Page 27 of The Order

The corridor outside his rooms was empty. He heard the faint tinkle of glass and cutlery and earthenware emanatingfrom the communal dining hall and, from the chapel, sonorous male voices at prayer. Unnoticed by his Jesuit brethren, he hurried downstairs and went into the autumn morning.

An E-Class Mercedes sedan waited in the Borgo Santo Spirito. Gabriel was behind the wheel; Chiara, in the passenger seat. When Donati slid into the back, the car shot forward. Several pedestrians, including a curial priest whom Donati knew in passing, scurried for cover.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Gabriel glanced into the rearview mirror. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

The car swerved to the right, narrowly missing a flock of gray-habited nuns, and raced across the Tiber.

Donati fastened his safety belt and closed his eyes.

God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me...

They sped north alongthe Lungotevere to the Piazza del Popolo, then south to Piazza Venezia. Even by Rome’s lofty standards, it was a hair-raising ride. Donati, a veteran of countless papal motorcades, marveled at the skill with which his old friend handled the powerful German-made car, and at the apparent calm with which Chiara occasionally offered directions or advice. Their route was indirect and full of sudden stops and abrupt turns, all designed to reveal the presence of motorized surveillance. In a city like Rome, where scooters were a common form of transport, it was a daunting task. Donati tried to be of help, but in time he gave up and watched the graffiti-spattered buildings and mountain ranges of uncollected garbage flashingpast his window. Veronica was right. Rome was beautiful, but it was gross.

By the time they reached Ostiense, a chaotic working-class quarter in Municipio VIII, Gabriel appeared satisfied they were not being followed. He made his way to the A90, Rome’s orbital motorway, and headed north to the E35 Autostrada, a toll road stretching the length of Italy to the Swiss border.

Donati eased his grip on the armrest. “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

Gabriel pointed toward a blue-and-white sign at the side of the road.

Donati permitted himself a brief smile. It had been a long time since he had been to Florence.

Unit 8200 had located the phone on the Florence cellular grid shortly before five that morning. It was north of the Arno in San Marco, the quarter of the city where the Medici, the banking dynasty that transformed Florence into the artistic and intellectual heart of Europe, had stabled their menagerie of giraffes, elephants, and lions. Thus far, the Unit had been unable to penetrate the device and gain control of its operating system. It was merely monitoring the phone’s approximate position using geolocation techniques.

“In layman’s language, please?” asked Donati.

“Once we’re inside a phone, we can listen to the owner’s calls, read his e-mail and text messages, and monitor his browsing on the Internet. We can even take photographs and videos with the camera and use the microphone as a listening device.”

“It’s as though you’re God.”

“Not quite, but we certainly have the power to peer into someone’s soul. We can learn their darkest fears and their deepest desires.” Gabriel gave a rueful shake of his head. “The telecommunications industry and their friends in Silicon Valley promised us a brave new world of convenience, all at our fingertips. They told us not to worry, our secrets would be safe. None of it was true. They intentionally lied to us. They stole our privacy. And in the process, they’ve ruined everything.”

“Everything?”

“Newspapers, movies, books, music... everything.”

“I never knew you were such a Luddite.”

“I’m an art restorer who specializes in Italian Old Masters. I’m a charter member of the club.”

“And yet you carry a mobile phone.”

“A very special mobile phone. Even my friends at the American NSA can’t crack it.”

Donati held up a Nokia 9 Android. “And mine?”

“I’d feel much better if you threw it out the window.”

“My life is on this phone.”

“Therein lies the problem, Excellency.”

At Gabriel’s request, Donati surrendered his phone to Chiara. After switching off the power, she removed the SIM card and the battery and placed both in her handbag. The soulless chassis she returned to Donati.

“I feel better already.”

They stopped for coffee at an Autogrill near Orvieto and reached the outskirts of Florence a few minutes after noon. The Zona Traffico Limitato signs were flashing red. Gabriel left theMercedes in a public car park near the Basilica di Santa Croce, and together they set out toward San Marco.