Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

Gabriel heard the clatter of high heels and, turning, glimpsed a tall, elegant woman coming through the passage from the adjoining gallery. Dark hair fell softly about her shoulders, and wide brown eyes shone intelligently from her face. The cut of her suit suggested a source of income beyond the museum, as did the jewelry that sparkled on the suntanned hand she extended in Gabriel’s direction. She held the embrace for a moment longer than was necessary, as though she had been waiting to meet him for some time. She seemed well aware of the impact of her appearance.

“You were expecting someone in a white lab coat?”

“I only know one archaeologist,” said Gabriel, “and he’s usually covered in dirt.”

Dr. Veronica Marchese gave a fleeting smile. She was at least fifty, but even in the unflattering halogen light of the museum she could have easily passed for thirty-five. Her name, when spoken by General Ferrari, had been instantly familiar to Gabriel, for it had appeared dozens of times in Claudia’s e-mail accounts. Now he realized her face was familiar, too. He had seen it for the first time outside the Church of St. Anne, at the conclusion of Claudia Andreatti’s funeral mass. She had been standing slightly apart from the other mourners, and her eyes had been fixed not on the casket but upon Luigi Donati. Something about her gaze, remembered Gabriel, had been vaguely accusatory.

Now she slipped past Gabriel and peered through the shatterproof glass of the display case at the image on the side of the krater. It depicted the lifeless body of Sarpedon, son of Zeus, being carried off for burial by the personifications of Sleep and Death. The image was strikingly similar to the composition of The Deposition of Christ .

“I never tire of looking at it,” Dr. Marchese said softly. “It’s almost as beautiful as the Caravaggio you’re restoring for the Vatican.” She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Allon?”

“Actually, I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t care for Greek vases?”

“I don’t believe I said that.”

Her eyes swept slowly over him, as if he were a statue mounted atop a plinth. “Greek vases are among the most extraordinary objects ever created,” she said. “Without them, there would have been no Caravaggio. And unfortunately, there are some men in the world who will do anything to possess them.” She paused thoughtfully. “But you didn’t come here for a debate about the aesthetic merits of ancient art. You’re here because of Claudia.”

“I assume you saw General Ferrari’s news conference?”

“He had the reporters eating out of his hand as usual.” She didn’t sound impressed. “But he’s obviously been taking lessons in evasion from the Vatican.”

The general had warned Gabriel about Dr. Marchese’s acerbic wit. A graduate of Rome’s La Sapienza University, she was regarded as Italy’s foremost authority on Etruscan civilization and had served as an expert consultant to the Art Squad on numerous cases, including the Medici investigation. After the raid on Medici’s warehouse in Geneva, she had spent weeks examining the contents, trying to determine the origin of each piece and, if possible, when it had been ripped from the ground by tomb raiders. Working at her side had been a gifted young protégée named Claudia Andreatti.

“The general tells me you were the one who was responsible for Claudia getting the job at the Vatican.”

“She was my best friend,” Veronica Marchese replied, “but she didn’t need my help. Claudia was one of the most talented people who ever worked for me. She earned the job entirely on her own.”

“You knew that she had undertaken a review of the Vatican’s collection of antiquities. In fact, she consulted with you on a regular basis.”

“I see you’ve been reading her e-mail.”

“And her phone records as well. I know that she was in contact with Roberto Falcone before her death. I was hoping you might be able to tell me why.”

Veronica Marchese lapsed into silence. “Claudia said she’d discovered a problem with the collection,” she said finally. “She thought Falcone could help.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Apparently things were missing. Lots of things.”

“From the storerooms?”

“Not just the storerooms. From the galleries as well.”

Gabriel joined her at the display case, his eyes on the krater. “And when the Vatican announced that Claudia had committed suicide in the Basilica?”

“I was dubious, to say the least.”

“But you remained silent.”

It was a statement. She delivered her response not to Gabriel but to the corpse of Sarpedon.

“It was difficult,” she said quietly. “But, yes, I remained silent.”

“Why?”

“Because I was asked to.”

“By whom?”

“By the same man who asked you to quietly investigate her death.”

“Monsignor Donati?”

“Monsignor?” She gave a melancholy smile. “I still find it hard to refer to him as that.”

The museum’s café was housed in an old greenhouse set against the villa’s main courtyard. The attendant, a woman of sixty with pins in her gray hair, was in the process of closing down the cash register as they entered, but Veronica managed to cajole her into making two final cups of cappuccino. They sat together at a small wrought-iron table in the corner, next to a trellis of flowering vine. Rain pattered overhead on the glass roof while she examined the fragment of pottery Gabriel had taken from Falcone’s house in Cerveteri.

“Your wife has an excellent eye. The figure is clearly a follower of Dionysus. If I had to guess, it’s probably the work of the Menelaos Painter, which means it should be here in the Villa Giulia, not on the kitchen table of a tombarolo .” She returned the fragment to Gabriel. “Unfortunately, it was probably intact before it fell into the hands of Falcone and his men.”

“How was it broken?”

“Sometimes ceramics are shattered by the spilli that the tombaroli use to locate the tombs. But other times, the tombaroli and their middlemen break vases intentionally. Then they slide the fragments onto the market piecemeal over time so as not to attract unwanted attention. Once all the pieces are in the hands of a single dealer, they pretend a long-lost vase has suddenly materialized.” She shook her head slowly in disgust. “They’re scum. But they’re very clever.”

“And dangerous,” added Gabriel.

“So it would seem.” She started to light a cigarette but stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, sliding it back into the pack. “Luigi told me how much you hate tobacco.”

“What else has he told you?”

“He said you’re one of the most remarkable men he’s ever met. He also said you would have made an excellent priest.”

“I minister to paintings, not souls. Besides,” he added, “I’m a sinner without hope of redemption.”

“Priests sin, too. Even the good ones.”

She poured three packets of sugar into her cappuccino and gave it a gentle stir. Gabriel should have been thinking about the case, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the life of the Holy Father’s private secretary had intersected with a woman like Veronica Marchese. He imagined several scenarios, none of them good.

“I thought spies were supposed to be good at concealing their thoughts,” she said.

“I’m officially retired.”

“Good. Because you’re obviously curious about how Luigi and I know each other. Suffice it to say we’ve been friends for a long time. In fact, I was the one who first suggested a review of the Church’s collection.”

“You were concerned it might be tainted?”