The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 56

CHAPTER 56

S TEFANO BURST OUT OF THE P ALAZZO T EMPI AND CAUGHT SIGHT OF the priest with the canvas case walking away. He was trying to assess the situation, thinking like an intelligence operative. He’d never known exactly why he’d been invited to join the agency, but he knew what the Entity looked for in its people. Excellent physical and psychological health. Check. Plenty of energy. Check. Street sense and a good intuition. Check. Copes well with stress. Check. Prepared to work wherever needed. Check. Inquisitive and action-oriented. Check.

He would add to that list.

Not afraid to use investigative skills. And able to develop a clear and concise picture of a situation. Which was exactly what he was doing. Of course, there were other parts of his training that were in conflict. Like the ability to follow his superior’s commands and work as part of a team. On those two he was pushing the envelope. But a high-powered rifle? What in the world. Then a priest comes and hauls it off?

Unusual, to say the least.

His target was marching quickly through the streets. Not a moment’s hesitation. Each turn taken with confidence. More of his training came to mind. Don’t run unless you are being chased. Walk slow. Head down. Use your ears not your eyes. Hear the pursuit. Never see it.

His job?

Make sure he was not seen or heard.

They were headed northward along a spiderweb of streets that formed Siena’s tracery, away from the campo, the crowds beginning to thin. He could hear the shouts and drums of a victory procession from somewhere else in the city as the Giraffes celebrated, which should go on all night. Silence would reign in all of the other contradas .

They were headed toward the Stadio Artemio Franchi. The concrete stadium had been around since the 1930s and had played host to a multitude of entertainment and sporting events. More important, it sat outside the city walls where cars parked. Was this priest leaving? If so, he had no way of following. His men with the car left yesterday after tailing Malone from the horse farm to Siena. He’d been relying on Daniele’s people ever since, and they’d done a great job.

He entered the Piazza San Domenico.

It was busy with tourist traffic from buses that parked near the stadium and used the many sides streets to venture deeper into Siena. Large clots of pedestrians seemed to paralyze one another. Two small green spaces, both with grass and Cyprus pines, broke the pavement around him. The priest walked fifty meters ahead and did not veer right toward the stadium. Instead, he headed straight for the red-brick Basilica of San Domenico that anchored a hill on the west side of the piazza.

Stefano stepped up his pace and closed the gap.

The church was famous thanks to the dismembered, mummified head of St. Catherine. Thousands came each year to see it. Add to that list a priest with a rifle, who now entered the basilica.

Stefano ran forward but stopped at the main doors, allowing a small group of visitors to head in first. He joined and used them for cover. Inside was a large aisleless nave first built by Dominicans in the thirteenth century. The walls were plain and oddly devoid of decoration.

Where was the priest?

His eyes raked the interior. Nothing.

To his immediate right, up a few short risers, opened the Chapel of Miracles. The priest with the rifle stepped up. Stefano shifted to his right toward a wooden pew that fronted a stone wall. The chapel sat recessed around a corner, behind three wide arches. From his angle he was invisible to anyone inside the chapel. He eased his way down the pew until he came to its end. He risked a peek around the corner and spotted Cardinal Ascolani standing before another wooden pew and greeting the courier-priest.

So much for the benefit of the doubt.

Ascolani and the priest spoke, then the priest handed off the rifle case to another priest who approached from the right. The first priest gave Ascolani a bow, then turned to leave. Stefano turned in the pew and shielded his face as the man passed. The other priest with the rifle case descended the risers and walked off down the nave, deeper into the basilica. He risked another glance back into the chapel and saw that Ascolani had taken a seat in the pew.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He checked the display.

A text. From the men following the man from the palazzo. He is in the train station buying a ticket for Florence.

He tapped in a reply.

Buy one too and stay with him.

Then another text appeared.

From Ascolani.

Please come to the Basilica of San Domenico immediately. I am in the Chapel of Miracles.

E RIC IMMEDIATELY NOTICED A CONNECTION WITH WHAT A NNA Maria had penned in her diary—

Know the darkened world has long missed the night and day, which while the shade still hung before his eyes, shone like a guide unto steps afar. Ne’er will the sweet and heavenly tones resound, silent be the harmonies of his sweet lyre, only in Raffaello’s bright world can it be found.

Then on the copper plate from the Pazzi grave had been—

Ne’er will the sweet and heavenly tones resound, Silent be the one nature feared, and when he was dying, feared herself to die. Forever silent be his harmonies, only in his third son’s bright world be justice found.

Both ended with Auguror eveniat .

I wish it will come.

And the diction and syntax of both writings seemed to suggest that the same person had composed them. It actually made sense that Anna Maria would create an epitaph to be included within her husband’s grave. She had to be sending a message. She’d told her son that the pledge was secured with two writings, one for Rome, the other for our family. I leave that pledge to you alone. It does not belong to the people of Florence. Instead, it rests safely under a watchful eye, and this verse will lead the way.

Definitely a message.

He’d brought Anna Maria’s writings with him. Those would stay within his exclusive control. Now he had to obtain what he’d come for.

“I must ask something of you,” he said.

The young priest faced him.

“It is a matter of great importance that I be allowed to open the tomb of Raffaello de’ Pazzi.”

“Whatever for?”

“I need a DNA sample to confirm my blood connection to him.”

The time was approaching 10:00 P.M . Late. Which he was hoping would work in his favor. He’d called his expert on the drive earlier, and the man said he could be there within an hour, no matter what the time.

But it all hinged on gaining access.

“I have discovered that Raffaello de’ Pazzi married Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici. They had a child. A boy. Who is my distant ancestor.”

“Why is it so important that you discover this connection?”

A fair question. No way he could tell this priest the truth. So he said, “I have wondered about this all my life. Recently, I was granted access to Anna Maria’s grave, and the DNA sample I obtained proved she is my ancestor, on the maternal side.”

“Is that not unusual? To allow a Medici grave to be opened outside of an official inquiry?”

“Most unusual. But who said this was not official.”

He was hoping the lie might work.

“I would have to speak with the bishop,” the young man said.

“Do you? Really? It would be better if this stays between us.” He could see that the young man was considering his proposal. So he pressed. “It would take only a few minutes and be minimally invasive. I can have my expert here before midnight. We can be done and gone fast.”

Hesitation remained.

“This crypt is not on the national registry, is it?” he asked.

“It is not. It remains a private burial site under the church’s control.”

“Then you can give permission for the inspection.”

“Perhaps so. But I will still need to check with the bishop.”