Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“And they warmed up along the way by killing several thousand innocent Jews in Europe.”

“I believe we’ve already apologized for that,” Donati said archly.

“When do you plan to announce the trip?”

“Next week at the General Audience.”

“It’s too soon.”

“We’ve waited as long as possible. I’d like you to have a look at the security arrangements. The Holy Father also asked whether you would consider serving as his personal bodyguard during the trip.”

“Something tells me it wasn’t his idea.”

“It wasn’t,” Donati conceded.

“The best way to place His Holiness in danger is for me to stand next to him.”

“Think about it.”

Donati raised another spoonful of the consommé to his lips and blew on it pensively—odd, thought Gabriel, because his own soup was already lukewarm.

“Something else on your mind, Luigi?”

“Rumor has it you paid a visit to the Villa Giulia yesterday.”

“It’s filled with many beautiful objects.”

“So I’ve heard.” Donati lowered his voice and added, “You should have told me you were going to see her.”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“When I took this case,” Gabriel said, pressing him gently, “you assured me that all doors would be open.”

“Not the doors to my past,” Donati said evenly.

“What if your past had something to do with Claudia’s death?”

“My past had nothing to do with her death.”

The monsignor’s words were spoken with an air of liturgical finality. All that was missing was the sign of the cross and the benedictory amen.

“Would you like some more soup?” he asked, trying to ease the tension of the moment.

“I’ll resist,” replied Gabriel.

Two nuns entered and cleared the dishes. They returned a moment later with the entrée—a thin slice of veal, boiled potatoes, and green beans drizzled in olive oil. Donati used the change in course as an opportunity to gather his thoughts.

“I asked for your help,” he said at last, “because I wanted this inquiry handled with a certain discretion. Now General Ferrari and the Carabinieri are involved, which is exactly the outcome I had hoped to avoid.”

“They’re involved because my inquiry led me to a dead tombarolo named Roberto Falcone.”

“I realize that.”

“Would you have preferred it if I had fled the scene?”

“I would have preferred ,” Donati said after a moment of deliberation, “that this mess not end up in the lap of Italian authorities who do not always have the best interests of the Holy See in mind.”

“That would have been the outcome regardless of my actions,” Gabriel said.

“Why?”

“Because it wouldn’t have taken General Ferrari long to connect Falcone to Claudia through their phone records. And his next stop would have been Veronica Marchese. Unless she was prepared to lie on your behalf, she would have told the general that, after Claudia’s death, you asked her to remain silent. And then General Ferrari would have been knocking on the Bronze Doors of the Apostolic Palace, subpoena in hand.”

“Point taken.” Donati picked at his food without appetite. “Why do you suppose Ferrari suggested that you meet with her?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Gabriel said. “I suspect that like any good investigator, he knows more than he’s willing to say.”

“About my friendship with Veronica?”

“About everything.”

Outside a cloud passed before the sun, and a shadow fell across Donati’s face.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her, Luigi?”

“This is beginning to sound like an interrogation.”

“Better me than the Carabinieri.”

Donati, still in shadow, said nothing.

“Perhaps it would be easier if I answered for you.”

“Please do.”

“This entire affair falls under the category of no good deed goes unpunished,” Gabriel began. “It started innocently enough when Veronica suggested you undertake a review of the Vatican collection. But Claudia’s death presented you with two problems. The first was the motive for her murder. The second was your relationship with Veronica Marchese. A thorough investigation of Claudia’s death would have revealed both, thus placing you in a precarious position. So you encouraged an official finding of suicide and asked me to find the truth.”

“And now you’ve discovered a small piece of it.” Donati pushed his plate a few inches toward the center of the table and gazed through the open door toward the private office of his master.

“How much does he know?” asked Gabriel.

“More than you might imagine. But that doesn’t mean he wants it spilling out in public. Gossip and personal scandal can be fatal in a place like this. And if I am tainted in any way, it could harm his papacy.” He paused, then added gravely, “That is something I cannot allow to happen.”

“The best way to prevent that from happening is for you to start telling me the truth. All of it.”

Donati exhaled heavily and contemplated his wristwatch. “I have thirty minutes until the Holy Father’s next meeting,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if we walked. The walls have ears around here.”

IT IS SAID THAT THE Vatican Gardens were originally planted in soil from Golgotha transported to Rome by St. Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine and, according to Christian legend, discoverer of the True Cross. Now, seventeen centuries later, the gardens were a fifty-seven-acre Eden dotted with ornate palaces housing various arms of the Vatican administration. The overcast weather suited Donati’s mood. Head down, hands clasped behind his back, he was telling Gabriel about a serious young man from a small town in Umbria who heard the calling to become a priest. The young man joined the intellectually rebellious Society of Jesus, the Jesuits, and became a vocal proponent of the controversial doctrine known as liberation theology. In the early 1980s, during a period of violence and revolution in Latin America, he was dispatched to El Salvador to run a health clinic and a school. And it was there, in the mountains of Morazán province, that he lost his faith in God.

“Liberation theologians believe that earthly justice and eternal salvation are inexorably linked, that it is impossible to save a soul if the vessel in which it resides is bound by chains of poverty and oppression. In Latin America, that sort of thinking placed us squarely on the side of the leftist revolutionaries. The military juntas regarded us as little more than Communist subversives. So did the Pole,” Donati added. “But that’s a story for another time.”

Donati stopped walking, as if debating which direction to proceed. Finally, he turned toward the ocher-colored headquarters of Vatican Radio. Rising above it was the city-state’s only eyesore, the transmission tower that beamed Church news and programming to a worldwide flock increasingly distracted by terrestrial matters.

“There was a priest who worked with me in Morazán,” Donati resumed, “a Spanish Jesuit named Father José Martinez. One evening, I was called away to another village to deliver a child. When I returned, Father José was dead. The top of his skull had been hacked away and his brain scooped from its cavity.”

“He was killed by a death squad?”

Donati nodded slowly. “That’s why they took his brain. It symbolized what the regime and its wealthy supporters hated most about us—our intelligence and our commitment to social justice. When I asked the military to investigate Father José’s death, they actually laughed in my face. Then they warned me I would be next if I didn’t leave.”