“Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“Forgive me, Excellency,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“Grant me absolution.”
“I have to hear your confession first.”
He looked to his left. “There isn’t time, Excellency.”
Janson lowered the phone and started horizontally across the bridge. In the center of the span he stopped abruptly and spread his arms wide. The first shot struck him in the left shoulder, spinning him like a top. The second punched a hole through his chest and dropped him penitentially to his knees. There, with his arms now hanging limply at his sides, he received a thirdshot. It struck him above the right eye and sheared away a large portion of his skull.
On the ancient bridge the shots sounded like cannon fire. Instantly, a maelstrom of panic erupted. Gabriel spotted the assassin briefly as he fled the bridge to the south. Then, turning, he saw Chiara and Donati kneeling over Niklaus Janson. The final shot had driven him backward, with his legs trapped beneath him. Despite the terrible wound to his head, he was still alive, still conscious. Gabriel crouched over him. He was whispering something.
His phone was lying on the paving stones, its screen shattered. Gabriel slipped the device into his coat pocket, along with the nylon billfold he plucked from the back pocket of Janson’s jeans. Donati was praying softly, the thumb of his right hand resting near the entrance wound in Janson’s forehead. With two small movements, one vertical, the other horizontal, he absolved the Swiss Guard of his sins.
By then an anguished crowd had gathered around them. Gabriel heard expressions of shock and horror in a dozen different languages and, in the distance, the scream of approaching sirens. Rising, he pulled Chiara to her feet, then Donati. As they stepped away from the body, the crowd surged forward. Calmly, they walked north, into the flashing blue light of the first Polizia di Stato unit.
“What just happened?” asked Donati.
“I’m not sure,” said Gabriel. “But we’ll know in a minute.”
At the footof the Ponte Vecchio, they joined the exodus of frightened tourists fleeing through the archways of the VasariCorridor. When they reached the entrance of the Uffizi Gallery, Gabriel dug Janson’s phone from his pocket. It was an iPhone, unlocked, eighty-four percent charged. His darkest fears, his deepest desires, his very soul, all at Gabriel’s fingertips.
“Let’s hope I was the only one who saw you take it,” said Donati reproachfully. “Andhis wallet.”
“You were. But try not to look so guilty.”
“I just fled the scene of a murder. What on earth do I have to feel guilty about?”
Gabriel pressed thehomebutton. Several applications were open, including a stream of text messages. He scrolled to the top of the exchange. There was no name, only a number. Written in English, the first text had arrived at 4:47 p.m. the previous afternoon.
Please tell me where you are, Niklaus...
“We’ve got him.”
“Who?” asked Donati.
“The person who was sending text messages to Janson while we were following him.”
Donati peered over Gabriel’s right shoulder, Chiara over his left, their faces lit by the glow of the iPhone. All at once the light was extinguished. Gabriel pressed thehomebutton again, but there was no response. The phone had not drifted off to sleep. It had shut down entirely.
Gabriel squeezed the power button and waited for the ubiquitous white apple to appear on the screen.
Nothing.
The phone was as dead as its owner.
“Perhaps you touched something by mistake,” suggested Donati.
“Are you referring to the magic icon that instantly blows up the operating system and shreds the memory?” Gabriel looked up from the darkened screen. “It was erased remotely so we couldn’t see what was on it.”
“By whom?”
“The same men who deleted his personnel file from the Swiss Guard computer network.” Gabriel looked at Chiara. “The same men who murdered the Holy Father.”
“Do you believe me now?” asked Donati.
