Page 47

CHAPTER 46

T HOMAS WAS READY .

When he’d returned last night from dinner a cylindrical canvas case had been waiting for him. Clearly, someone other than him had access to the palazzo. Inside had been a black Stealth Recon Scout rifle, about three-quarters of a meter long. Bolt action. Hand-loaded with full-metal-jacketed .243-caliber Winchesters. Good choice. Barely seventy-five grains of propellant so the round stayed subsonic, eliminating the noise of crossing the sound barrier. This one came with a lightweight vertical foregrip and a built-in bipod that emerged with the press of a button, the grip light and durable. Of particular importance was a high-pressure sound suppressor that easily screwed onto the end of the barrel.

A solid and effective weapon.

He’d wandered the streets last night, visiting a few of the many celebrations that had been occurring. The entire town seemed electric with excitement. Around midnight a call to the phone Ascolani had left with him disturbed his meditation.

“I assume you are familiar with the item left for you,” the cardinal said.

“I am.”

“I have learned that the American from the train will be riding in the race tomorrow, wearing the black and gold of Golden Oak. You know the face, correct?”

“I do.”

“He will begin the race, but please make sure he does not make it to the end.”

“I understand.”

“Afterward, leave the gift and head for the Church of Santa Margherita. It is near the outer wall. A red Peugeot will be parked in a lot outside the wall. The keys are in a magnetic box above the right rear driver’s-side tire. Take the car to Florence, check into a hotel, and await further instructions.”

He’d moved a small table back from the open window, far enough that no one could see the rifle, unless they were directly across the campo and level with him—which was not possible, as the Mangia tower occupied most of the space in the opposite line of sight. The firing angle was perfect to catch Malone in either the second leg of the lap or into the third, just before a treacherous right-angle turn. After that, the crowd would be between him and the target. He wondered about the openness of this kill. Why take the risk? Perhaps Ascolani wanted to send a message. To Cardinal Richter? Maybe. But a kill amid all the chaos and confusion of the scene below would go relatively unnoticed until the race was over. Which should allow for ample opportunity to escape.

Everyone’s attention was on the horses as they were called one by one to the starting rope. Finally, on the sixth name came Golden Oak. He leveled the rifle in his grip and took measure of his target through the scope.

Malone filled the crosshairs.

A round to the chest would be an easy kill.

J ASON STOOD ON THE MAIN DAIS AMONG THE CAPITANI AND S IENA’S mayor. An envelope had been delivered, and the Capitano del Popolo was now announcing the order of the horses for the starting line. Camilla had insisted he come with her to this place of honor, but he’d made a point to stay back and dissolve with others who’d likewise been afforded the privilege. Malone was on the track, in the sixth spot from the inside, fourth from the outside, the horses all a seeming bundle of nerves and jitters. No formal starting gates here as you would see at any other formalized horse race. Just nine horses and riders jammed together behind a thick rope, weighted to fall fast to the ground. The tenth, the Dragon’s horse and jockey, loitered about ten meters behind the pack.

Camilla came back to where he stood. “We have a good position. The Porcupine is close. Let us hope Signore Malone is successful.”

They both turned their attention back to the track. The hush from the crowd continued as the Dragon continued to tease the other nine jockeys, seemingly bursting forward then stopping just short. After another faux surge one of the horses hopped past the starting rope.

A couple more followed.

A firecracker exploded, signaling a false start.

The crowd relaxed.

“Now we get down to business,” Camilla said. “The next one is for real.”

T HOMAS EXTENDED THE TELESCOPING BUTT STOCK, THEN TOUCHED A button that transformed the rifle’s foregrip into a miniature bipod, which he carefully balanced atop the wooden table he’d located about two meters back from the open window. Ascolani had called earlier and explained what would happen. So he’d used the opportunity of the false start to acquire a feel for the rifle. How it moved from side to side. How the scope focused. He played with the angles, knowing that he would have only a few seconds to make any adjustments and take the shot. He’d have to account for not only the distance but also the elevation and the constant movement of the target. And those adjustments would have to be made in a matter of milliseconds.

He practiced his marksmanship regularly at shooting ranges outside of London. He moved among several, never frequenting one more than the other. It was important he stay anonymous and never be noticed by anyone. His entire existence was dependent on being a ghost.

Malone was pacing his horse in a circle with the other nine, awaiting a recall back to the starting line. He again centered the American between the crosshairs, estimating the shot to be less than a hundred meters. Ascolani had been clear. It had to happen during the race. Once the horses left the gate they would be running toward him, on his side of the track, reducing the shot to fifty meters or so. The tricky part would be the unpredictable movement across the track and the constant changing of positions.

So he set a plan.

On the first lap he would take measure and practice centering the target. He’d take the shot on the second lap. If he missed, there was always the third and final trip around.

J ASON NOTED THE TENSION THAT HUNG HEAVY IN THE AIR . A PPARENTLY all of the Palio aficionados knew what was about to happen, the excitement seemingly coming from watching the drama play out.

Like a piece of art acted out on a grand public stage.

Horse and jockey.

Contrada versus contrada . Siena celebrating itself. Adding to that was the fact that this whole thing was extremely dangerous. Cotton Malone had guts. No question. This was not his fight, yet here he was right in the middle, getting the job done. But he supposed intelligence operatives did whatever it took.

Or at least the good ones did.

The horses were again back behind the starting rope, pacing in a circular formation. This time, though, there was definitely talking among the jockeys. Deals were being made. Alliances formed. Loyalties bought. The order was once again announced, each contrada’s name called one by one.

He took a moment to survey the crowd.

Shade fell across the campo in the golden light of sunset, half lit, half in shadow. People were everywhere. Every millimeter of the center filled. Hundreds more occupied bleachers that had been erected around the outer perimeter. Windows all around framed out spectators. To his left, about fifty meters away, was a group wearing white, red, blue, and black. The Porcupines. On their feet. Among them, his eye caught a face. An older man not wearing the contrada colors.

But intensely watching the horses.

Cardinal Ascolani.