The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,22

on call.”

“Patience, Excellency.”

The wait for the next message was only ten minutes. “They found an old contact file, one that included an entry for Lance Corporal Niklaus Janson. It has a phone number and two e-mail addresses, a Vatican account and a personal account at Gmail.”

“What now?” asked Donati.

“We find out where the phone is and whether Niklaus Janson is still in possession of it.”

“And then?”

“We call him.”

12

ROME—FLORENCE

DONATI WAS AWAKENED BY THE tolling of church bells. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Daylight rimmed the edges of the tightly drawn shade. He had overslept. He placed a hand to his brow. His head was heavy with Carlo Marchese’s wine. His heart was heavy, too. He didn’t dare dwell on the reason why.

He sat up and eased his feet to the cold parquet floor. It took a moment for the room to come into focus. A writing desk piled with books and papers, a simple wardrobe, a wooden prie-dieu. Above it, faintly visible in the gloom, was the crucifix, heavy and oaken, given to him by his master a few days after the conclave. It had hung in Donati’s apartment in the Apostolic Palace. Now it hung here, in his room at the Jesuit Curia. How different it was from Veronica’s lavish palazzo. It was the room of a poor man, he thought. The room of a priest.

The prie-dieu beckoned. Rising, Donati pulled on his dressing gown and crossed the room. He opened his breviary to the appropriate page and on his knees recited the first words of lauds, the morning prayer.

God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me …

Behind him on his bedside table his phone purred. Ignoring it, he read that morning’s selection of psalms and hymns, along with a brief passage from Revelation.

And I saw another angel ascending from the rising of the sun …

Only when Donati had repeated the final line of the closing prayer did he rise and retrieve the phone. The message that awaited him was composed in colloquial Italian. The wording was ambiguous and full of misdirection and double meaning. Nevertheless, the instructions were clear. Had Donati not known better, he would have assumed the author was a creature of the Roman Curia. He was not.

And I saw another angel ascending from the rising of the sun …

Donati tossed the phone onto his unmade bed and quickly shaved and showered. Wrapped in a towel, he opened the doors of his wardrobe. Hanging from the rod were several cassocks and clerical suits, along with his choir dress. His civilian wardrobe was limited to a single sport jacket with elbow patches, two pairs of tan chinos, two white dress shirts, two crewneck pullovers, and a pair of suede loafers.

He dressed in one of the outfits and packed the spare in his overnight bag. Next he added a change of undergarments, toiletries, a stole, an alb, a cincture, and his traveling Mass kit. The mobile phone he slipped into his jacket pocket.

The corridor outside his rooms was empty. He heard the faint tinkle of glass and cutlery and earthenware emanating from the communal dining hall and, from the chapel, sonorous male voices at prayer. Unnoticed by his Jesuit brethren, he hurried downstairs and went into the autumn morning.

An E-Class Mercedes sedan waited in the Borgo Santo Spirito. Gabriel was behind the wheel; Chiara, in the passenger seat. When Donati slid into the back, the car shot forward. Several pedestrians, including a curial priest whom Donati knew in passing, scurried for cover.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Gabriel glanced into the rearview mirror. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

The car swerved to the right, narrowly missing a flock of gray-habited nuns, and raced across the Tiber.

Donati fastened his safety belt and closed his eyes.

God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me …

THEY SPED NORTH ALONG THE Lungotevere to the Piazza del Popolo, then south to Piazza Venezia. Even by Rome’s lofty standards, it was a hair-raising ride. Donati, a veteran of countless papal motorcades, marveled at the skill with which his old friend handled the powerful German-made car, and at the apparent calm with which Chiara occasionally offered directions or advice. Their route was indirect and full of sudden stops and abrupt turns, all designed to reveal the presence of motorized surveillance. In a city like Rome, where scooters were a common form of transport, it was a daunting task. Donati tried to be of help, but in time he gave up and watched