Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (120 page)

“Five million,” Casagrande said in agreement. “But you will be paid only
one
million of that in advance. If you choose to steal my money without fulfilling the terms of the contract, that’s your business. If you want the remaining four million dollars—” Casagrande paused. “I’m afraid trust cuts both ways.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, long enough for Casagrande to inch forward out of his chair and prepare to take his leave. He froze when the assassin said, “Tell me how it would be done.”

Casagrande spoke for the next hour—a veteran policeman, calmly recounting the timeline of a rather mundane series of street crimes. All the while the light bored into his face. It was making him hot. His suit jacket was soaked with sweat and was clinging to his back like a wet blanket. He wished he’d turn the damned thing off. He’d
rather sit in the dark with the monster than stare into the light any longer.

“Did you bring the down payment?”

Casagrande reached down and patted the side of his attaché case.

“Let me see it.”

Casagrande placed the attaché case on the table, opened it, and turned it so the assassin could see his money.

“Do you know what will happen to you if you betray me?”

“I’m certain I can imagine,” Casagrande said. “But surely a down payment of that magnitude is enough to demonstrate my good faith.”

“Faith? Is that what leads you to perform this act?”

“There are some things you’re not permitted to know. Do you accept the contract?”

The assassin closed the attaché case and it disappeared into the darkness.

“There’s just one last thing,” Casagrande said. “You’ll need Security Office identification to get past the Swiss Guards and the
carabinieri.
Did you bring the photograph?”

Casagrande heard the rustle of fabric, then a hand appeared, holding a passport photo. Poor quality. Casagrande reckoned it had been made by an automated machine. He looked at the image and wondered whether it was truly the face of the killing machine known as the Leopard. The assassin seemed to sense his thoughts, for a few seconds later the Stechkin reappeared. It was pointed directly at Casagrande’s heart.

“You wish to ask me a question?”

Casagrande shook his head.

“Good,” the assassin said. “Get out.”

28
VENICE

T
HE
ACQUA ALTA
LAPPED
against the steps of the Church of San Zaccaria as Francesco Tiepolo, dressed in an oilskin coat and rubber knee-length boots, made his way ponderously across the flooded square through the gathering dusk. He entered the church and sacrilegiously shouted out that it was time to close up for the night. Adriana Zinetti seemed to float down from her perch high atop the main altar. Antonio Politi yawned elaborately and struck a series of contortionist yoga poses, all designed to demonstrate to Tiepolo the harsh toll the day had taken on his young body. Tiepolo looked toward the Bellini. The shroud remained in place, but the fluorescent lamps were extinguished. With great effort, he resisted the impulse to scream.

Antonio Politi appeared at Tiepolo’s side and laid a paint-smudged paw on his heavy shoulder. “When, Francesco? When are you going to get it through your head he’s not coming back?”

When indeed?
The boy wasn’t ready for the Bellini masterpiece, but Tiepolo had no choice, not if the
church was going to reopen to the public in time for the spring tourist season. “Give him one more day,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the darkened painting. “If he’s not back by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll let you finish it.”

Antonio’s joy was tempered by his unreserved interest in the tall, striking creature making her way apprehensively across the nave. She had black eyes and a head of abundant, uncontrollable dark hair. Tiepolo knew faces. Bone structure. He’d bet his fee for the San Zaccaria project she was a Jewess. She seemed familiar to him. He thought he might have seen her once or twice in the church, watching the restorers working.

Antonio started toward her. Tiepolo thrust out a thick arm, blocking his path, and summoned a watery smile.

“Is there something I can help you with, signorina?”

“I’m looking for Francesco Tiepolo.”

Deflated, Antonio skulked away. Tiepolo laid a hand on his chest—
You’ve found him, my treasure.

“I’m a friend of Mario Delvecchio.”

Tiepolo’s flirtatious gaze turned suddenly cold. He folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Where in God’s name is he?”

The woman said nothing, just reached out and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded the note and read the words written there:

Your friend in the Vatican is in grave danger. I need your help to save his life.

He looked up and stared at her in disbelief.

“Who are you?”

“It’s not important, Signor Tiepolo.”

He held up the note in his big paw. “Where
is
he?”

“Will you help him save your friend’s life?”

“I’ll listen to what he has to say. If my friend is truly in some sort of danger, of course I’ll help.”

“Then you have to come with me.”

“Now?”

“Please, Signor Tiepolo. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

“Where are we going?”

But she just seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the door.

CANNAREGIO SMELLED
of salt and the lagoon. The woman led Tiepolo across a bridge spanning the Rio di Ghetto Nuovo, then into the clammy gloom of the
sottoportego.
A figure appeared at the opposite end of the passageway, a small man with his hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, surrounded by a halo of yellow sodium light. Tiepolo stopped walking.

“
WOULD YOU
mind telling me what the
fuck
is going on?”

“Obviously, you got my note.”

“Interesting. But you must admit it was short on details, as well as one critical piece of information. How would you, an art restorer named Mario Delvecchio, know that the Pope’s life is in danger?”

“Because restoration is something of a hobby for me. I have another job—a job that very few people know about. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Francesco?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who I work for is not important.”

“It’s
damned
important if you want me to help you get to the Pope.”

“I work for an intelligence service. Not always, just under special circumstances.”

“Like a death in the family.”

“Actually, yes.”

“Which intelligence service do you work for?”

“I would prefer not to answer that question.”

“I’m sure you would, but if you want me to talk to the Pope, you’re going to answer my questions. I repeat: What service do you work for? SISDE? Vatican intelligence?”

“I’m not Italian, Francesco.”

“Not Italian! That’s very funny, Mario.”

“My name isn’t Mario.”

THEY WALKED
the perimeter of the square, Gabriel and Tiepolo side by side, Chiara a few paces behind. It took a long time for Tiepolo to process the information he had just been given. He was a shrewd man, a sophisticated Venetian, politically and socially connected, yet the situation confronting him now was well beyond anything he had ever experienced. It was as if he had just been told that the Titian altarpiece in the Frari was a reproduction painted by a Russian. Finally, he drew a deep breath, a tenor preparing himself for the climactic passage of an aria, and twisted his head toward Gabriel.

“I remember when you came here as a boy. It was seventy-four or seventy-five, wasn’t it?” Tiepolo’s eyes were on Gabriel, but his memory was fixed on Venice, twenty-five years earlier, a little workshop filled with eager young faces. “I remember when you served your apprenticeship with Umberto Conti. You were gifted, even then. You were better than everyone else. You were going to be great one day. Umberto knew it. So did I.” Tiepolo stroked his tangled beard with his big hand.
“Did Umberto know the truth about you? Did he know you were an Israeli agent?”

“Umberto knew nothing.”

“You deceived Umberto Conti? You should be ashamed of yourself. He
believed
in Mario Delvecchio.” Tiepolo paused, checked his anger, lowered his voice. “He believed Mario Delvecchio would be one of the greatest restorers ever.”

“I always wanted to tell Umberto the truth, but I couldn’t. I have enemies, Francesco. Men who destroyed my family. Men who wish to kill me today for things that happened thirty years ago. If you think Italians have long memories, you should spend some time in the Middle East. We’re the ones who invented the
vendetta,
not the Sicilians.”

“Cain slew Abel, and east of Eden he was cast. And you were cast here, to our swampy island in the lagoon, to heal paintings.”

It was a peace offering. Gabriel accepted it with a conciliatory smile. “Do you realize that in my profession I have just committed a mortal sin? I revealed myself to you, because I fear your friend is in grave danger.”

“Do you really think they intend to kill him?”

“They’ve killed many people already. They killed my friend.”

Tiepolo looked around at the vacant
campo.
“I knew John Paul the First as well—Albino Luciani. He was going to clean up the Vatican. Sell off the Church’s assets, give the money to the poor people. Revolutionize the Church. He died after thirty-three days. A heart attack, the Vatican said.” Tiepolo shook his head. “There was nothing wrong with his heart. He had the heart of a lion. The courage of one, too. The changes he planned to bring to the Church were going to make a lot of people angry. And so—”

He shrugged his massive shoulders, then he reached into his pocket, removed a mobile telephone, and quickly punched in a number from memory. He raised the phone to his ear and waited. When finally someone answered, he identified himself and asked for a man called Father Luigi Donati. Then he smothered the mouthpiece and whispered to Gabriel: “The Pope’s private secretary. He was with him here in Venice for years. Very discreet. Fiercely loyal.”

Evidently, it was Donati who came on the line next, because for the next five minutes, Tiepolo carried on an animated conversation, full of condescending remarks about Rome and the Curia. It was clear to Gabriel that Tiepolo had picked up a good deal of Church politics from his friend the Pope. When finally he brought the conversation around to the point, he did it with such subtlety and grace that to Gabriel it seemed both innocent and urgent at the same time. The artistic intrigue of Venice had taught Tiepolo many valuable lessons. He was a man capable of holding two conversations at the same time.

Finally, he killed the connection and slipped the telephone back into his pocket.

“Well?” said Gabriel.

“Father Donati is going to see the Pope.”

FATHER LUIGI
Donati stared at the telephone for a long moment before deciding on his course of action, Tiepolo’s words ringing in his ears.
I need to see the Holy Father. It is important I see the Holy Father before Friday.
Tiepolo never spoke like that. His relationship with the Holy Father was strictly collegial—pasta and red wine and humorous stories that reminded the Pope of the good times in Venice before he had been made a
prisoner of the Apostolic Palace. And why before Friday? What did Friday have to do with anything? Friday was the day the Holy Father would visit the synagogue. Was Tiepolo trying to tell him that there was a problem?

Donati stood abruptly and set out for the papal apartments. He brushed past a pair of the Pope’s household nuns without so much as a word and entered the dining room. The Holy Father was entertaining a delegation of bishops from the American Midwest, and the conversation had come round to a topic His Holiness found revolting. He seemed relieved to see Donati stride into the room, even though Donati’s demeanor was grim and businesslike.

The priest stood next to his master and bent slightly at the waist, so that he could speak directly into his ear. The bishops took their cue from Donati’s tense appearance and looked away. When Donati finished, the Pope laid down his knife and fork and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, nodded once, and returned his attention to his guests.

“Now, where were we?” the Pope said as Donati strode from the room.

THEY PACED
the length of the
campo
a half-dozen times waiting for the phone to ring. Tiepolo filled the empty, anxious minutes by peppering Gabriel with a hundred questions—about his work for Israeli intelligence, about his life and family, about what it was like for a Jew to be surrounded day and night by the images of Christianity. Gabriel answered those he could and gently fended off those that strayed into uncomfortable waters. Still skeptical that Gabriel was indeed not an Italian, Tiepolo goaded him into speaking a few words
of Hebrew. For the next several minutes he and Chiara carried on a lively conversation, mostly at Tiepolo’s expense, until they were interrupted by the chirp of the Italian’s cellular phone. He brought it to his ear, listened in silence for a moment, then murmured: “I understand, Father Donati.”

He severed the connection and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Did he give you an answer?” asked Gabriel.

Tiepolo smiled.

29
ROME

I
N THE NORTH OF
R
OME
, near a lazy bend in the Tiber, lies a tidy little piazza where tourists rarely venture. There is an ancient church with a cracked belfry and a bus stop that few people use. There is a coffee bar and a small bakery that prepares bread on the premises, so that in the early morning the smell of flour and yeast mingles with the marshy scent of the river. Directly opposite the bakery is a teetering tenement block with a pair of potted orange trees marking the entrance. On the top floor, there is a large flat, from where it is possible to see the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance. The flat is rented by a man who rarely uses it. He does so as a favor to his masters in Tel Aviv.