The Order by Daniel Silva Page B

her face matched their beauty. The cheekbones were broad, the jawline was sharp, the chin was narrow
     with a slight indentation.
    She had addressed Donati in French. He responded in the same language. “A glass of wine, please.”
    With the tip of her pen she pointed toward the section of the menu devoted to the café’s selection of wines. They were mainly
     French and Swiss. Donati chose a Chasselas.
    â€œSomething to eat?”
    â€œJust the wine for now, thank you.”
    She walked over to the bar and checked her phone while a black-shirted colleague poured the wine. The glass sat atop hertray for a moment or two before she finally delivered it to Donati’s table.
    â€œYou’re not from Fribourg,” she observed.
    â€œHow could you possibly tell?”
    â€œItaly?”
    â€œRome.”
    Her expression was unchanged. “What brings you to dull Fribourg?”
    â€œBusiness.”
    â€œWhat business are you in?”
    Donati hesitated. He had never found a satisfactory way to admit what he did for his living. “I suppose I’m in the business
     of salvation.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a clergyman?”
    â€œA priest,” said Donati.
    â€œYou don’t look much like a priest.” Her eyes flashed over him provocatively. “Especially in those clothes.”
    He wondered whether she addressed all her customers in so forward a manner. “Actually, I’m an archbishop.”
    â€œWhere’s your archdiocese?” She was obviously familiar with the lexicon of Catholicism.
    â€œA remote corner of North Africa that was once part of the Roman Empire. There are very few Christians there any longer, let
     alone Catholics.”
    â€œA titular see?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œWhat do you really do?”
    â€œI’m about to begin teaching at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome.”
    â€œYou’re a Jesuit?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    â€œAnd before the Gregoriana?”
    Donati lowered his voice. “I served as the private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”
    A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “What are you doing in Fribourg?” she asked again.
    â€œI came to see you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI need to talk to you about Niklaus.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œYou don’t know?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you heard from him?”
    â€œIt was the morning of the pope’s funeral. He wouldn’t tell me where he was.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHe said he didn’t want them to know.”
    â€œWho?”
    She started to answer, but stopped. “Have you seen him?” she asked.
    â€œYes, Stefani. I’m afraid I have.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œLast night,” said Donati. “On the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”
    Â 
    From his observation post at Café des Arcades, Gabriel listened as Donati quietly told Stefani Hoffmann that Niklaus Janson was dead. He was glad it was his old friend on the other side of the street and not him. If Donati always labored over how to acknowledge his occupation, Gabriel likewise struggledover how to tell a woman that a loved one—a son, a brother, a father, a fiancé—had been murdered in cold blood.
    She didn’t believe Donati at first, which was to be expected. His response, that he had no motive to lie about such a thing,
     did little to dilute her skepticism. The Vatican, she shot back, lied all the time.
    â€œI don’t work for the Vatican,” answered Donati. “Not anymore.”
    He then suggested they speak somewhere private. Stefani Hoffmann said the restaurant closed at ten, and that her boss would
     kill her if she left him in the lurch.
    â€œYour boss will understand.”
    â€œWhat do I say to him about Niklaus?”
    â€œAbsolutely nothing.”
    â€œMy car is in the Place des Ormeaux. Wait for me