The Confessor by Daniel Silva Read Free Book Online Page A

graffiti for the first time. Detective Weiss pointed to the first symbol, a diamond resting on a pedestal that resembled an inverted V .
    “This one is known as the Odin Rune,” Weiss said. “It’s an ancient Norse symbol that expresses faith in the pagan religion called Odinism.”
    “And the second one?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.
    Weiss looked at it a moment before responding. Three numeral sevens, linked at their bases, surrounded by a sea of red.
    “It’s called the Three Sevens or the Three-Bladed Swastika,” the German said. “It symbolizes supremacy over the devil as represented by the numbers 666.”
    Gabriel took a step forward and tilted his head to one side, as though he were inspecting a canvas in need of restoration. To his well-trained eye it seemed the artist was an imitator rather than a believer. Something else struck him. The symbols of hatred were probably sprayed onto the wall in the moments after Benjamin’s murder, yet the lines were straight and perfectly executed, revealing no signs of stress or anxiety. A man used to killing, thought Gabriel. A man comfortable around the dead.
    He walked over to the desk. “Was Benjamin’s computer taken as evidence?”
    Weiss shook his head. “Stolen.”
    Gabriel looked down at the safe, which was open and empty.
    “Stolen as well,” the detective said, anticipating the next question.
    Gabriel removed a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. The policeman sat heavily on the couch, as if he had been walking a beat all day.
    “I have to remain in the flat with you while you conduct your inventory. I’m sorry, but those are the rules.” He loosened his tie. “Take as much time as you need, Herr Landau. And whatever you do, don’t try to take anything, eh? Those are the rules too.”
     
    GABRIEL COULD do only so much in the presence of the detective. He started in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and on the cracked leather armchair was a stack of freshly laundered clothing, still bound in brown paper and string. On the bedside table was a black mask and a pair of foam-rubber earplugs. Benjamin, Gabriel remembered, was a notoriously light sleeper. The curtains were heavy and dark, the kind usually kept by someone who works at night and sleeps during the day. When Gabriel drew them, the air was suddenly filled with dust.
    He spent the next thirty minutes carefully going through the contents of the closet, the dresser, and the bedside table. He made copious notes in his leather-bound notebook, just in case Detective Weiss wanted to have a look at his inventory. In truth, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
    He entered the second bedroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. Obviously, Benjamin had turned it into a storage room. It looked as though a bomb had exploded nearby. The floor was strewn with books, and the file drawers were flung open. Gabriel wondered who was responsible, the Munich police or Benjamin’s killer.
    His search lasted nearly an hour. He flipped through the contents of every file and the pages of every book. Weiss appeared once in the doorway to check on his progress, then yawned and wandered back to the sitting room. Again, Gabriel made abundant notes for the benefit of the detective but found nothing linking Benjamin to the Office—and nothing that might explain why he was murdered.
    He walked back to the sitting room. Weiss was watching the evening news on Benjamin’s television. He switched it off as Gabriel entered. “Finished?”
    “Did Benjamin have a storage room in the building?”
    The detective nodded. “German law requires landlords to provide tenants with one.”
    Gabriel held out his hand. “May I have the key?”
     
    IT WAS Frau Ratzinger who took Gabriel down to the basement and led him along a corridor lined with narrow doorways. She paused at the one marked 2B, which corresponded to Benjamin’s flat. The old woman opened the door with a grunt and