The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,16
us?”
“An old friend.”
“Yours or mine?”
“As a matter of fact, both.”
Gabriel hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Luigi. I haven’t seen her since—”
“She was the one who suggested it. I believe you remember the address. Drinks are at eight o’clock.”
9
CAFFÈ GRECO, ROME
WHAT DO YOU THINK?” ASKED Chiara.
“I definitely think I could get used to living here again.”
They were seated in the elegant front room of Caffè Greco. Beneath their small round table were several glossy shopping bags, the plunder of a costly late-afternoon excursion along the Via Condotti. They had traveled from Venice to Rome without a change of clothing. They both needed something appropriate to wear for dinner at Veronica Marchese’s palazzo.
“I was talking about—”
Gabriel gently cut her off. “I know what you were talking about.”
“Well?”
“All of it can be explained rather easily.”
Chiara was clearly unconvinced. “Let’s start with the phone call.”
“Let’s.”
“Why did Albanese wait so long to contact Donati?”
“Because the Holy Father’s death was Albanese’s moment in the spotlight, and he didn’t want Donati interfering or second-guessing his decisions.”
“His overinflated ego got the better of him?”
“Nearly everyone in a position of power suffers from one.”
“Everyone but you, of course.”
“That goes without saying.”
“But why did Albanese take it upon himself to move the body? And why did he close the curtains and the shutters in the study?”
“For the exact reasons he said he did.”
“And the teacup?”
Gabriel shrugged. “One of the household nuns probably took it.”
“Did they take the letter off Lucchesi’s desk, too?”
“The letter,” admitted Gabriel, “is harder to explain.”
“Almost as hard as the missing Swiss Guard.” A waiter arrived with two coffees and a creamy Roman fruit tart. Fork in hand, Chiara hesitated. “I’ve already gained at least five pounds on this trip.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She shot him an envious glance. “You haven’t gained an ounce. You never do.”
“I have the Tintoretto to thank for that.”
Chiara nudged the tart closer to Gabriel. “You eat it.”
“You’re the one who ordered it.”
Chiara dislodged a slice of strawberry from the bed of cream. “How long do you think it will take Unit 8200 to find Janson’s phone number?”
“Given the insecurity of the Vatican network, I’d say about five minutes flat. Once they get it, it won’t take them long to pinpoint his location.” Gabriel inched the tart closer to Chiara. “And then we can go back to Venice and resume our holiday.”
“What if the phone is powered off or lying on the bottom of the Tiber?” Chiara lowered her voice. “Or what if they’ve already killed him?”
“Janson?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And who are they?”
“The same men who murdered the pope.”
Gabriel frowned. “We’re not there yet, Chiara.”
“We passed there a long time ago, darling.” Chiara sliced off a piece of the tart and pierced it through the cream and crust. “I have to admit I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“What are you worried about?”
“An awkward pause in the conversation.”
“You know, Gabriel, you didn’t actually kill Carlo Marchese.”
“I didn’t exactly prevent him from falling over that barrier, either.”
“Perhaps Veronica won’t bring it up.”
“I certainly don’t intend to.”
Chiara smiled and looked around the room. “What do you suppose normal people do on holiday?”
“We are normal people, Chiara. We just have interesting friends.”
“With interesting problems.”
Gabriel plunged his fork into the tart. “That, too.”
THERE WAS AN OLD OFFICE safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the church of the Trinità dei Monti. Housekeeping hadn’t had time to stock the pantry. It was no matter; Gabriel wasn’t anticipating a long stay.
In the bedroom they unpacked the shopping bags. Gabriel had acquired his evening wardrobe swiftly, with a single stop at Giorgio Armani. Chiara had been more discriminating in her conquest. A strapless black cocktail dress from Max Mara, a car-length coat from Burberry, a pair of stylish black pumps from Salvatore Ferragamo. Now Gabriel surprised her with a strand of pearls from Mikimoto.
Beaming, she asked, “What are these for?”
“You’re the wife of the director-general of the Israeli intelligence service and the mother of two young children. It’s the least I can do.”
“Have you forgotten about the apartment on the Grand Canal?” Chiara placed the strand of pearls around her neck. She looked radiant. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m the luckiest man in the world.” The cocktail dress was laid out on the bed. “Is that a negligee?”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Where do you intend to conceal your weapon?”
“I wasn’t planning to bring one.” She pushed him toward the door. “Go away.”