The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,98

however, was a tripwire. It was too wide to traverse with a leap unless one were an Olympic-caliber athlete, which Gabriel most certainly was not. He was a man of advancing years who had recently fractured two vertebrae in his lower back.

He was still a damn good shot, though. Especially with a Beretta 92 FS. He only needed to illuminate the target with another text message. Then Father Markus Graf, murderer of a pope, would cease to exist. Perhaps he might find himself before a celestial tribunal where he would be sentenced for his crimes. If so, Gabriel hoped that God was in a foul mood when it was Father Graf’s turn in the dock.

He composed another brief message—Where are you?—and fired it into the ether. This time, perhaps because of the wind direction, he heard the bell-like tolling of Father Graf’s phone. Several seconds elapsed before a bloom of light illuminated the tableau at the center of the piazza. Unfortunately, the position of the two figures had changed. Both were now facing north. Veronica was kneeling. Father Graf was holding a gun to the back of her head.

The priest turned when he heard the crunch of gravel beneath Gabriel’s feet. Instantly, there was another burst of light in the center of the piazza. The light of a muzzle flash. The superheated round split the air a few inches from Gabriel’s left shoulder. Nevertheless, he rushed headlong toward his target, the Beretta in his outstretched hand. There were worse places to die, he thought, than the Piazza di Siena. He only hoped that God was in a good mood when it was his turn in the dock.

DONATI WAITED UNTIL HE HAD left the Casa Santa Marta before switching on his phone. He had received no calls or text messages during his remarks to the cardinals. He tried Veronica’s number. There was no answer. He started to dial Gabriel, but stopped himself. Now was not the time.

The two Swiss Guards at the entrance of the guesthouse were staring vacantly into the night, unaware of the pandemonium Donati had left in his wake. My God, what had he done? He had lit the match, he thought. It would be Cardinal Francona’s task to preside over a conclave in flames. Only heaven knew what kind of pope it would produce. Donati didn’t much care at this point, so long as the next pontiff wasn’t a puppet of Bishop Hans Richter.

The southern facade of the basilica was awash in floodlight. Donati noticed that one of the side doors was ajar. Entering, he crossed the left transept to Bernini’s soaring baldacchino and fell to his knees on the cold marble floor. In the grottos beneath him lay his master, a small puncture wound in his right thigh. Eyes closed, Donati prayed with a fervor he had not felt in many years.

Kill him, he was thinking. Slowly and with a great deal of pain.

THE NIGHT WAS GABRIEL’S ALLY, for it rendered him all but invisible. Father Graf, however, betrayed his exact location with every undisciplined pull of his trigger. Gabriel took no evasive action, made no changes in heading. Instead, he advanced directly toward his target as quickly as his legs could carry him, the way Shamron had trained him in the autumn of 1972.

Eleven times, one for every Israeli killed at Munich …

He had lost count of how many shots Father Graf had fired. He was confident Father Graf had, too. The Beretta held fifteen 9mm rounds. Gabriel, however, required only one. The one he intended to put between the priest’s eyes when he was certain he would not hit Veronica by mistake. She was still on her knees, her hands covering her ears. Her mouth was open, but Gabriel could hear no sound other than the gunshots. A trick of the piazza’s acoustics made it seem as though they were coming from every direction at once.

Gabriel was now about twenty meters from Graf, close enough so he could see him clearly without the aid of the muzzle flashes. Which meant Graf could see Gabriel, too. He could wait no longer, approach no closer. A police officer might have stopped and turned slightly to one side to reduce his profile. But not an Office assassin who had been trained by the great Ari Shamron. He continued his relentless advance, as though he intended to beat his bullet to its target.

Finally, his arm swung up, and he placed the sight of the Beretta over Father Graf’s