The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,28
bilingual city, but the streets bore French names. The rue du Pont-Muré stretched for about a hundred meters through the elegant Old Town, above which soared the spire of the cathedral. Gabriel parked the car in the Place des Ormeaux and took a table at Café des Arcades. Alone, Donati crossed the street to Café du Gothard.
It was a formal, old-fashioned restaurant, with a dark wooden floor and heavy iron fixtures overhead. At that hour, the twilight between lunch and dinner, only one other table was occupied, by an English couple who looked as though they had just declared a fragile truce after a long and calamitous battle. The maître d’ showed Donati to a table near the window. He dialed Gabriel’s number and then laid his Nokia facedown on the tabletop. Several minutes elapsed before Stefani Hoffmann appeared. She placed a menu before him and with considerable effort smiled.
“Something to drink?”
16
CAFÉ DU GOTHARD, FRIBOURG
SHE TUCKED A LOOSE STRAND of blond hair behind her ear and peered at Donati over the top of an order pad. Her eyes were the color of an Alpine lake in summer. The rest of her face matched their beauty. The cheekbones were broad, the jawline was sharp, the chin was narrow with a slight indentation.
She had addressed Donati in French. He responded in the same language. “A glass of wine, please.”
With the tip of her pen she pointed toward the section of the menu devoted to the café’s selection of wines. They were mainly French and Swiss. Donati chose a Chasselas.
“Something to eat?”
“Just the wine for now, thank you.”
She walked over to the bar and checked her phone while a black-shirted colleague poured the wine. The glass sat atop her tray for a moment or two before she finally delivered it to Donati’s table.
“You’re not from Fribourg,” she observed.
“How could you possibly tell?”
“Italy?”
“Rome.”
Her expression was unchanged. “What brings you to dull Fribourg?”
“Business.”
“What business are you in?”
Donati hesitated. He had never found a satisfactory way to admit what he did for his living. “I suppose I’m in the business of salvation.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a clergyman?”
“A priest,” said Donati.
“You don’t look much like a priest.” Her eyes flashed over him provocatively. “Especially in those clothes.”
He wondered whether she addressed all her customers in so forward a manner. “Actually, I’m an archbishop.”
“Where’s your archdiocese?” She was obviously familiar with the lexicon of Catholicism.
“A remote corner of North Africa that was once part of the Roman Empire. There are very few Christians there any longer, let alone Catholics.”
“A titular see?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you really do?”
“I’m about to begin teaching at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome.”
“You’re a Jesuit?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And before the Gregoriana?”
Donati lowered his voice. “I served as the private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”
A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “What are you doing in Fribourg?” she asked again.
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you about Niklaus.”
“Where is he?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It was the morning of the pope’s funeral. He wouldn’t tell me where he was.”
“Why not?”
“He said he didn’t want them to know.”
“Who?”
She started to answer, but stopped. “Have you seen him?” she asked.
“Yes, Stefani. I’m afraid I have.”
“When?”
“Last night,” said Donati. “On the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”
FROM HIS OBSERVATION POST AT Café des Arcades, Gabriel listened as Donati quietly told Stefani Hoffmann that Niklaus Janson was dead. He was glad it was his old friend on the other side of the street and not him. If Donati always labored over how to acknowledge his occupation, Gabriel likewise struggled over how to tell a woman that a loved one—a son, a brother, a father, a fiancé—had been murdered in cold blood.
She didn’t believe Donati at first, which was to be expected. His response, that he had no motive to lie about such a thing, did little to dilute her skepticism. The Vatican, she shot back, lied all the time.
“I don’t work for the Vatican,” answered Donati. “Not anymore.”
He then suggested they speak somewhere private. Stefani Hoffmann said the restaurant closed at ten, and that her boss would kill her if she left him in the lurch.
“Your boss will understand.”
“What do I say to him about Niklaus?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“My car is in the Place des Ormeaux. Wait for me there.”
Donati went into the street and lifted the phone to his ear. “Were you able to hear all that?”
“She knows,” answered Gabriel. “The question is, how much?”