The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,99
face. But in the instant before Gabriel could place the required pressure on the trigger, a portion of the face was blown away. Father Graf then vanished from view, as though a hole in the earth had opened beneath him.
Gabriel stumbled to a stop, unsure of the direction from which the shot had come. After a moment Alois Metzler emerged from the darkness, a SIG Sauer 226 pistol in his outstretched hand.
He lowered the gun and looked at Veronica. “You’d better get her out of here before the Polizia arrive. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’d say you already have.”
Metzler contemplated the dead priest. “Don’t worry, Allon. His blood is on my hands.”
56
VIA GREGORIANA, ROME
AT TEN FIFTEEN THE FOLLOWING morning, Gabriel was awakened by a quarrel in the street beneath his window. For a moment he could not recall the name of the street or its location. Nor did he have any memory of the circumstances under which he had reached his place of rest, a small and hideously uncomfortable couch.
It was the couch, he recalled with a sudden lucidity, in the sitting room of the old Office safe flat near the top of the Spanish Steps. Veronica Marchese had offered to sleep there. But in an ill-advised display of chivalry, Gabriel had insisted she take the bedroom instead. They had stayed up past two o’clock sharing a bottle of Tuscan red wine, which had left him with a dull headache. It paired nicely with the pain in his lower back.
His clothing lay on the floor next to the couch. Dressed, he went into the kitchen and poured bottled water into the electric kettle. After spooning coffee into the French press, he entered the spare bathroom to confront his reflection in the mirror. If only he were a painting, he could erase the damage. The best he could hope for was a minor improvement before Chiara’s arrival. At Gabriel’s suggestion, she and the children were coming to Rome for the start of the conclave. Donati had invited them to watch the opening ceremony live on television at the Jesuit Curia. He had asked Veronica to join them. It promised to be an interesting afternoon.
Gabriel filled the French press with water and read the Italian papers on his phone while waiting for the coffee to brew. The shocking events in Germany were of little interest to the editors in Rome and Milan. Only the conclave mattered. The vaticanisti remained convinced that the papacy was Navarro’s to lose. One predicted Pietro Lucchesi would be the last Italian pope. In none of the papers was there any mention of a dead priest from a reactionary Catholic order, or a shooting in the Borghese Gardens involving a prominent Italian museum director. Somehow, Alois Metzler had managed to keep it quiet. At least for now.
Gabriel carried his coffee into the sitting room and switched on the television. Fifteen thousand Catholics, religious and lay, were crammed into St. Peter’s Basilica for the Pro Eligendo Romano Pontifice pre-conclave Mass. Another two hundred thousand were watching on the jumbo screens outside in the square. Dean Angelo Francona was the celebrant. Arrayed before him in four semicircular rows of chairs was the entire College of Cardinals, including those cardinals who were too old to participate in the conclave that was now just hours away. Donati was seated directly behind them. In his choir dress, he looked every inch the Roman Catholic prelate. His expression was grave, determined. Gabriel would not have wanted to be on the receiving end of his stern gaze.
“What do you suppose he’s thinking?”
Gabriel looked up and smiled at Veronica Marchese. She was wearing a pair of Chiara’s old cotton pajamas. One hand was propped on her hip. The other was tugging at her right ear.
“I still can’t hear anything.”
“It was exposed to several gunshots with no protection. It’s going to take a few days.”
Her hand moved to the back of her head.
“How does it feel?”
“A bit of caffeine might help.” She looked longingly at his coffee. “Is there enough for me?”
He went into the kitchen and poured her a cup. She took a sip and made a face.
“Is it that bad?”
“Perhaps we can walk to Caffè Greco later.” She looked at the television. “They do know how to put on a show, don’t they? You’d never know anything was amiss.”
“It’s better that way.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Do you want the world to know what happened in the Piazza di Siena last night?”