The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,37
the room’s luxurious furnishings—the chest of drawers, the armoire, the writing desk, the occasional tables and framed mirrors—were resplendent Biedermeier antiques as well. The paintings were all Italian and Dutch Old Masters, including works by Titian, Veronese, Rembrandt, Van Eyck, and Van der Weyden. They were but a small portion of the Order’s massive collection, most of which had been acquired for investment purposes. The collection was hidden in a vault beneath the Paradeplatz in downtown Zurich, along with much of Bishop Richter’s vast personal fortune.
He entered his luxurious bathroom complex. It featured a shower with four heads, a large Jacuzzi, a steam room, a sauna, and a built-in audiovisual system. To the accompaniment of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, he bathed and shaved and moved his bowels. Afterward, he dressed not in his usual magentatrimmed cassock but in a tailored business suit. Then he pulled on an overcoat and a scarf and headed downstairs.
Father Graf was waiting outside in the forecourt next to an elegant Mercedes-Maybach limousine. He was a trim, athletic priest of forty-two, with an angular face, neatly combed blond hair, and bright blue eyes. Like Bishop Richter, he was of noble Austrian descent. Indeed, the blood that flowed through both their veins was midnight blue. He, too, was dressed in business rather than clerical attire. He looked up from his mobile phone as Richter approached and in German bade him a pleasant morning.
The rear door of the Maybach was open. Richter slid into the backseat. Father Graf joined him. The car passed through the Order’s formidable stone-and-steel security gate and turned into the street. The umbrella pines were silhouettes in the first sienna light of dawn. Richter thought it was almost beautiful.
Father Graf was staring at his phone again.
“Anything interesting in the news this morning?” asked Richter.
“The Polizia di Stato released the identity of the young man who was shot to death in Florence.”
“Anyone we know?”
The priest looked up. “Do you know what would have happened if Niklaus had crossed that bridge?”
“He would have given Pope Accidental’s letter to Gabriel Allon.” Richter paused. “All the more reason why you should have removed it from the papal study.”
“It was Albanese’s job. Not mine.”
Richter frowned. “He is a cardinal and a member of the Order, Markus. Try to show him at least a modicum of respect.”
“If it wasn’t for the Church, he’d be a bricklayer.”
Richter examined his reflection in the vanity mirror. “The bricklayer’s bollettino has bought us some valuable breathing room. But it is only a matter of time before the press find out where Niklaus was working the night of the Holy Father’s death, and that he was a member of the Order.”
“In six days, it won’t matter.”
“Six days is an eternity. Especially for a man like Gabriel Allon.”
“At the moment, I’m more worried about our old friend Alessandro Ricci.”
“As am I. His sources inside the Curia are impeccable. You can be sure our enemies are talking to him.”
“Perhaps I should have a word with him, too.”
“Not yet, Markus. But in the meantime, keep an eye on him.” Richter looked out his window and frowned. “My God, this city really is atrocious.”
“It will be different after we take power, Excellency.”
Indeed, thought Bishop Richter. Much different.
THE ORDER’S GULFSTREAM G550 WAS waiting on the tarmac outside Signature Flight Support at Ciampino Airport. It delivered Bishop Richter and Father Graf to Salzburg, where they boarded an executive helicopter for the short flight across the German border. Andreas Estermann, a former German intelligence officer who served as the Order’s chief of security and operations, waited on the helipad of the compound outside Berchtesgaden, his gray-blond hair twisting in the wash of the rotors. He pressed his lips to the ring on Bishop Richter’s proffered right hand, then gestured toward a waiting Mercedes sedan.
“We should hurry, Excellency. I’m afraid you’re the last to arrive.”
The car bore them smoothly up the private valley to the chalet, a modern citadel of stone and glass set against the base of the towering mountains. A dozen other vehicles lined the drive, watched over by a small battalion of armed security men. All wore black ski jackets emblazoned with the logo of the Wolf Group, a Munich-based conglomerate.
Estermann escorted Bishop Richter and Father Graf inside and up a flight of stairs. To the left was an anteroom filled with aides and dark-suited security men. Bishop Richter handed Father Graf his overcoat and followed Estermann into the great hall.
It was sixty feet by fifty, with a single enormous window