Page 58

CHAPTER 57

T HOMAS ENTERED S IENA’S TRAIN STATION.

Small, two-story, with five platforms. There was a ticket office, restrooms, a café, a small shop, and a pharmacy. It sat about two kilometers away from the Piazza del Campo, outside the city walls. People were still flowing out of Siena, headed home after the race, many from the train station. Thousands more, though, remained for the celebrations. Surely, Ascolani was aware that Malone had survived the race. The cardinal had not looked like someone who missed much of anything. He wondered what was next. Where was this headed?

The station was not crowded and the line for tickets short. He waited until his turn and bought a seat on the train to Florence leaving in forty minutes. Everything had to appear perfectly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. The police were surely going to be involved once a shooting was discovered. Television cameras had encircled the campo, so there would be plenty of footage to review, not counting the endless amount of video the spectators themselves generated. Still, with all the movement and position shifting on the track, it would be next to impossible to determine where the shot had come from. So many windows had been opened to the race. Hundreds. Doubtful the bullet had lodged in the jockey, but if so that too would be useless as he assumed Ascolani would take care that the rifle was never seen again.

He decided to grab a quick bite to eat in the café while he waited for the train’s arrival. Truth be told he was no fan of Italian cuisine. Too much paté and garlic for his taste. He liked simple foods and was thrilled to see an ordinary hamburger on the menu. He ordered and settled into a seat.

His phone vibrated.

An incoming text.

Directorium Inquisitorum. Stand by in Siena. Do not leave. Back to you shortly.

The first two words were code to ensure that it was Ascolani sending the message. The cardinal had chosen the title of a famous fourteenth-century text that had been used as a manual of operation for medieval inquisitors. Fitting, he supposed. His reply likewise contained a code word.

Eymerich. Message received.

The book’s author. Precautions were always appreciated.

There’d been a change in plans.

Okay.

A young man brought his hamburger, along with a soft drink in a bottle.

He had plenty of time.

So he ate slowly.

S TEFANO HAD TO DEAL WITH TWO ISSUES.

The first was the man at the train station, so he slipped out of the Basilica of San Domenico, without Ascolani seeing him, and hustled toward one of the two green spaces that fringed the piazza before the church. There, behind one of the tall cypresses, he called the two men who were following the man from the Palazzo Tempi. He still was unsure what had happened at the palazzo, why a rifle was there, and if it had even been used.

“He’s eating a hamburger,” the man said.

“When does the train arrive?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Can you get somebody else there fast, who can go onto the train?”

“We can do even better. It’s a direct ride to Florence. I can have somebody waiting there when he arrives.”

“Do it. When does the train get there?”

“9:34 P.M. ”

About two hours from now. “Make sure he gets on that train. Keep me posted. I do not want to lose that man. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

He ended the call.

The second issue was Ascolani himself.

His boss was clearly in the middle of something way beyond the scope and scale of the Entity. Weapons were never sanctioned for use by any Entity operative. Not ever. They were an intelligence-gathering unit. Nothing more. Guns never factored into their operations. True, he was no stranger to weapons. The rifle he’d found inside the palazzo was a high-tech precision weapon, used by trained snipers for long shots. Like out an open third-story window to a crowded piazza.

But who was the target?

He checked his watch.

Twenty minutes had passed since Ascolani’s text.

He’d give it another ten.

He casually entered the basilica.

It was nearing 8:00 P.M. , but the nave was still open owing to it being race day. Too many people were in town to have the doors locked. He stepped inside, walked confidently past the pew he’d occupied earlier, and stepped up into the Chapel of Miracles. Ascolani sat in the same pew against the outer wall, head bent, hands folded in his lap, no one paying him the slightest attention. Stefano approached and took a seat beside his boss.

They both sat in silence for a few moments.

“It is right here,” Ascolani said, “that Catherine first donned the habit of the Third Order of St. Dominic, consecrating her entire existence to God. Here too she would withdraw in prayer, fall into bouts of ecstasy, and lean right there on that octagonal pillar and talk to Christ.”

Frescoes adorned the chapel walls, all of St. Catherine at various times in her life. One, he knew, was particularly important as it was created in the fourteenth century, when Catherine was still alive, so it might represent what she actually looked like. Which was rare for a medieval saint.

“Did you watch the race?” Ascolani asked.

“I did.”

“The Porcupines lost, which means the American, Malone, fulfilled his promise to Golden Oak.”

“Which was?”

“I told you about Camilla Baines. She wanted the Porcupines to lose. That happened. Now she will take Malone and Cardinal Richter to Santa Maria di Castello.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

Ascolani stood. “Come with me.”