The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,50

base of Monte Subasio, glowed the distinctive red marble of Assisi.

“There’s the Abbey of St. Peter.” Donati pointed out the bell tower at the northern end of the city. “It’s inhabited by a small group of monks from the Cassinese Congregation. They live according to the Rule of Saint Benedict. Ora et labora: pray and work.”

“Sounds a bit like the job description of the chief of the Office.”

Donati laughed. “The monks support a number of local organizations, including a hospital and an orphanage. They agreed to give Father Jordan lodging in the abbey when he retired from the Gregoriana.”

“Why Assisi?”

“After working for forty years as a Jesuit academic and writer, he longed for a more contemplative existence. But you can be sure he finds time to research and write. He’s one of the world’s foremost authorities on the apocryphal gospels.”

“What happens if he won’t see us?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” remarked Donati.

Gabriel left the Opel in a car park outside the city walls and followed Donati through the archway of the Porta San Pietro. The abbey was a few paces along a shadowed street, behind walls of red stone. The outer door was locked. Donati rang the bell. There was no answer.

He checked the time. “Midafternoon prayers. Let’s take a walk.”

They set out along the street against a flow of outward-bound package tourists, Gabriel in dark trousers and a leather coat, Donati in his magenta-trimmed cassock. He attracted no more than passing interest. The Abbey of St. Peter was not the only monastery or convent in Assisi. It was a city of religious.

It became Christian, explained Donati, just two hundred years after the Crucifixion. St. Francis was born in Assisi at the end of the twelfth century. Known for his lavish clothing and circle of rich friends, he encountered a beggar one afternoon in the marketplace and was so moved he gave the man everything he had in his pockets. Within a few years he was living as a beggar himself. He cared for lepers in a lazar house, worked as a lowly kitchen servant in a monastery, and in 1209 founded a religious order that required its members to embrace a life of total and complete poverty.

“Francis is one of the Church’s most beloved saints, but he didn’t invent the notion of caring for the poor. It was ingrained in Christianity from the beginning. And now, two millennia later, thousands of Roman Catholics around the world are doing the same thing, every hour of every day. I think that’s worth preserving, don’t you?”

“I once told Lucchesi that I would never want to live in a world without the Roman Catholic Church.”

“Did you? He never mentioned it.” They arrived at the basilica. “Shall we go inside and see the paintings?”

“Next time,” quipped Gabriel.

It was three fifteen. They retraced their steps to the abbey, and once again Donati rang the bell. A moment passed before a male voice answered. He spoke Italian with a distinct British accent.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Father Jordan.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t accept visitors.”

“I believe he’ll make an exception in my case.”

“Your name?”

“Archbishop Luigi Donati.” He released the call button and gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “Membership has its privileges.”

The lock snapped open. A hairless, black-habited Benedictine waited in the shadows of an internal courtyard. “Forgive me, Excellency. I wish someone had told us you were coming.” He extended a soft, pale hand. “I’m Simon, by the way. Follow me, please.”

They entered the church of San Pietro through a side door, crossed the nave, and emerged into another internal court. The next door gave onto the abbey itself. The monk conveyed them to a modestly furnished common room overlooking a green garden. Actually, thought Gabriel, it was more like a small farm. Surrounded by a high wall, it was invisible to the outside world.

The Benedictine asked them to make themselves comfortable and then withdrew. Ten minutes elapsed before he finally returned. He was alone.

“I’m sorry, Excellency. But Father Jordan is praying now and wishes not to be disturbed.”

Donati opened his briefcase and removed the manila envelope. “Show him this.”

“But—”

“Now, Don Simon.”

Gabriel smiled as the monk fled the room. “It seems your reputation precedes you.”

“I doubt Father Jordan will be so easily impressed.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before the British monk returned. This time he was accompanied by a small, dark man with a weathered face and a shock of unkempt white hair. Father Robert Jordan was wearing an ordinary cassock rather than the