Page 22 of The Order

In the bedroom they unpacked the shopping bags. Gabriel had acquired his evening wardrobe swiftly, with a single stop at Giorgio Armani. Chiara had been more discriminating in her conquest. A strapless black cocktail dress from Max Mara, a car-length coat from Burberry, a pair of stylish black pumps from Salvatore Ferragamo. Now Gabriel surprised her with a strand of pearls from Mikimoto.

Beaming, she asked, “What are these for?”

“You’re the wife of the director-general of the Israeli intelligence service and the mother of two young children. It’s the least I can do.”

“Have you forgotten about the apartment on the Grand Canal?” Chiara placed the strand of pearls around her neck. She looked radiant. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m the luckiest man in the world.” The cocktail dress was laid out on the bed. “Is that a negligee?”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Where do you intend to conceal your weapon?”

“I wasn’t planning to bring one.” She pushed him toward the door. “Go away.”

He went into the sitting room. From its tiny terrace he could see the Spanish Steps descending sedately toward the piazza and, in the distance, the floodlit dome of the basilica floating above the Vatican. All at once he heard a voice. It was the voice of Carlo Marchese.

What is this, Allon?

Judgment, Carlo.

His body had split open on impact, like a melon. What Gabriel remembered most, however, was the blood on Donati’s cassock. He wondered how the archbishop had explained Carlo’s death to Veronica. It promised to be an interesting evening.

He went inside. From the next room he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself as she dressed, one of those silly Italian pop songs she so adored. Better the sound of Chiara’s voice, he thought, than Carlo Marchese’s. As always, it filled him with a sense of contentment. His journey was nearing its end. Chiara and the children were his reward for somehow having survived. Still, Leah was never far from his thoughts. She was watching him now from the shadows at the corner of the room, burned and broken, her scarred hands clutching a lifeless child—Gabriel’s private pietà.Do you love this girl?Yes, he thought. He loved everything about her. The way she licked her finger when she turned the page of a magazine. The way she swung her handbag when she walked along the Via Condotti. The way she sang to herself when she thought no one was listening.

He switched on the television. It was tuned to the BBC. Remarkably, there had been no fatalities in the Berlin bombing, though twelve people had been wounded, four critically. Axel Brünner of the far-right National Democratic Party was blaming the attack on the pro-immigration policies of Germany’scentrist chancellor. Neo-Nazis and other assorted right-wing extremists were gathering for a torchlight rally in the city of Leipzig. The Bundespolizei were bracing for a night of violence.

Gabriel changed the channel to CNN. The network’s premier foreign affairs correspondent was broadcasting live from St. Peter’s Square. Like her competitors, she was unaware of the fact that a letter addressed to the director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service had mysteriously vanished from the pope’s study the night of his death. Nor did she know that the Swiss Guard who had been standing watch outside the papal apartments was missing, too. If Niklaus Janson’s phone was powered on and broadcasting a signal, the cyberwarriors at Unit 8200 would find it, perhaps before the night was out.

Gabriel switched off the television as Chiara came into the sitting room. He took his time with his appraisal—the pearls, the strapless black dress, the pumps. She was a masterpiece.

“Well?” she asked at last.

“You look...” He faltered.

“Like a mother of two who’s gained eight pounds?”

“I thought you said five.”

“I just stepped on the bathroom scale.” She gestured toward the bedroom door. “It’s all yours.”

Gabriel quickly showered and dressed. Downstairs, they climbed into the back of a waiting embassy car. As they raced up the Via Veneto, his phone pulsed with an incoming message from King Saul Boulevard.

“What is it?”

“The Unit just breached the outer wall of the Swiss Guard’s computer network. They’re searching the database for Janson’s personnel file and contact information.”

“What if they’ve deleted it already?”

“Who?”

“The same men who murdered the pope, of course.”

“We’re not there yet, Chiara.”

“Not yet,” she agreed. “But we will be soon.”

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