The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,25
the tomb of Cosimo de Medici, thumbs working over the screen of his phone, seemingly oblivious to the florid-faced Englishwoman who was addressing a tour group as though they were hard of hearing.
The Swiss Guard sent a final text and went into the square, where he paused once again to survey his surroundings. Clearly, he was expecting someone. The person at the other end of the text messages, reckoned Gabriel. The person who had led him first to the Piazza del Duomo and then the Basilica di San Lorenzo.
Janson’s gaze alighted briefly on Gabriel. Then he left the piazza along the Borgo San Lorenzo. No one in the square or the surrounding shops or restaurants appeared to follow him.
Gabriel walked over to the gelateria, where Donati and Chiara were balanced atop tall stools at a zinc-topped table. They hadn’t touched their orders.
“Can we make contact with him now?” asked Donati.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re here, Excellency.”
“Who?”
Gabriel turned without answering and set off after Niklaus Janson. A moment later Chiara and Donati tossed their uneaten gelato into a rubbish bin and set off after Gabriel.
JANSON PASSED THROUGH the Piazza del Duomo a second time, all but confirming Gabriel’s suspicion that the Swiss Guard was being guided by a hidden hand. Somewhere in Florence, he thought, someone was waiting for him.
Janson went next to the Piazza della Repubblica and from there made his way to the Ponte Vecchio. It had once been home to blacksmiths, tanners, and butchers. But in the late sixteenth century, after Florentines complained about the blood and the stench, the bridge became the domain of the city’s jewelers and goldsmiths. Vasari designed a private corridor above the shops on the eastern side of the bridge for the Medici clan, thus enabling them to cross the river without having to mingle with their subjects.
The Medici were long gone, but the jewelers and goldsmiths remained. Janson made his way past the luminous shop windows before pausing mid-span beneath the arches of Vasari’s Corridor to gaze down at the sluggish black waters of the Arno. Gabriel waited on the opposite side of the bridge. Between them flowed a steady stream of tourists.
Gabriel glanced to his left and saw Chiara and Donati approaching through the crowds. With a small movement of his head, he instructed them to join him. They stood side by side along the balustrade, Gabriel and Chiara facing Niklaus Janson, Donati facing the river.
“Well?” he asked.
Gabriel watched Janson for another moment. His back was turned toward the center of the span. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he was typing something on his phone again. Gabriel wanted to know the identity of the person, man or woman, with whom Janson was in contact. But it had gone on long enough.
“Go ahead, Luigi. Call him.”
Donati drew his Nokia. Janson’s number was already loaded into his contacts. With a touch of the screen, he dialed. A few seconds passed. Then Niklaus Janson hesitantly raised the phone to his ear.
14
PONTE VECCHIO, FLORENCE
GOOD EVENING, NIKLAUS. DO YOU recognize my voice?”
Donati tapped the speaker icon on the touchscreen of the Nokia in time for Gabriel to hear Janson’s startled reply.
“Excellency?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I was wondering the same about you.”
There was no response from the young man on the opposite side of the bridge.
“I need to speak to you, Niklaus.”
“About what?”
“The night the Holy Father died.”
Once again there was no answer.
“Are you still there, Niklaus?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Tell me where you are. It’s urgent I see you at once.”
“I’m in Switzerland.”
“It’s not like you to lie to an archbishop.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re not in Switzerland. You’re standing in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m standing behind you.”
Janson wheeled round, the phone to his ear. “I don’t see you.”
Donati turned as well, slowly.
“Excellency? Is that you?”
“Yes, Niklaus.”
“Who’s the man standing next to you?”
“A friend.”
“He’s been following me.”
“He was acting on my behalf.”
“I was afraid he was going to kill me.”
“Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“Forgive me, Excellency,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“Grant me absolution.”
“I have to hear your confession first.”
He looked to his left. “There isn’t time, Excellency.”
Janson lowered the phone and started horizontally across the bridge. In the center of the span he stopped abruptly and spread his arms wide. The first shot struck him in the left shoulder, spinning him like a top. The second punched a hole through his chest and dropped him penitentially to his knees. There, with his arms now hanging limply at his sides, he received a third shot. It