The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,40
the data network of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, he was now being asked to seize control of the power supply and security system of the Vatican Secret Archives. For a cyberwarrior, it was a dream assignment.
“Can it be done?” asked Gabriel.
“You’re joking, right?”
“How long will it take?”
“Forty-eight hours, to be on the safe side.”
“I can give you twenty-four. But twelve would be better.”
It was dusk when Gabriel and Donati finally slipped from the Israeli compound in the back of an embassy car. After dropping Donati at the Jesuit Curia, the driver took Gabriel to the safe flat near the top of the Spanish Steps. Exhausted, he crawled into the unmade bed and plunged into a dreamless sleep. His phone woke him at seven the next morning. It was Yuval Gershon.
“I’d feel better if we did a few dry runs, but we’re ready when you are.”
Gabriel showered and dressed, then walked through the cold Roman morning to the Borgo Santo Spirito. Donati met him at the entrance of the Jesuit Curia and escorted him upstairs to his rooms.
It was half past eight.
“YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY BE SERIOUS.”
“Would you prefer to dress as a nun?”
Gabriel looked at the clothing laid out on the bed: a clerical suit, a black shirt with a Roman collar. He had utilized many disguises during his long career, but never had he concealed himself beneath the mantle of a priest.
“Who am I supposed to be?”
Donati handed him a Vatican pass.
“Father Franco Benedetti?”
“It has a certain flair, don’t you think?”
“That’s because it’s a Jewish name.”
“So is Donati.”
Gabriel frowned at the photograph. “I look nothing like him.”
“Consider yourself lucky. But don’t worry, the Swiss Guards probably won’t even bother to check it.”
Gabriel did not disagree. While restoring Caravaggio’s Deposition of Christ for the Vatican Museums, he had been issued a pass that granted him access to the conservation labs. The Swiss Guard at St. Anne’s Gate had rarely given it more than a cursory glance before waving him onto the territory of the city-state. Most members of Rome’s large religious community seldom bothered to display their credentials. Annona, the name of the Vatican supermarket, worked like a secret password.
Gabriel held the clerical suit against his body.
“Stefani Hoffmann was right,” said Donati. “You really do look like a priest.”
“Let’s hope no one asks for my blessing.”
Donati waved his hand dismissively. “There’s nothing to it.”
Gabriel went into the bathroom and changed. When he emerged, Donati straightened the Roman collar.
“How do you feel?”
Gabriel slipped a Beretta into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. “Much better.”
Donati grabbed his briefcase on the way out the door and led Gabriel downstairs to the street. They walked to Bernini’s Colonnade, then turned to the right. The Piazza Papa Pio XII was jammed with satellite trucks and reporters, including a correspondent from French television who pressed Donati for a comment on the approaching conclave. She relented when the archbishop shot her a curial glare.
“Very impressive,” said Gabriel, sotto voce.
“I have something of a reputation.”
They passed beneath the Passetto, the elevated escape route last utilized by Pope Clement VII in 1527 during the Sack of Rome, and walked along the pink facade of the Swiss Guard barracks. A halberdier in a simple blue uniform stood watch at St. Anne’s Gate. Donati crossed the invisible border without slowing. Waving Father Benedetti’s pass, Gabriel did the same. Together they headed up the Via Sant’Anna toward the Apostolic Palace.
“Do you suppose that nice Swiss boy is watching us?”
“Like a hawk,” murmured Donati.
“How long before he tells Metzler you’re back in town?”
“If I had to guess, he already has.”
CARDINAL DOMENICO ALBANESE, PREFECT OF the Vatican Secret Archives and camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church, was sampling the global television coverage of the pending conclave when the power suddenly failed in his apartment above the Lapidary Gallery. It was not an altogether unusual occurrence. The Vatican received most of its electricity from Rome’s notoriously fickle grid. Consequently, the denizens of the Curia spent much of their time in the dark, which surely would not have come as a surprise to their critics.
Most curial cardinals scarcely noticed the periodic outages. Domenico Albanese, however, was the ruler of a climate-controlled empire of secrets, much of it underground. Electricity was necessary for the smooth administration of his realm. Because it was a Sunday, the Archives were officially closed, thus reducing the likelihood of a priceless Vatican treasure walking out the door. Still, Albanese preferred to err on the side of caution.