Page 81 of The Medici Return

His instructions were to use the train to head to Florence and await further orders. Leave the rental car where it was parked. He was not comfortable dealing directly with his employer. He preferred the layers of insulation. Change was not something he’d ever been comfortable experiencing. True, he never lived by habit. His line of work dictated a certain amount of unpredictability. Never do the same thing over and over. That would get you caught. But there were some things that should remain the same.

Like lines of authority.

He kept moving through the crowd.

STEFANO HAD BEEN IMPRESSED WITH THEAMERICAN, MALONE,changing horses at a full run and crossing the finish line first. Unfortunately, it had been for the Giraffes, not the Golden Oaks. There’d been a lot of contact among the jockeys during the race and he wondered if there’d be some disqualifications. Direct contact was generally forbidden, but there were exceptions. He’d also kept an eye on the Palazzo Tempi and its open window. But nothing unusual had occurred except that it had been closed just after the race ended.

He decided to head that way.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text. That told him a man had left the palazzo and was heading away on foot. He replied, asking them to stay close and keep him informed. An opportunity had presented itself so he headed straight for the Palazzo Tempi and found the front doors locked. On the off chance someone might be there, he banged the iron knocker several times.

No reply.

The two men watching the palazzo had reported no one in there except for the one man, who was now gone. No way to force the doors open. Too many people around for that anyway. So he headed around to one side of the building where a narrow alley separated the buildings and led toward the campo, blocked off at the far end to prevent anyone from entering. Windows lined the walls up three stories. Most were closed, but two on the first floor and one on the ground floor hung open. He approached the lower one and carefully peered inside to see a small furnished parlor. He gripped the stone sill and hauled himself up and in.

You had to be bold to get results.

That was what one of his instructors had taught him.

And he was definitely bold.

He walked carefully, his ears attuned to everything aroundhim. Noise from the crowds leaked in through the open windows. He found the staircase and climbed to the upper floor. He passed through a small wood-paneled room. Two windows at the opposite end opened out to the campo. Both closed. He stepped toward them and glanced left, where an open door led to a large bedchamber.

This was the one.

Both of the casement windows were closed.

The room was immaculate and everything about it seemed normal except for a canvas case on the bed. He stepped over and estimated it was about a meter long, cylinder-shaped. He reached down and unzippered the top. Inside was a disassembled rifle. He recognized the weapon. Not something amateurs would use. He glanced at the window, then noticed marks on the parquet floor that led from a point near the center to a table against the wall. It had been dragged over, then back. He’d already noticed that the rifle had an attached bipod. To rest on the table?

He stepped to the window and turned the latch, opening it just enough to peek out at the campo, which was still emptying of people. The view was expansive. The horses and jockeys were all gone. The banner too.

The Palio was over.

He closed and locked the window.

His mind raced with questions.

He heard a noise from below. The front doors. Their hinges squeaking as the heavy panels moved. The doors opened, then closed. Footfalls pounded on the wooden staircase.

Climbing.

He had to hide.

So he stepped over to a door that opened to a small walk-in closet. He slipped inside but left the door cracked so he could see past.

The footfalls stopped.

Then more steps through the small anteroom, coming his way. He stood rock-still and saw a man enter the bedchamber. No. Not just a man. A priest. In black garb. Pants. Jacket. White collar.Maybe mid-thirties. Thinning brown hair above the ears. The man moved straight to the bed and shouldered the soft case.

Then he left.

Stefano waited, listening as the footfalls retreated.

The front door opened and closed.

He fled the closet and headed off in pursuit.

CHAPTER 55