The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,91
drew a gun from beneath his coat and smiled beautifully. It was no wonder Niklaus Janson had fallen for him.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I want you to drop your bag and your keys.”
Veronica hesitated, then allowed the key and the bag to fall from her hand.
“Very good.” Father Graf’s smile vanished. “Now get in the car.”
50
ST. PETER’S SQUARE
COLONEL ALOIS METZLER, COMMANDANT OF the Pontifical Swiss Guard, was waiting at the foot of the Egyptian obelisk when Gabriel and Donati arrived in St. Peter’s Square. Having sprinted the length of the Borgo Santo Spirito, both were gasping for breath. Metzler, however, looked as though he were posing for his official portrait. He had brought along two plainclothes killers for protection. Having worked with the Swiss Guard on numerous occasions, including during a papal visit to Jerusalem, Gabriel knew that each man was carrying a Sig Sauer 226 9mm pistol. For that matter, so was Metzler.
He directed his hooded gaze toward Gabriel and smiled. “What happened, Father Allon? Did you renounce your vows?” He posed his next question to Donati. “Do you know what happened after you and your friend pulled that stunt at the Archives?”
“I suspect Albanese was a bit miffed.”
“He told me that I would be relieved of duty once the conclave was over.”
“The camerlengo doesn’t have the authority to dismiss the commandant of the Swiss Guard. Only the secretary of state can do that. With the approval of the Holy Father, of course.”
“The cardinal implied that he was going to be the next secretary of state. He seemed quite confident, actually.”
“And did he tell you who was going to be the next pope as well?” Receiving no answer, Donati pointed toward the Arch of Bells. “Please, Colonel Metzler. Cardinal Francona is waiting for me.”
“I’m sorry, Excellency. But I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”
“Why not?”
“Because Cardinal Albanese warned me that you would try to get into the restricted areas of the city-state tonight. He said heads would roll if you managed to get through. Or words to that effect.”
“Ask yourself two questions, Colonel Metzler. How did he know I would be coming? And what is he so afraid of?”
Metzler exhaled heavily. “What time is Cardinal Francona expecting you?”
“Four minutes from now.”
“Then you have two minutes to tell me exactly what’s going on.”
LIKE ALL THE CARDINAL-ELECTORS WHO entered the Casa Santa Marta that evening, Domenico Albanese had surrendered his phone to the dean of the Sacred College. He was not, however, without a mobile device. He had concealed one in his suite earlier that week. It was a cheap disposable model. A burner, he thought wickedly.
He was clutching the phone in his left hand. With his right he was parting the gauzy curtain in the sitting room window. As fortune would have it, it overlooked the small piazza at the front of the guesthouse, where Cardinal Angelo Francona was pacing the paving stones. Clearly, the dean was expecting someone. Someone, thought Albanese, who was no doubt trying to talk his way past the Swiss Guards at the Arch of Bells.
At 5:25 Francona checked his phone and then started toward the entrance of the guesthouse. He stopped suddenly when one of the Swiss Guards pointed toward the three men running across the piazza. One of the men was the sentry’s commanding officer, Colonel Alois Metzler. He was accompanied by Gabriel Allon and Archbishop Luigi Donati.
Albanese released the curtain and dialed.
“Well?” asked Bishop Richter.
“He made it through.”
The connection went dead. Instantly, two firm knocks shook Albanese’s room. Startled, he slipped the phone into his pocket before opening the door. Standing in the corridor was Archbishop Thomas Kerrigan of Boston, the vice dean of the College of Cardinals.
“Is something wrong, Eminence?”
“The dean requests your presence in the chapel.”
“For what reason?”
“He has invited Archbishop Donati to address the cardinal-electors.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
Kerrigan smiled. “You just were.”
DONATI FOLLOWED CARDINAL FRANCONA INTO the lobby. The first face he saw belonged to Kevin Brady of Los Angeles. Brady was a doctrinal soul mate. Still, he appeared stunned by Donati’s presence. They exchanged a terse nod, then Donati looked down at the marble floor.
Francona seized his arm. “Excellency! I can’t believe you brought that in here.”
Donati hadn’t realized his phone was ringing. He snatched it from the pocket of his cassock and checked the screen. The name on the caller ID shocked him.
Father Brunetti …
It was the pseudonym Donati had assigned to Veronica Marchese in his contacts. Under the rules of their relationship, she was forbidden to