Chapter 75
CHAPTER 75
S TEFANO REALIZED THAT IF THIS DID NOT PLAY OUT AS PLANNED, HE would surely be arrested and tried for an offense against an officer of the Holy See. The repercussions would be swift and certain. Ascolani would see to that. No mercy would be shown. He’d hoped to one day be a bishop. Cardinal Stamm himself had begun as a priest-clerk, moving to a field officer then all the way up to head of the Entity. It felt good to be working with Stamm again. When the pope had forced Stamm’s retirement, there’d been a genuine sense of loss within the Entity. Everyone respected the old Irishman. Then, when Ascolani assumed command, a sense of disbelief had permeated the air. Never had the secretary of state held that position. The conflicts of interest were inherent, but apparently no voices of concern had been raised.
Or not enough at least.
Ascolani was right in the middle of something far beyond the bounds of his official duties. And using a hired killer? That was unconscionable. He supposed, though, that was what ambition did to good judgment. He flushed all those disturbing thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the clangor and rush of the Piazza del Duomo around him. The ancient piazza was less open space and more a grand stage for the architectural gems that filled it. Florence’s famed Duomo, with its signature vermillion dome, stood to his left isolated, free from attached or adjoining buildings. The same was true for the much smaller Baptistery before him, with rows of tourists lined up outside its main doors waiting for entry. The great bell atop Giotto’s Campanile tolled for noon, as it had done for all of Florence for over five centuries.
A gust of wind swept across the open space. The day was warm, the pavement soaked in sunlight. Malone had asked him to reconnoiter the piazza focusing on the surrounding buildings that housed shops, restaurants, and boutique hotels.
Which led them here.
E RIC ENTERED THE P IAZZA DEL D UOMO.
The voice on the phone told him to be here, at its center, by noon.
“I will be wearing a white hat,” the voice had said.
“Why should I come?”
“Because Cardinal Richter cannot give you what you want. I can. We can make a deal.”
That last part intrigued him.
So he’d had no choice.
But to come.
T HOMAS WAS MOVING FAST.
Ascolani had called an hour ago and instructed him to assume a concealed position with privacy, and without witnesses, that overlooked the cathedral square. He carried the shoulder bag with the rifle tucked inside and was making his way toward a small hotel that occupied a spot where the Via de’ Martelli drained into the piazza. Four stories. With plenty of windows from rooms that overlooked the piazza. Ascolani’s instructions had been crystal-clear. Use your toy and deal with Casaburi. Do not miss this time.
The jab at his failure in Siena cut deep. He was not accustomed to disappointing his benefactor. But that task during the Palio had been fraught with difficulties. This one would be much easier.
He kept walking.
Plenty of people filled the streets. Surely most of them tourists, here to enjoy the sights. Everything throbbed with activity. He checked his watch. 11:45 A.M.
He had fifteen minutes to be in position.
C OTTON STUDIED HIS PHONE AND THE PULSATING BLUE DOT, WHICH indicated that Thomas Dewberry was nearby. How close? Hard to tell from the dot. He was utilizing a special Magellan Billet program that could track a cell phone, once the relevant information for that phone was input. Which Stamm had obtained from the intermediary. He also had information on Ascolani’s Vatican phone, which indicated it was in the Piazza del Duomo, which opened at the end of the street about a hundred feet away.
He turned and backtracked down the street. At an intersection he hooked left and kept walking. The blue dot was ahead of him. Somewhere. A red dot indicated Stefano’s phone’s location.
Which he headed toward.
E RIC WAS UNSURE ABOUT THE UNEXPECTED TURN OF EVENTS . H E’D acquired some new, unknown Vatican ally.
Or was it a trap?
He spotted an older man, dressed casually. Pants. Shirt. Sneakers. Looked to be in his mid- to late sixties, a close-curled head of steel-gray hair crowning an imperious, finely chiseled face. He stood straight with his hands behind his back, balanced on the balls of his feet, the posture finely taut. The face cast a gloomy, almost tyrannical expression. Atop his head he wore a white hat with a wide brim that shaded the sun.
He approached.
“Signore Casaburi, I am Cardinal Ascolani.”
He knew the name, just not the face associated with the name. The Vatican secretary of state. Just one rung removed from the pope.
Yes, this man could deliver.
“You have been collecting DNA,” Ascolani said. “Are you directly related to Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici? And to Raffaello de’ Pazzi?”
“I am. I know with certainty about Anna Maria. For Raffaello? I still need a sample, but I am confident it will show a connection too. I just discovered that they were married at Santa Croce.”
“Seems all you need now is the pledge. Sadly, the church’s copy is gone.”
Which explained why Camilla Baines had gone radio-silent. She had nothing to bargain with. Still, “Thankfully, there was a duplicate.”
“But you obviously do not have it, or we would not be standing here talking.”
He caught the arrogance in the observation.
“I am wondering,” Ascolani said. “Did you actually think you could extort our support for your party?”
T HOMAS ENTERED THE H OTEL D UOMO.
A rather dull, faintly antiquated place too small for any convention or gala, but fashionable and surely overpriced. He’d checked the local geography earlier, after Ascolani’s orders, and determined this would be the best place to do what had to be done. No doorman, only an elderly bellboy and a reception desk staffed by a young, dark-haired man focused on a computer screen.
To his right rose a flight of wooden stairs. To his left lay the entrance to a restaurant. The place was quiet. He headed for the restaurant and watched as the clerk abandoned the front desk and disappeared through a door into a back room. No one else was in the small lobby. He approached and studied the wall behind the desk with its pigeonholed slots for keys and mail. From the room numbers he noted there were four stories, ten rooms to a floor, the keys there for many of them signaling unoccupied. All of them overlooked the piazza, so it did not matter.
But height did.
He stepped around the counter and snatched a key for one of the fourth-floor rooms, then headed for the stairs just as the clerk reappeared through the door.
He came off the stairs on the fourth floor.
Silence reigned down the narrow corridor to the door for Room 408. Along the way he passed a set of emergency stairs that led back down to the ground. Good to know they were there. They would provide an excellent escape route. The hotel was definitely an older establishment, the floors creaking hardwood beneath a thin carpet runner, the walls flaking plaster, the room doors wooden with actual keys to lock and unlock. He tapped on the door for Room 408.
No answer.
He inserted the key and released the lock.
Inside was a pleasant space with two windows and a double bed with nightstands and lamps on either side. A wardrobe and dressing table rounded out the comfortable, but dated, furnishings. A small upholstered sofa sat before the windows and would make a perfect firing platform.
He locked the door, then slid the canvas case from his shoulder and removed the rifle, quickly assembling it with the bipod extended. The settee was too close to the window so he slid it back about two meters. He rested the weapon atop the back and sighted through the scope, parting the curtains enough so he could see below. He scanned the piazza through the scope until he found Ascolani, in a wide hat, standing near its center. Exactly where the cardinal said he would be. He’d already familiarized himself with Eric Casaburi from photos on the internet.
Both men were there.
Ascolani’s instructions were clear.
“I will touch the right side of my head in some way to signal for you to be ready. Take the shots when I touch my left side.”
He decided to leave the window closed until the signal came.
So he settled in and waited.
S TEFANO KEPT MOVING THROUGH THE MIDDAY CROWD, WHICH EBBED and flowed. Knots of tourists followed their flag-waving guides in tight schools across the piazza. The more people, the more difficult it would be to find Thomas Dewberry. People seemed to be either enjoying the sun or searching for shade. Off to his right, toward the center of the piazza, he had already spotted Ascolani, who was now talking with Eric Casaburi. Both he and Malone had seen photos of the politician. Hundreds of people stood between himself and them, no danger of being spotted. Malone was behind him, searching the side streets. He checked his watch. 12:05 P.M.
The sun was high in the sky, reducing the shadows across the cobbles. The center was as bright as a stage under spotlights.
Malone appeared about fifty feet away and he hustled over.
“The tracker is stationary, and has been for the past few minutes,” Malone said. “He has to be inside there.”
Malone motioned to a four-story corner building.
The Hotel Duomo.
“Given what happened in Siena,” Malone said. “I don’t like this.”