“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Begin working on your manifesto. Once the German people read it, they will embrace you as one of their own.”

“Manifesto . . .” Hitler echoed the word, envisioning the waves of adulation from the German populace that would greet it.

Pacelli observed Hitler caught up in his self-indulgent reverie and vowed to make it a reality. Each German household would possess a copy of the manifesto. It would become the most sought-after book in Germany, perhaps the world, surpassing even the Bible.

“I may not be able to visit again in the immediate future. From here on, I will relay my instructions through Herr Hess.” Pacelli paused as he heard the guard’s footsteps nearing the door. “May you be blessed, Herr Hitler. Your sins have been forgiven.” He rose as the guard unlatched the door, indicating their time was at an end.

“Thank you for hearing my confession, Your Excellency.”

Hitler returned to his cell and explained Cardinal Pacelli’s directives to Rudolf Hess. Requesting a typewriter from the prison warden, the man destined to lead the Third Reich began to narrate his life’s tribulations, every word meticulously typed out by Cardinal Pacelli’s trusted confidant.

13 September 1924

Landsberg Prison

Munich, Germany

“How goes the progress on Hitler’s manifesto?” Pacelli questioned Rudolf Hess in the austere confines of the Landsberg Prison visitor cell. The cardinal was cautious to limit his visits, wary of arousing suspicion from the ever-watchful guards or their stern warden. His connections within the Munich community were extensive, and he had to be meticulous so as not to arouse suspicion and jeopardize these valuable ties.

“The dictation is a challenging affair, Your Excellency. I must constantly steer Adolf back on course, or else he veers off into one of his impassioned diatribes of rage.”

“Has he chosen a title for the book yet?”

“He refers to it as Four and a Half Years of Struggle against Lies, Stupidity, and Cowardice: A Reckoning. It’s quite long if you ask me.”

“You are correct in your assessment.” Pacelli paused, mulling over a more fitting title. “Advise him to truncate the title to simply My Struggle. That will be more palatable to the masses. We cannot risk alienating the German people with an overly complex title.”

“I will relay your suggestion to Adolf. I hope he will not object, once he learns it comes from your wise counsel, Your Excellency.”

“I will arrange for another meeting in the coming weeks. In the meantime, continue your dictation with the man who is destined to become the leader of the Third Reich.” Pacelli rose to his feet and extended his hand in a firm shake. “You are proving to be a most loyal servant, Herr Hess.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Rudolf said, bowing in deference to Cardinal Pacelli.

November 1924

Munich, Germany

In the chilly November of 1924, Hitler dictated the final words of his monumental manuscript Mein Kampf. Concurrently, Cardinal Pacelli was meticulously weaving his web of influence among political leaders, power brokers, and high-ranking officials, all in a bid to secure the release of Hitler and Hess from their confines. Already possessing considerable sway over the Munich judiciary, Pacelli masterfully wielded the weapon of persuasion to orchestrate Hitler’s release from prison just a week before Christmas.

“Consider the man’s intentions, Your Honor. Hitler’s devotion to Germany surpasses even that of the most patriotic Bavarian natives,” Pacelli argued before the judge in the latter’s private chambers. Pacelli was confident the judge would employ discretion in keeping their meeting confidential; after all, he held a trove of compromising information that could potentially ruin the judge’s reputation. It was practically impossible for him to deny Pacelli’s request.

Judge Schmidt sat in an uncomfortable silence, his unease growing with each word the cardinal spoke. He was beginning to regret the favors he had sought from the Nuncio of Germany. Their cost was proving to be exorbitant.

“Besides, it’s the holy season, Your Honor. Can’t you find it within your heart to release this war hero from his chains?” Pacelli added, his voice laced with a persuasive charm dripping with exploitation.

“I will see what I can do, Your Excellency,” Schmidt responded, a sense of unease creeping into his voice as he grappled with the Nuncio of Germany’s intimidating tactics. He was well aware of Pacelli’s reputation for manipulating the political chessboard, bending Parliament members and high-ranking officials to his will. The judge just never imagined he would find himself on the receiving end of the cardinal’s manipulative prowess. The man’s interest in this Viennese-born soldier-turned-German-nationalist was disturbing, and it gnawed at the judge’s conscience. The favors he had accepted from the cardinal now felt like shackles, forcing him to comply with his every demand.

“I appreciate your consideration, Your Honor.” Pacelli’s voice dripped with a smug satisfaction. He rose, prompting the judge to follow suit. Pacelli extended his hand across the desk, and the judge reciprocated the gesture. The cardinal withdrew, leaving the judge with his dreadful sense of inevitability. He knew he had no choice but to grant Pacelli’s request. The stakes were too high, the potential exposure too damning for him to dare defy the Vatican diplomat.

As the door closed behind the departing cardinal, the judge felt a chill run down his spine. It was as if he had just struck a deal with the devil himself. Even the lingering warmth of the cardinal’s handshake seemed to burn his palm. An ominous feeling settled in his gut. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but he was certain that his compliance would set in motion a series of unfortunate events.

Hitler, meanwhile, served only eight months of his sentence before being released on December 20, 1924, on the grounds of good behavior. A few more private meetings, and Rudolf Hess too was free a mere ten days later.

Chapter 24

March 7, 2000

Tuesday, 5:22 p.m.

Vatican Secret Archives

“Father Marino?” Cardinal Borelli called out as he rounded a corner inside the Vatican Secret Archives, only to find Mario engrossed at the scanning worktable, bathed in the soft glow of the lamplight while hunched over some ancient manuscripts.

The priest jolted, the sudden interruption shattering his deep concentration on the journal, causing his heart to race. Time had slipped away. How many hours had he been captivated by this heretical artifact?

“It’s after five o’clock, Father.”

“Oh, uh, I . . . um, I lost track of time, Cardinal Borelli,” Mario stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What are you working on that has you so enamored?” The cardinal’s gaze fell on the journal sprawled open on the worktable.

“Just the, uh . . . uh, the next piece I’m working on. I’m trying to figure out the best way to scan it without causing any damage.” Mario’s voice shook as he tried his best not to lie.

“May I take a look?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Mario’s pulse quickened, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He was a terrible liar, and his nervousness manifested itself through him profusely sweating.

With an air of authority, the cardinal began his measured stride down the aisle. Fear gripped Mario; his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He quickly turned around and closed the journal, but not before Borelli caught a glimpse of its exquisite leather cover.

“That’s a beautiful cover. What’s inside?”

“Just more fragile documents. You know, same old stuff,” Mario managed to utter, pivoting to face the cardinal. His voice wavered, betraying his nervousness. Sweat was now visibly pooling on his forehead, each droplet a testament to his escalating fear.

Borelli’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion piqued by the sight of the sweat glistening on Mario’s forehead. Something was decidedly off. “Are you feeling alright, Father Marino?”

“I, uh, seem to be under the weather,” Mario stuttered, the words struggling to escape his lips.

Cardinal Borelli, a notorious germaphobe, instinctively recoiled. “Then you must go home. We cannot afford a contagion within these sacred walls,” he declared, retreating until he was at the far end of the aisle.

“Okay. Sorry, Your Eminence. I’ll shut down the equipment and head home.” Mario got busy at the worktable, doing his best to avoid Borelli’s penetrating stare.

“Call in sick tomorrow if you’re not feeling better,” the cardinal advised before disappearing around the corner.

Mario pulled out a handkerchief and mopped up the beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain the cardinal was gone. Hands trembling, he carefully rewrapped the journal, pressing the wax seal into place with a reverence that belied his anxiety. Reaching up, he deftly nestled the journal on the shelf, replaced the quartet of nondescript books in front masterfully concealing its presence.

Heart still pounding in his chest, he powered down the equipment, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and made his way for the exit of the Secret Archives’ hallowed confines.