Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (104 page)

GABRIEL SPENT
the next two hours unenthusiastically holding up his end of the bargain. Finally, he saw
himself out the front door of Peter Malone’s house and struck out across Cadogan Square in a steady rain. On Sloane Street, he pulled his cellular phone from his pocket and dialed Mordecai in the surveillance van. “Keep monitoring him,” Gabriel said. “If he goes anywhere, go with him.”

PETER MALONE
sat before the computer in his upstairs office, feverishly typing up his notes. He could not quite believe his good fortune. He had learned long ago that success was the result of a volatile combination of hard work and pure luck. Sometimes good stories just fell into one’s lap. The difference between an average journalist and a great one is what he did next.

After an hour of steady work, his handwritten notes had been transformed into a pair of organized memos. The first dealt with the exploits of the agent code-named Sword. The second was an account of their discussion regarding Benjamin Stern. Whether it was his intention or not, the Israeli had just given Malone the hook he needed for his story. Israeli intelligence was investigating the murder of prominent historian Benjamin Stern. He would ring Tel Aviv in the morning, secure the mandatory denial from the drones at headquarters, then stitch together the other mysterious details he knew about the case. He had not told the Israeli everything he knew about Stern’s murder, just as he was quite certain the Israeli had not shared all of his knowledge. That’s the way the game was played. It took an experienced reporter to know the difference between truth and misinformation, to sift through the silt to find the nuggets of gold. With a bit of luck, he might have a piece ready by the weekend.

He spent a few minutes double-checking the quotes.
He decided he would call Tom Graves, his editor at
The Sunday Times,
and reserve some space on the front page. He reached out for the telephone, but before he could lift the receiver from the cradle, he was flung backward by a blow to the chest. He looked down and saw a small, rapidly spreading circle of blood on his shirt. Then he looked up and saw the man, standing five feet from his desk, gray-blond hair, colorless eyes. Malone had been so engrossed in his work that he had failed to hear him enter the house.

“Why?” the reporter whispered, blood in his mouth.

The killer tilted his head, as though puzzled, and stepped around the desk. “
Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis,
” he said, fingers caressing the forehead. “
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
”

Then he pointed the silenced gun at Malone’s head and fired one last shot.

IN THE
lexicon of the Office, the device that the surveillance artist called Mordecai had placed in Malone’s office was known as a “glass.” Concealed within the electronics of the telephone, it provided coverage of Malone’s calls as well as conversations taking place inside the room. It had allowed Mordecai to monitor Gabriel’s conversation with Malone. He had also listened in as Malone sat at his desk after Gabriel’s departure, tapping away at his computer.

Shortly after nine o’clock, Mordecai heard murmuring in a language he could not understand. For the next five minutes, he was treated to the sound of file drawers opening and closing. He assumed it was Malone, but when the front door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man emerged, Mordecai knew at once that something terrible had just taken place inside the house.

The man walked quickly down the steps and started across the square, directly toward the van. Mordecai panicked. The only weaponry he had was a directional microphone and a long-lens Nikon camera. It was the Nikon he reached for. As the man drew closer to the van, Mordecai raised it calmly to his eye and snapped off three quick shots.

The last one, he was convinced, was a keeper.

14
ROME

V
ATICAN
C
ITY STATE
is the world’s smallest country and also the most sparsely populated. More than four thousand people work there each day, yet only four hundred or so actually live behind the walls. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi was one of them. His private apartment in the Apostolic Palace was just one floor away from that of the Holy Father. While some prelates found life in the epicenter of Vatican power the equivalent of living in a gilded cage, Cardinal Brindisi truly relished it. His rooms were glorious, his commute was exceedingly short, and a staff of priests and nuns saw to his every need. If there was one drawback, it was the proximity of the papal household. While inside the palace, there was little the Cardinal could do to shield himself from the prying eyes of the Pope’s secretaries. The back room at L’Eau Vive was suitable for many of the cardinal’s private assignations, though others, like the one scheduled for this evening, had to be held under more secure circumstances.

A Mercedes sedan was waiting in the San Damaso Courtyard outside the entrance of the Apostolic
Palace. Unlike lesser Curial cardinals, Brindisi did not have to endure the luck of the draw in the Vatican motor pool. A Mercedes sedan and a driver were permanently assigned to him, along with a
Vigilanza
security man. Brindisi climbed into the back, and the car pulled away. It moved slowly along the Via Belvedere—past the Pontifical Pharmacy and the Swiss Guards’ barracks—before slipping through St. Anne’s Gate into Rome proper.

The car crossed the Piazza della Città, then turned into the entrance of an underground parking garage. The building above was a Vatican-owned residential complex where many Curial cardinals lived. There were several others like it scattered around Rome.

The car braked to a halt next to a gray Fiat van. As Brindisi climbed out, the van’s rear door swung open and a man lowered himself to the ground. Like Brindisi, he was cloaked in a cassock, with a crimson simar and fascia. But unlike the secretary of state, he had no right to wear it. He was not a cardinal; in fact, he was not even an ordained priest. Cardinal Brindisi did not know the man’s name, only that he had worked briefly as an actor before coming to work for the
Vigilanza
.

Brindisi’s stand-in stepped out of the shadows and paused for an instant before the cardinal. As always, Brindisi felt a chill at the back of his neck. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror. The features, the round eyeglasses, the gold pectoral cross—the man had even learned to mimic the arrogant angle of Brindisi’s zucchetto. A tepid smile flickered over the man’s face, a precise imitation of Brindisi’s own, then he said, “Good evening, Eminence.”

“Good evening, Eminence,” Cardinal Brindisi found himself repeating.

The impersonator nodded tersely, then climbed into
the back of Brindisi’s staff car and sped away. Father Mascone, Brindisi’s private secretary, was waiting in the back of the van. “Please hurry, Eminence. It’s not safe to stay here long.”

The priest helped the cardinal into the back of the van and closed the door, then guided him onto an embroidered stool. The van sped back up the ramp and turned into the street. A moment later, it was heading across Rome toward the Tiber.

The priest unzipped a garment bag and removed several articles of clothing: a pair of gray trousers, a mock turtleneck pullover, an expensive tan blazer, a pair of black loafers. Cardinal Brindisi loosened his simar and began to undress. After a moment, he was naked except for his underwear and a spiked chain wrapped around his right thigh.

“Perhaps you should remove your cilice,” the priest said. “It might show through your trousers.”

Cardinal Brindisi shook his head. “My willingness to shed my vestments goes only so far, Father Mascone. I will wear my cilice tonight, regardless of whether or not it shows through”—he paused—“my trousers.”

“Very well, Eminence.”

With the priest’s help, the cardinal quickly changed into the unfamiliar clothing. When he was fully dressed, he removed his distinctive spectacles and replaced them with a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses. The transformation was complete. He no longer looked like a prince of the church, but like a well-to-do Roman male of ill repute, perhaps a man who put himself about with younger women.

Five minutes later, in a deserted square on the opposite side of the Tiber, the van came to a stop. The priest opened the door. Cardinal Secretary of State Marco Brindisi made the sign of the cross and stepped out.

IN MANY
ways, Rome is a company town. Under normal circumstances, Marco Brindisi could not walk the Via Veneto without being recognized, even dressed in the simple black cassock of a parish priest. Tonight, however, he moved unnoticed, slicing his way through the buzzing crowds and past overflowing cafés as though he were just another Roman in search of a good meal and pleasant company.

The glory days of the Via Veneto had long since faded. It was still a lovely boulevard lined with plane trees, exclusive shops, and expensive restaurants, but the intellectuals and movie stars had long ago moved on in search of undiscovered delights. Now the crowd was mainly tourists and businessmen and pretty Italian teenagers careening about on motor scooters.

Marco Brindisi had never been seduced by the Via Veneto’s
dolce vita,
even in the sixties, when he was a young Curial bureaucrat fresh from his Umbrian hill town, and it seemed even less appealing now. The snatches of table conversation drifting past his ears seemed so utterly trivial. He knew that some cardinals—indeed, even some popes—liked to walk about Rome in mufti to see how the other half lived. Brindisi had no desire to see how the other half lived. With few exceptions, he found the other half to be an immoral and uncouth rabble who would be far better off if they listened more to the teachings of the Church and less to the incessant blare of their televisions.

An attractive middle-aged woman in a low-cut dress shot him an admiring glance from a café table. Brindisi, playing the part, smiled back. As he walked on, the cardinal begged Christ’s forgiveness and applied pressure to his cilice to increase the pain. He had
heard the confessions of priests who had fallen victim to the temptation of sex. Priests who kept mistresses. Priests who had performed unspeakable acts with other priests. Brindisi had never known such temptations. The moment he entered the seminary, his heart was given over to Christ and the Virgin. Priests who could not keep their vows sickened him. He believed that any priest who could not remain celibate should be defrocked. But he was also a pragmatist, and he realized that such a policy would certainly decimate the ranks of the clergy.

The cardinal came to the intersection of the Via Veneto and the Corso d’Italia and glanced at his watch. He had arrived at precisely the scheduled time. A few seconds later, a car pulled to the curb. The rear door swung open, and Carlo Casagrande climbed out.

“Excuse me if I don’t kiss your ring,” Casagrande said, “but I don’t think it would be appropriate under the circumstances. The weather is quite mild this evening. Shall we walk in the Villa Borghese?”

CASAGRANDE LED
the cardinal across the broad boulevard, exposing the second-most-powerful man in the Catholic Church to the bloodlust of Rome’s drivers. Arriving safely at the other side, they strolled along a gravel footpath. Come Sunday, the park would be filled with screaming children and men listening to the soccer matches on portable radios. Tonight it was quiet except for the swish of traffic along the Corso. The cardinal walked as though he were still wearing crimson, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head down—a rich man who had dropped money and was making a halfhearted effort to find it. When Casagrande whispered that Peter Malone was dead, Brindisi murmured
a brief prayer but resisted the impulse to conclude it with the sign of the cross.

“This assassin of yours is quite efficient,” he said.

“Unfortunately, he’s had a good deal of practice.”

“Tell me about him.”

“It’s my job to protect you from things like that, Eminence.”

“I don’t ask out of morbid curiosity, Carlo. My only concern is that this matter is being dealt with in an efficient manner.”

They came to the Galleria Borghese. Casagrande sat down on a marble bench in front of the museum and motioned for Brindisi to do the same. The cardinal made a vast show of brushing away the dust before gingerly settling himself on the cold stone. Casagrande then spent the next five minutes reluctantly reciting everything he knew about the assassin called the Leopard, beginning with his long and bloody association with left-wing and Palestinian terrorist groups, and concluding with his transformation into a highly paid professional killer. Casagrande had the distinct impression that the cardinal was enjoying his vicarious association with evil.

“His real name?”

“Not clear, Eminence.”

“His nationality?”

“The prevailing sentiment among European security officials is that he is Swiss, although that too is a matter of some speculation.”