In the valley below, his eyes followed the dark serpentine meanderings of the Inn River as it flowed between snow-covered banks. It hadn’t yet frozen completely, much to the dismay of the skaters. His eyes followed the river now, as it ran past the hieroglyphic shapes of the airport’s runways and smack into the heart of Innsbruck. As his gaze finally came to rest on the snow-frosted roofs of the city’s Gothic architecture, he thought of the man he was about to meet, Hans Morgen, a simple village priest with a most complicated past. And, perhaps, no future whatsoever.

Neils Braun turned now from the window overlooking the ski slopes and looked across the vast conference room. Large enough to feed one hundred people at a time, it had only a single oblong oaken table nearly twenty feet long resting beneath the soaring A-frame roof with its huge rough-hewn timbers. At the far end of the room, embers glowed and cracked in a huge natural stone fireplace.

Besides the table, there were twelve chairs arranged symmetrically around its perimeter. There was no other furniture in the room.

The knock at the door at the far end of the hall came at precisely 3 P.M. Braun pushed back the cuff of his sweater, glanced at his wafer-thin watch, and noted with approval the caller’s punctuality.

“Come in!” Braun called. His voice boomed heartily in the silence.

Hans Morgen opened the door and pushed his way vigorously into the room. He stood in the entrance for a moment, blinking at the snow-reflected light pouring in through the windows.

He was a tall, lean man, more sinew than flesh, with bright blue eyes set in a long, ascetic face. In the sharp light, shadows cut deeply into his craggy features, accenting a prominent chin that jutted over an exposed clerical collar. He carried a walking stick, but on this day had no need to lean on its support

Braun was surprised at how strong and unbowed the priest was despite his age and the shifting shrapnel that could transform hearty good health into instant death. But then, the cardinal thought, they were both active Austrians with good genes. From the extensive file that the CDF had compiled on Morgen, he knew that except for Morgen’s time in the seminary, the man had skied and’ hiked the hills around the tiny village of Alt Aussee almost every day since he was a small child. He had rowed his shell on the lake in the summer and skated it in the winter. Morgen, according to the file, knew more about the region as it existed half a century ago than almost anyone else alive.

“Good afternoon, Your Eminence,” Morgen said. He looked around the room, eyes cataloging the ascending A-frame roof, the stone fireplace, the handmade table and chairs, and the obvious lack of anything else. Finally he made his way toward Braun. The hard leather heels of his shoes clopped sharply on the highly polished wooden floor.