Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“Let’s just say that, given current political realities, I thought it wise for Luigi to know more than his potential enemies.”

“You would have made a good lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer,” she said, “as well as an archaeologist.”

“Why didn’t you volunteer to conduct the review yourself?”

“It’s not my collection. Besides, Luigi had a perfect candidate for the job on the staff of the museum.”

“Claudia.”

Veronica Marchese nodded slowly. “She was a natural detective. Her work was impeccable.”

“But when I reviewed her notes and research files, there was no mention of any problem whatsoever. In fact, it appeared she’d given the collection a clean bill of health.”

“That’s because she was advised not to put any of her findings in writing.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

“Did she tell you what was missing?”

“She didn’t go into specifics, only that she couldn’t account for several dozen pieces. Nothing major,” she added quickly, “but they were of great value, exactly the sort of things that can confer instant prestige upon your average Arab sheikh or Russian oligarch. She compiled a list of the items and took it to an old friend who might know where she could find them.”

“Roberto Falcone?”

“Exactly.”

“How did Claudia know someone like Falcone?”

“He was an associate of her father.”

“Are you saying Claudia’s father worked for Roberto Falcone?”

“No,” Veronica Marchese said, shaking her head slowly. “Claudia’s father would never work for a man like Roberto Falcone. Falcone worked for him .”

The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes to indicate she wished to close for the night. Gabriel and Veronica Marchese quickly finished the last of their coffee and then headed outside. Darkness had fallen and a gusty wet wind was swirling in the arcades. Veronica lit a cigarette thoughtfully and proceeded to tell Gabriel things about Claudia Andreatti that had failed to make it into her Vatican personnel file. That she had been raised in Tarquinia, an ancient Etruscan town north of Cerveteri. That her father, Francesco Andreatti, a day laborer of peasant stock, had supplemented the family’s meager income with a spillo and a shovel. It seemed he possessed a unique talent for extracting antiquities from the mounded fields of Lazio, a talent matched only by his ability to keep the Carabinieri and the Mafia at bay. He grew wealthy from his digging, though everyone in Tarquinia believed he was an ordinary stonemason. So, too, did his twin daughters.

“When did they learn the truth about him?”

“He confessed his sins as he was dying of cancer. He also told them about the buried steel container where he stored his discoveries. Claudia and Paola waited until after the funeral to alert the Carabinieri. They were just sixteen at the time.”

“The entire incident seems to have slipped Paola’s mind.”

“I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. It’s not something a daughter likes to think about. Unfortunately, most of us have a criminal somewhere in the family tree. I’m afraid it is the curse of Italy.”

“Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

“That the daughter of a tombarolo dedicated herself to the care and preservation of antiquities?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Actually, it was no accident. Claudia was deeply ashamed of her father and wanted to make up for some of the damage he had done. Needless to say, she guarded her past carefully. If it ever became known in the curatorial community that her father was a thief, it would have hung over her like a cloud.”

“But you knew.”

“She told me during the Medici investigation. She felt that she had to because we were working with General Ferrari.” Veronica Marchese paused, then added, “Claudia had an exaggerated sense of right and wrong. It was one of the things I loved most about her.”

“Do you know what Falcone told her?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was necessary to protect the integrity of her investigation.”

They walked past the shuttered museum bookshop and emerged from the front portico. The rain was coming down in torrents. She fished a set of keys from her handbag and with the click of her remote started the engine of a gleaming Mercedes SL coupe. The car looked out of place at the museum. So did Veronica Marchese.

“I’d offer you a lift,” she said apologetically, “but I’m afraid I have another appointment. If there’s anything more I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to call. And do give my best to Luigi.”

She started toward her car, then stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “It occurs to me you have one thing working in your favor,” she said. “General Ferrari just took millions of euros worth of antiquities from the men who killed Claudia. That means they’ll be anxious to replenish their stock. If I were you, I’d find something irresistible.”

“What then?”

“Smash it to pieces,” she replied. “And feed it to them slowly.”

She lowered herself into the car and then guided it into the frenetic traffic of the Roman evening rush. Gabriel stood there for a moment wondering why Luigi Donati had neglected to mention that he was acquainted with Claudia Andreatti’s best friend. Priests sin, too, he thought. Even the good ones.

“WHAT’S THE SOUP OF THE DAY?” asked Gabriel.

“Stone,” replied Donati.

He raised a spoonful of the thin consommé to his lips and tasted it warily. They were seated in the Holy Father’s austere dining room on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace. The tablecloth was white, as were the habits of the household nuns who floated silently in and out of the adjoining kitchen. His Holiness was not present; he was working at the desk in his small private office located directly across the hall. It had been fourteen years since the diminutive Patriarch of Venice ascended to the throne of St. Peter, yet he still maintained a crushing daily schedule that would exhaust a far younger man. He did so in part to preserve his power. The Church faced too many challenges for its absolute monarch to give the appearance of being incapacitated by age. If the princes perceived that His Holiness was beginning to fail, the positioning for the next conclave would commence in earnest. And the papacy of Pope Paul VII, one of the most turbulent in the history of the modern Church, would come to a grinding halt.

“Why the punishment rations?” asked Gabriel.

“As a result of our reduced financial circumstances, the fare at some of the colleges and religious houses in Rome is starting to suffer. His Holiness has asked the bishops and cardinals to avoid lavish dining. I’m afraid I have no choice but to lead by example.”

He held his glass of red wine up to the sunlight slanting through the window and then took a cautious sip.

“How is it?”

“Divine.” Donati placed the glass carefully on the table and then pushed a thick black binder toward Gabriel. “It’s the final itinerary for our trip to Israel and the Palestinian territories. We’ve decided to do it over Holy Week, which will allow His Holiness to take the unprecedented step of celebrating Christ’s death and resurrection in the city where it actually occurred. He will commemorate the passion on the Via Dolorosa and celebrate Easter Mass in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The schedule also includes a stop in Bethlehem and a courtesy call at the al-Aqsa Mosque, where he intends to issue an unequivocal apology for the Crusades. The soldiers of the cross killed ten thousand people on the Temple Mount when they sacked Jerusalem in 1099, including three thousand who had taken shelter inside al-Aqsa.”