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.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m standing behind you.”
Janson wheeled round, the phone to his ear. “I don’t see you.”
Donati turned as well, slowly.
“Excellency? Is that you?”
“Yes, Niklaus.”
“Who’s the man standing next to you?”
“A friend.”
“He’s been following me.”
“He was acting on my behalf.”
“I was afraid he was going to kill me.”
