The Italian Mission Read Online Free

sure who’s chasing whom, or why. I’m on it.’
    ‘O.K. I’ll check sources around here. Keep me posted.’
    ‘Right. Favor?’
    ‘Almost anything.’
    ‘Call Ambassador and make excuse. You need me to run an errand maybe?’
    ‘I’ll think of something. Good luck.’
    ‘Thx.’
    Conti looked up from his phone and, startled, immediately jerked his head back down. Peeking through his fingers, he saw the South Africans standing on the platform between the cars, smoking and scanning the passengers inside. He hadn’t seen them in the crowd. Must have strong-armed their way aboard at the last minute. Their eyes passed over his seat without any change of expression. Good. He hoped he’d blended in with the Germans back at the Vatican and that they hadn’t noticed him.
    Lulled by the rocking motion of the train, he slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was six o’clock p.m. and the train was stationary. Immediately alert, he asked his seatmates, a young man listening to an iPod and the old woman who had been standing in the aisle, where they were. The young man took out one ear-bud, shrugged and shouted over the noise of the train, “Orvieto?”
    “No, no, no!” the old woman wagged her finger. “ Questa e Chiusi .”
    Conti grabbed his pack and pushed his way toward the door as the train began to move slowly. Chiusi was where he had to change for the local train to the Tuscan hill towns, the way stations on the pilgrimage route. He tumbled down the steps, crossed the pavement steaming from a recent downpour, and, still only halfawake, climbed into an even smaller and more crowded train. Stepping up onto platform between cars, he bumped into one the South Africans, who glared at him without apparent recognition. He turned away quickly and threaded his way into the middle of the car, leaning against a seat to catch his breath.
    As the train began to shudder, then roll slowly forward, Conti rummaged through his backpack for the book he’d bought on the Via Francigena . In the tenth century, he read, Sigeric the Serious, Archbishop of Canterbury, had chronicled his trip from England to Rome, the first good description of the pilgrimage route. Conti had to smile. Great name for an Archbishop. He studied the map in the book, reviewing his plans. The German pilgrims had seen the monks leaving Rome on Friday morning. This was Sunday afternoon. Even if they were traveling fast, they couldn’t do much more than twenty-five or thirty miles a day in the hilly terrain. He’d get off at Siena, a hundred and thirty-five miles north of Rome, and take the trail south. If they were still on the trail, he should run into them. He looked down the aisle and through the window at the South Africans on the platform. Apparently, they had something similar in mind.
    An hour later, the conductor announced “ Attenzione, attenzione, prossima fermata Siena .” Conti squeezed through the still-packed aisle toward the exit. The South Africans were also waiting for the doors to open, carrying what looked like aluminum brief cases. Conti lingered behind a family loaded down with shopping bags, and waited for everyone else to detrain before he descended the narrow steps. The sun had begun to set over the Tuscan hills. He had perhaps an hour of twilight to get to his destination, a ruined abbey three miles south of the city where he’d read that it was possible to camp for the night.
    Tourists, slowed by pasta and wine, clogged the center of Siena. He dodged through the narrow streets, finally arriving at the city’s southern gate. Outside the old town wall and down a long hill, he found the first trail sign, a trekking monk with a bindle over his shoulder, and set off down the path, following the narrow cone of his flashlight in the gathering dusk. Once away from the paved streets, he had only the crickets and the gurgling of a small stream for company.
    After a few kilometers, he arrived at his