“Where is he?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It was the morning of the pope’s funeral. He wouldn’t tell me where he was.”
“Why not?”
“He said he didn’t want them to know.”
“Who?”
She started to answer, but stopped. “Have you seen him?” she asked.
“Yes, Stefani. I’m afraid I have.”
“When?”
“Last night,” said Donati. “On the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”
From his observation postat Café des Arcades, Gabriel listened as Donati quietly told Stefani Hoffmann that Niklaus Janson was dead. He was glad it was his old friend on the other side of the street and not him. If Donati always labored over how to acknowledge his occupation, Gabriel likewise struggledover how to tell a woman that a loved one—a son, a brother, a father, a fiancé—had been murdered in cold blood.
She didn’t believe Donati at first, which was to be expected. His response, that he had no motive to lie about such a thing, did little to dilute her skepticism. The Vatican, she shot back, lied all the time.
“I don’t work for the Vatican,” answered Donati. “Not anymore.”
He then suggested they speak somewhere private. Stefani Hoffmann said the restaurant closed at ten, and that her boss would kill her if she left him in the lurch.
“Your boss will understand.”
“What do I say to him about Niklaus?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“My car is in the Place des Ormeaux. Wait for me there.”
Donati went into the street and lifted the phone to his ear. “Were you able to hear all that?”
“She knows,” answered Gabriel. “The question is, how much?”
Donati slipped the phone into his pocket without killing the connection. Stefani Hoffmann emerged from the restaurant a few minutes later, a scarf around her neck. Her car was a worn-out Volvo. Donati lowered himself into the passenger seat as Gabriel slid behind the wheel of the BMW. Through his earpiece he heard the click of Donati’s safety belt, followed an instant later by a wail of anguish from Stefani Hoffmann.
“Is Niklaus really dead?”
“I saw it happen.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“There was nothing to be done.”
Stefani Hoffmann reversed out of the parking space andturned onto the rue du Pont-Muré. Ten seconds later, Gabriel did the same. As they left the Old Town on the Route des Alpes, Donati asked why Niklaus Janson had fled the Vatican the night of the Holy Father’s death. Her response was scarcely audible.
“He was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
