Because of the forty-meter margin for error, Gabriel quickly informed both Chiara and Donati of his findings. Donati replied that he saw no sign of Janson on the Via San Gallo, and a few seconds later Chiara reported the same from her outpost on the Via Santa Reparata. Gabriel replied to neither message, for he was scrutinizing the man who had just emerged from the Grand Hotel Medici.

Late twenties, short hair, about six feet, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. He scanned the street in both directions, then headed to the right, past the restaurant. Gabriel dealt two crisp banknotes onto the table, counted slowly to ten, and rose. Trustworthy, he was thinking. But by no means a saint.

13

FLORENCE

CHIARA AND DONATI WAITED ON the Via Ricasoli, buffeted by the outbound flow of patrons from the Galleria dell’Accademia. Without warning, she threw her arms around Donati’s neck and drew him close.

“Is this really necessary?”

“We don’t want him to see your face. At least not yet.”

She held Donati tightly as Niklaus Janson sliced through the crowds and passed them without a glance. Gabriel came along the street a moment later.

“Is there something you two would like to tell me?”

Donati freed himself and deliberately straightened his jacket. “Shall I call him now?”

“First we follow him. Then we call.”

“Why wait?”

“Because we need to know whether anyone else is following him.”

“What happens if you see someone?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Gabriel and Donati set off along the street, trailed by Chiara. Before them was the Campanile di Giotto. Janson melted into the sea of tourists in the Piazza del Duomo and disappeared from view. When Gabriel finally spotted him again, the Swiss Guard was leaning against the octagonal baptistry, the mobile phone in his right hand. After a moment his thumb began tapping at the screen.

“What do you suppose he’s doing?” asked Donati.

“Looks as though he’s sending a text.”

“To whom?”

“Good question.”

Janson slipped the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and, rotating slowly, scanned the crowded square. His gaze swept directly across Gabriel and Donati. His face registered no sign of recognition.

“He’s looking for someone,” said Donati.

“It could be the person who just sent him the text.”

“Or?”

“Maybe he’s afraid someone is following him.”

“Someone is following him.”

At length, Janson left the piazza and set out along a shopping street called the Via Martelli. This time it was Chiara who followed in his wake. After about a hundred meters he turned into a slender alleyway. It brought him to yet another church square, the Piazza di San Lorenzo. The unfinished facade of the basilica loomed over the eastern flank. It was the color of sandstone and looked like a giant wall of exposed brick. Janson, after briefly consulting his phone, climbed the five steps and went inside.

On the western flank of the piazza was a parade of clothing vendors that catered to tourists. On the northern side was a gelateria. Chiara and Donati joined the queue at the counter. Gabriel crossed the square and entered the basilica. Janson stood before the tomb of Cosimo de Medici, thumbs working over the screen of his phone, seemingly oblivious to the florid-faced Englishwoman who was addressing a tour group as though they were hard of hearing.

The Swiss Guard sent a final text and went into the square, where he paused once again to survey his surroundings. Clearly, he was expecting someone. The person at the other end of the text messages, reckoned Gabriel. The person who had led him first to the Piazza del Duomo and then the Basilica di San Lorenzo.

Janson’s gaze alighted briefly on Gabriel. Then he left the piazza along the Borgo San Lorenzo. No one in the square or the surrounding shops or restaurants appeared to follow him.

Gabriel walked over to the gelateria, where Donati and Chiara were balanced atop tall stools at a zinc-topped table. They hadn’t touched their orders.

“Can we make contact with him now?” asked Donati.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re here, Excellency.”

“Who?”

Gabriel turned without answering and set off after Niklaus Janson. A moment later Chiara and Donati tossed their uneaten gelato into a rubbish bin and set off after Gabriel.

JANSON PASSED THROUGH the Piazza del Duomo a second time, all but confirming Gabriel’s suspicion that the Swiss Guard was being guided by a hidden hand. Somewhere in Florence, he thought, someone was waiting for him.

Janson went next to the Piazza della Repubblica and from there made his way to the Ponte Vecchio. It had once been home to blacksmiths, tanners, and butchers. But in the late sixteenth century, after Florentines complained about the blood and the stench, the bridge became the domain of the city’s jewelers and goldsmiths. Vasari designed a private corridor above the shops on the eastern side of the bridge for the Medici clan, thus enabling them to cross the river without having to mingle with their subjects.

The Medici were long gone, but the jewelers and goldsmiths remained. Janson made his way past the luminous shop windows before pausing mid-span beneath the arches of Vasari’s Corridor to gaze down at the sluggish black waters of the Arno. Gabriel waited on the opposite side of the bridge. Between them flowed a steady stream of tourists.

Gabriel glanced to his left and saw Chiara and Donati approaching through the crowds. With a small movement of his head, he instructed them to join him. They stood side by side along the balustrade, Gabriel and Chiara facing Niklaus Janson, Donati facing the river.

“Well?” he asked.

Gabriel watched Janson for another moment. His back was turned toward the center of the span. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he was typing something on his phone again. Gabriel wanted to know the identity of the person, man or woman, with whom Janson was in contact. But it had gone on long enough.

“Go ahead, Luigi. Call him.”

Donati drew his Nokia. Janson’s number was already loaded into his contacts. With a touch of the screen, he dialed. A few seconds passed. Then Niklaus Janson hesitantly raised the phone to his ear.

14

PONTE VECCHIO, FLORENCE

GOOD EVENING, NIKLAUS. DO YOU recognize my voice?”

Donati tapped the speaker icon on the touchscreen of the Nokia in time for Gabriel to hear Janson’s startled reply.

“Excellency?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I was wondering the same about you.”

There was no response from the young man on the opposite side of the bridge.

“I need to speak to you, Niklaus.”

“About what?”

“The night the Holy Father died.”

Once again there was no answer.

“Are you still there, Niklaus?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Tell me where you are. It’s urgent I see you at once.”

“I’m in Switzerland.”

“It’s not like you to lie to an archbishop.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re not in Switzerland. You’re standing in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”