The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

S TEFANO GREW UP IN A F LORENCE NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE TO SURVIVE you had to be tough. And smart. He’d mastered both, which eventually made him a great calcio player. The game was violent. No question. But you had to choose your battles. Speckled across it all had been his faith, which eventually called him to God. Never had he struggled with that decision. He was nineteen when he first realized. Thankfully, his family had been supportive, making sure he went to university then entered the seminary. They were all there at Holy Orders when the bishop addressed the congregation.

“My dear sons, before you enter the priesthood, you must declare before God your intention to undertake this office. Do you resolve, with the help of the Holy Spirit, to discharge without fail the office of priesthood in the presbyteral rank, as worthy fellow workers, with the Order of Bishops, in caring for the Lord’s flock?”

He’d gladly said he would.

As a priest he could celebrate mass, offer communion, hear confessions, give absolution, perform baptisms, serve as the church’s witness at the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, and administer the anointing of the sick. He was a minister of religion. Head of a parish working within established rules. But as an intelligence officer? There he could do pretty much whatever he wanted. In fact, innovation was the name of the game. It’s what got you noticed. As did paying attention. Cardinal Ascolani had come out into the field. Which was highly unusual for the head of the Entity. Not only that, but Ascolani had come to Siena not as a prince of the church with an official presence, but anonymously. All of which was both intriguing and concerning.

On the way north from Rome he’d called a friend who lived in Siena. Ascolani had dismissed him from the cathedral and told him to stay nearby, ready. So he used the opportunity to hustle across town and check in with his friend.

He entered La Soldano.

Its owner, Daniele Calabritto, was a big, muscular slab of a man with a balding head, thick jaw, and shoulders like cliffs. What really set him apart, though, were the bracelets that wrapped both arms, more than he’d ever seen any one person wear. Maybe seventy or more. Stacked tight from wrists to elbows. Unusual, to say the least. Daniele had told him that it started when he was a teenager with one silver bracelet bought at a festival. He’d liked it so much that he’d bought more. Over time one after another was added, none removed, each coming with a story of where and how it had been acquired. Many of them were from Africa, where his old friend spent a lot of time. For as long as Stefano had known Daniele, which stretched back more than a decade, those forearms had been sheathed in clinking metal.

As always, Daniele was working the tables, greeting diners, taking selfies, making people feel right at home. More of his trademark. People came to La Soldano for both the food and its owner.

The Palio was a time of celebration, when local eateries and bars catered to visitors. The Café Soldano was noted as a place locals loved to frequent. Small, intimate, with spotless napery and gleaming silverware. Getting a reservation had to be done weeks in advance.

He caught his friend’s eye, but Daniele never lost a beat, continuing to entertain his patrons. More servers wove among the crowded tables, the murmur of conversation everywhere. Stefano knew the drill and drifted toward the restrooms, slipping through a curtain blocking an open doorway. A short corridor led to a closed door. There, inside a small office, he waited until Daniele arrived.

“Stefano,” his friend said. “I watched on the television as you scored that goal. A thing of beauty. Magnifico. ”

Daniele shook his hand with a grip like steel.

“I was sweating that bounce,” he said. “Hoping I had given it just enough to get there.”

“We all held our breath.”

“The good Lord was looking out for me.”

“Have you eaten?” Daniele asked. “I need to feed you.”

“That would be great. But were you able to take care of what I asked?”

“Of course. Of course.”

He knew Daniele commanded an army of loyalists. He’d been born into the Istrices. The Porcupines. Who were unique among the contradas in that the Knights of Malta granted them the special title of sovereign, since the knights’ local headquarters had been located within the Porcupines’ neighborhood since the fourteenth century. Daniele was a long-standing member of the governing council. The Porcupines’ sworn enemy had always been the She-Wolf, due to enduring conflicts over neighborhood borders that no amount of negotiation had been able to resolve. Keeping each other from winning the Palio had evolved into an obsession and was reflected in the Porcupines’ motto. I prick only in defense. So for the Porcupines, intel on the She-Wolf was considered vital, and Stefano knew that Daniele was the one who provided that information from eyes and ears on the ground. A sort of contrada Entity. With Ascolani here, in secret, Stefano had decided that some of those eyes and ears were needed to ensure the cardinal’s safety. Earlier, he’d offered to personally accompany his boss around town, but Ascolani had politely refused. Thankfully, Daniele had made sure two of his men were outside the cathedral, ready to go.

And they’d followed discreetly.

“I received a text a little while ago. The cardinal walked straight toward the campo and the Palazzo Tempi. It faces the square on the west side. One of the older palaces. Has the coats of arms of the Piccolomini and Bandinelli on its walls outside. It was totally renovated a few years ago.”

“Who owns it?”

“One of the land trusts holds title. That’s not unusual here. Those buildings are expensive to maintain, and the city requires they stay pristine. So people pool their money and own things together. That particular one, though, stays empty most of the time.”

“Is Ascolani still there?”

Daniele nodded. “My men are waiting outside, front and back.”

He was hungry. But he was more curious.

“Tell me exactly where it is.”

He navigated the labyrinth of Siena’s narrow cobbled streets and stepped into the campo, admiring one of Italy’s greatest public spaces. A shell-shaped piazza set in a sloping hollow where three hills of the city met. To prepare for the Palio the outer portion of the square had been turned into a racetrack. The gray flagstones all around covered with thick layers of volcanic tufo , trucked in, packed tight, ten meters wide, its central open core separated from the track by a chest-high fence. Centuries ago the pre-race trials were more dangerous than the race itself, since the dirt was not brought in until the day of the race. Many a horse had been killed or maimed. Today the track’s depth and firmness were carefully gauged.

Tens of thousands would be crowded into the center tomorrow, the horses racing around them. Today there were only workers busy with last-minute preparations and tourists taking a final opportunity to examine the track. In a few hours there would be a closing trial run, the sixth, the provacci , called by many the sham trial. Run at night when the suspense mounted to an almost religious intensity, providing the last opportunity for horse and jockey to become accustomed to the surroundings. All ten would line up at the start and leave together, but only a few would make it all the way around three times. Most would stop their run long before finishing one lap. The point? To not tire the animal? Sure. No jockey would be crazy enough to run out his mount so close to the race. But the main idea was not to give away what the horse may or may not be capable of doing.

Hence the label sham .

Growing up in Florence he’d attended many Palios. He’d often stood inside the center, crushed shoulder-to-shoulder with sixty thousand other people, unable to see much except the jockeys’ heads atop their mounts. The best views came from the palazzos that ringed the campo with their hundreds of windows. Some came free to the owners and their invited guests. Others were hotel rooms with a view. The vast majority were rented out to visitors, who occupied the private palazzos during the day before and the day of the race for huge fees. He’d watched one Palio years ago from a third-story window near the starting gate. The view had been extraordinary, casting the race in a whole new light.

Daniele had said that the Palazzo Tempi, which Cardinal Ascolani now occupied, was located on the campo’s west side. The majority of the buildings there dated to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, all made from one particular type of a brick in a distinctive reddish-brown color.

Burnt Siena.

A long row of bleachers lined the ground beneath most of the buildings. Invited guests from the various contradas would fill those seats tomorrow, each decked out in their respective colors. Above them he determined the Palazzo Tempi’s location and zeroed in on the windows where one set hung open.

He stood near the fountain that occupied the highest point of the sloping piazza among a few hundred other people. Movement past the open window caused him to seek refuge among a clump of tourists who were busy snapping photos. He did not want to be seen. Within the darkened rectangle he caught sight of a face he knew. Ascolani. Staring out. Beside the cardinal another man appeared. Shorter, pale-skinned, middle-aged, thinning hair. Ascolani was speaking to the other man, pointing outward. Stefano felt awkward spying on his superior. But he considered it merely looking after the second in command of the Holy See, making sure he was safe.

Still, he wondered about the other man.

Who was he?