The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,8
taken his right eye as well. The ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil, had left the general with a cold, unyielding gaze. Even Gabriel tended to avoid it. It was like staring into the eye of an all-seeing God.
At present, the eye was aimed toward the television, where the camera was panning slowly across a rogues’ gallery of politicians, monarchs, and assorted global celebrities. Eventually, it settled on Giuseppe Saviano.
“At least he didn’t wear his armband,” murmured the general.
“You’re not an admirer?”
“Saviano is a passionate defender of the Art Squad’s budget. As a result, we get on quite well.”
“Fascists love cultural patrimony.”
“He considers himself a populist, not a fascist.”
“That’s a relief.”
Ferrari’s brief smile had no influence over his prosthetic eye. “The rise of a man like Saviano was inevitable. Our people have lost faith with fanciful notions like liberal democracy, the European Union, and the Western alliance. And why not? Between globalization and automation, most young Italians can’t start a proper career. If they want a well-paying job, they have to go to Britain. And if they stay here …” The general glanced at the young man behind the bar. “They serve coffee to tourists.” He lowered his voice. “Or Israeli intelligence officers.”
“Saviano isn’t going to change any of that.”
“Probably not. But in the meantime, he projects strength and confidence.”
“How about competence?”
“As long as he keeps the immigrants out, his supporters don’t care if he can’t put two words together.”
“What if there’s a crisis? A real crisis. Not one that’s invented by a right-wing website.”
“Like what?”
“It could be another financial crisis that wipes out the banking system.” Gabriel paused. “Or something much worse.”
“What could be worse than my life’s savings going up in smoke?”
“How about a global pandemic? A novel strain of influenza for which we humans have no natural defense.”
“A plague?”
“Don’t laugh, Cesare. It’s only a matter of time.”
“And where will this plague of yours come from?”
“It will make the jump from animals to humans in a place where sanitary conditions leave something to be desired. A Chinese wet market, for example. It will start slowly, a cluster of local cases. But because we are so interconnected, it will spread around the globe like wildfire. Chinese tourists will bring it to Western Europe in the early stages of the outbreak, even before the virus has been identified. Within a few weeks, half of Italy’s population will be infected, perhaps more. What happens then, Cesare?”
“You tell me.”
“The entire country will have to be quarantined to prevent further spread. Hospitals will be so overwhelmed they’ll be forced to turn away everyone but the youngest and the healthiest. Hundreds will die every day, perhaps thousands. The military will have to resort to mass cremation to prevent further spread. It will be—”
“A holocaust.”
Gabriel nodded slowly. “And how do you suppose an incompetent subliterate like Saviano will react under those conditions? Will he listen to medical experts, or will he think he knows better? Will he tell his people the truth, or will he promise that a vaccine and lifesaving treatments are just around the corner?”
“He’ll blame the Chinese and the immigrants and emerge stronger than ever.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel seriously. “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”
“Anyone with half a brain knows we’re long overdue for something on the scale of the Great Influenza of 1918. I’ve told my prime minister that of all the threats facing Israel, a pandemic is by far the worst.”
“I’m thankful that my only responsibility is to find stolen paintings.” The general watched as the television camera panned across a sea of red vestments. “There sits the next pontiff.”
“They say it’s going to be Cardinal Navarro.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Do you have any insight?”
General Ferrari answered as though addressing a roomful of reporters. “The carabinieri make no effort to monitor the papal succession process. Nor do the other agencies of Italian security and intelligence.”
“Spare me.”
The general laughed quietly. “And what about you?”
“The identity of the next pope is of no concern to the State of Israel.”
“It is now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll let him explain.” General Ferrari nodded toward the television, where the camera had found Archbishop Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII. “He was wondering whether you might have a spare moment or two to speak to him.”
“Why didn’t he just call me?”
“It’s not something he wanted to discuss on the phone.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
The general shook his head. “Only that it was a matter of the utmost