The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,23
the graffiti-spattered buildings and mountain ranges of uncollected garbage flashing past his window. Veronica was right. Rome was beautiful, but it was gross.
By the time they reached Ostiense, a chaotic working-class quarter in Municipio VIII, Gabriel appeared satisfied they were not being followed. He made his way to the A90, Rome’s orbital motorway, and headed north to the E35 Autostrada, a toll road stretching the length of Italy to the Swiss border.
Donati eased his grip on the armrest. “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?”
Gabriel pointed toward a blue-and-white sign at the side of the road.
Donati permitted himself a brief smile. It had been a long time since he had been to Florence.
UNIT 8200 HAD LOCATED THE phone on the Florence cellular grid shortly before five that morning. It was north of the Arno in San Marco, the quarter of the city where the Medici, the banking dynasty that transformed Florence into the artistic and intellectual heart of Europe, had stabled their menagerie of giraffes, elephants, and lions. Thus far, the Unit had been unable to penetrate the device and gain control of its operating system. It was merely monitoring the phone’s approximate position using geolocation techniques.
“In layman’s language, please?” asked Donati.
“Once we’re inside a phone, we can listen to the owner’s calls, read his e-mail and text messages, and monitor his browsing on the Internet. We can even take photographs and videos with the camera and use the microphone as a listening device.”
“It’s as though you’re God.”
“Not quite, but we certainly have the power to peer into someone’s soul. We can learn their darkest fears and their deepest desires.” Gabriel gave a rueful shake of his head. “The telecommunications industry and their friends in Silicon Valley promised us a brave new world of convenience, all at our fingertips. They told us not to worry, our secrets would be safe. None of it was true. They intentionally lied to us. They stole our privacy. And in the process, they’ve ruined everything.”
“Everything?”
“Newspapers, movies, books, music … everything.”
“I never knew you were such a Luddite.”
“I’m an art restorer who specializes in Italian Old Masters. I’m a charter member of the club.”
“And yet you carry a mobile phone.”
“A very special mobile phone. Even my friends at the American NSA can’t crack it.”
Donati held up a Nokia 9 Android. “And mine?”
“I’d feel much better if you threw it out the window.”
“My life is on this phone.”
“Therein lies the problem, Excellency.”
At Gabriel’s request, Donati surrendered his phone to Chiara. After switching off the power, she removed the SIM card and the battery and placed both in her handbag. The soulless chassis she returned to Donati.
“I feel better already.”
They stopped for coffee at an Autogrill near Orvieto and reached the outskirts of Florence a few minutes after noon. The Zona Traffico Limitato signs were flashing red. Gabriel left the Mercedes in a public car park near the Basilica di Santa Croce, and together they set out toward San Marco.
According to the blue light on Gabriel’s phone, Janson’s device was just west of the San Marco Museum, probably on the Via San Gallo. Unit 8200 had cautioned that the geolocation plot was accurate only to about forty meters, which meant the phone could also be on the Via Santa Reparata or the Via della Ruote. All three streets were lined with small discount hotels and hostels. Gabriel counted at least fourteen such establishments where Niklaus Janson might have found lodging.
The exact spot upon which the blue dot rested corresponded to the address of a hotel appropriately called the Piccolo. Directly across the street was a restaurant where Gabriel lunched in the manner of a man for whom time was of no consequence. Donati, his phone reassembled and operational, dined on the Via Santa Reparata; Chiara, around the corner on the Villa della Ruote.
Gabriel and Chiara each had a copy of Janson’s official Swiss Guard photograph on their phones. It showed a serious young man with short hair and small dark eyes set within an angular face. Trustworthy, thought Gabriel, but by no means a saint. Janson’s file listed his height as the metric equivalent of about six feet. His weight was seventy-five kilograms, or one hundred and sixty-five pounds.
By three fifteen they had seen no sign of him. Chiara moved to the restaurant opposite the Hotel Piccolo; Donati, to the Villa della Ruote. On the Via Santa Reparata, Gabriel spent much of the time staring at his phone, exhorting the winking blue light into movement. At