.

“He used that name?” Morgen said.

“Then it is a name?”

Morgen paused for a moment, as if allowing the impact to sink in. “I suspected,” Morgen said, “but I didn’t know, not for absolutely sure.” His face was dark and his lips trembled almost imperceptibly.

Seth and Zoe looked at him, waiting for an explanation of his cryptic remarks. For a moment, Morgen’s eyes wore a distant, misty veil. Then the veil suddenly cleared, replaced by a sparkling anger.

“I’ll tell you about that in a moment,” he said as he sat down. He stared briefly at the thick veins on the backs of his hands, as if he were a public speaker who had lost his place and knew the notes would be inscribed on his hands.

He looked up at them and continued. “The second thing that happened is that I became the object of intense scrutiny by other members of the Curia, people who seemed content to let me go on looking for the painting and the sergeant, but who seemed determined to keep me from ever making use of my information if I succeeded.

“They are a shadowy group,” Morgen said. “I found out who they were at the lower levels… fellow priests, the occasional bishop.” He paused. “My abbot in Munich was one of them. I would give a great deal to determine whom he talks to when he relays information about me to Rome.”

Morgen paused, his eyes distant and vague, as if he were seeing in his mind exactly what he would do if he found the men in Rome. With a little shake of his head, he continued.

“They have left me pretty much alone except for the close surveillance. I assume they are content to let me roam as long as they can somehow benefit from my information, my efforts. I’ve been a sort of Judas Goat for them. Sent out into the jungle to attract the tigers while they conceal themselves in the bushes waiting for the tiger with the right pelt to come along. I’ve been careful, extremely careful over these last years, not to give them any indications that I was aware of their efforts. They make more mistakes that way. Even the most professional, the most fanatical, can be lulled into sloppiness.”