The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,29

killing the connection. Stefani Hoffmann emerged from the restaurant a few minutes later, a scarf around her neck. Her car was a worn-out Volvo. Donati lowered himself into the passenger seat as Gabriel slid behind the wheel of the BMW. Through his earpiece he heard the click of Donati’s safety belt, followed an instant later by a wail of anguish from Stefani Hoffmann.

“Is Niklaus really dead?”

“I saw it happen.”

“Why didn’t you stop it?”

“There was nothing to be done.”

Stefani Hoffmann reversed out of the parking space and turned onto the rue du Pont-Muré. Ten seconds later, Gabriel did the same. As they left the Old Town on the Route des Alpes, Donati asked why Niklaus Janson had fled the Vatican the night of the Holy Father’s death. Her response was scarcely audible.

“He was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That they were going to kill him.”

“Who, Stefani?”

For a long moment there was only the rattle of the Volvo’s engine, followed a moment later by the sound of Stefani Hoffmann screaming. Gabriel lowered the volume on his phone. He was glad it was his old friend sitting next to her and not him.

17

RECHTHALTEN, SWITZERLAND

AS THEY APPROACHED THE HAMLET of St. Ursen, Stefani Hoffmann became aware of the fact they were being followed.

“It’s only an associate of mine,” explained Donati.

“Since when do priests have associates?”

“He’s the man who helped me find Niklaus in Florence.”

“I thought you said you came to Fribourg alone.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Is this associate of yours a priest, too?”

“No.”

“Vatican intelligence?”

Donati was tempted to inform Stefani Hoffmann that there was no department of the Holy See known as Vatican intelligence; that it was a canard invented by Catholicism’s enemies; that the real intelligence-gathering apparatus of the Vatican was the Universal Church itself, with its global network of parishes, schools, universities, hospitals, charitable organizations, and nuncios in capitals around the world. He spared her this discourse, at least for the moment. Still, he was curious why she would ask such a question. It could wait, he decided, until his associate had joined them.

The next village was Rechthalten. Donati recognized the name. It was the village where Niklaus Janson had been born and raised. Its inhabitants were overwhelmingly Roman Catholic. Most were employed in what government statisticians referred to as the primary sector of the economy, a polite way of saying they worked the land. A handful, like Stefani Hoffmann, commuted each day to Fribourg. She had moved out of the family home about a year ago, she said, and was living alone in a cottage at the far eastern edge of the town.

It was shaped like an A, with a small sun deck on the upper floor. She turned into the unpaved drive and switched off the engine. Gabriel arrived a few seconds later. In German he introduced himself as Heinrich Kiever. It was the name on the false German passport he had displayed earlier that afternoon at Geneva Airport.

“Are you sure you’re not a priest?” Stefani Hoffmann accepted his outstretched hand. “You look more like a priest than the archbishop.”

She led them inside the cottage. The ground floor had been converted into an artist’s studio. Stefani Hoffmann, Donati remembered suddenly, was a painter. Her latest work was propped on an easel in the center of the room. The man she knew as Heinrich Kiever stood before it, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“This is quite good.”

“Do you paint?”

“Only the occasional watercolor while on holiday.”

Stefani Hoffmann was clearly dubious. She removed her coat and scarf and looked at Donati as tears fell from her blue eyes. “Something to drink?”

HER BREAKFAST DISHES WERE STILL on the table in her tiny kitchen. She cleared them away and filled the electric kettle with bottled water. As she spooned coffee into the French press, she apologized for the chaotic state of the cottage, and for its modesty. It was all she could afford, she lamented, on her salary from the restaurant and the small amount of money she earned through the sale of her paintings.

“We’re not all rich private bankers, you know.”

She addressed them in German. Not the dialect of Swiss German spoken in the village, but proper High German, the language of her Alemannic brethren to the north. She had learned to speak it in school, she explained, beginning at the age of six. Niklaus Janson had been a classmate. He was an awkward boy, skinny, shy, bespectacled, but at seventeen he was somehow magically transformed into an object of striking beauty.