Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“She told me she had evidence of Carlo’s involvement. The next morning, she was dead, and whatever evidence she had was gone.” Donati shook his head. “Carlo actually rang my office that afternoon to offer his condolences. He had the decency not to show his face at the funeral.”

“He had other matters to attend to.”

“Such as?”

“Killing a tombarolo named Roberto Falcone.”

They walked past St. John’s Tower and made their way to the helipad in the far southwest corner of the city-state. Donati stared at the walls for a moment, as though calculating how to scale them, before taking a seat on a bench at the edge of the tarmac. Gabriel sat next to him and began mentally sorting through the notes of his investigation. One entry stood out: Claudia Andreatti’s final telephone call on the night of her death. It had been placed to the Villa Giulia, to the wife of a man who didn’t need to stop at the Permissions Desk before entering the Apostolic Palace.

“How much does Veronica know about her husband?”

“If you’re asking whether she thinks Carlo is a criminal, the answer is no. She believes her husband is a descendant of an old Roman family who parlayed his modest inheritance into a successful business.”

“Does this successful businessman know you were engaged to his wife?”

Donati shook his head solemnly.

“You’re sure?”

“Veronica never breathed a word of it to him.”

“What about El Salvador?”

“He knows I served there and that, like most of the Jesuits, I had some trouble with the death squads and their friends in the military. But he has no idea I ever left the priesthood. In fact, very few people inside the Church know about my little sabbatical. Any mention of the affair was purged from my personnel files after I went to work for Lucchesi in Venice. It’s as if it never happened.”

“Almost like Claudia’s murder.”

Donati made no response.

“You lied to me, Luigi.”

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

“I don’t want your apology. I just want an explanation of why you allowed me to investigate a murder when you already knew the identity of the killer.”

“Because I needed to know how much you could find out on your own before moving on to the next step.”

“And what would that be?”

“I would like you to bring me incontrovertible proof that Carlo Marchese is running a global criminal enterprise from inside my bank. And then I want you to make him go away. Quietly.”

“There’s just one problem with that,” Gabriel said. “After my visit to the Villa Giulia, I suspect I’ve lost the element of surprise.”

“I concur. In fact, I’m quite sure Carlo knows exactly what you’re up to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been invited to an intimate dinner party tomorrow evening at his palazzo. I’ve already accepted on your behalf. But do try to find something presentable to wear,” Donati said, frowning at Gabriel’s leather jacket and paint-smudged jeans. “I don’t mind if you walk around the palace dressed like that, but the Black Nobility tend to be a bit on the formal side.”

GABRIEL POSSESSED A SINGLE SUIT. Italian in design, Office in manufacture, it had hidden compartments for concealing false passports and a holster sewn into the waistband of the trousers large enough to hold a Beretta pistol and a spare magazine. After much debate, he decided it would be unwise to bring a firearm to Carlo Marchese’s dinner party. He knotted the pale blue necktie that Chiara had bought for him that afternoon from a shop in the Via Condotti and artfully stuffed a silk handkerchief into his breast pocket. Chiara made subtle adjustments to both before slipping into the bathroom to finish putting on her makeup. She was wearing a black cocktail-length dress and black stockings. Her hair hung loosely about her bare shoulders, and on her right wrist was the pearl-and-emerald bracelet Gabriel had given her on the occasion of her last birthday. She looked astonishingly beautiful, he thought, and far too young to be on the arm of a battered wreck like him.

“You’d better put some clothes on,” he said. “We need to leave in a few minutes.”

“You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

“What’s not to like?”

“So what’s the problem?”

“It’s rather provocative,” said Gabriel, his eyes roaming freely over her body. “After all, we are having dinner with a priest.”

“At the home of his former lover.” She brushed a bit of powder across her cheekbones that brought out the flecks of honey and gold in her wide brown eyes. “I have to admit I’m curious to meet the woman who managed to penetrate Donati’s armor.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

“What’s she like?”

“She would have been the perfect match for Donati if he’d chosen a different occupation.”

“It’s more than an occupation. And I’m sure Donati had very little to do with choosing it.”

“You believe it’s truly a calling?”

“I’m the daughter of a rabbi. I know it’s a calling.” Chiara examined her appearance in the mirror for a moment before resuming work on her exquisite face. “For the record, I was right about Donati from the beginning. I told you he had a past. And I warned you that he was hiding something.”

“He had no choice.”

“Really?”

“If he’d told me the truth, that he wanted me to go to war with a made Mafia man like Carlo Marchese, I would have finished the Caravaggio and left town as quickly as possible.”

“It’s still an option.”

Gabriel, with a glance into the mirror, made clear it wasn’t.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into, darling. I grew up in this country. I know them better than you.”

“I never realized the Jewish ghetto of Venice was such a hotbed of Mafia activity.”

“They’re everywhere,” Chiara replied with a frown. “And they kill anyone who gets between them and their money—judges, politicians, policemen, any one. Carlo has already killed two people to protect his secret. And he won’t hesitate to kill you too if he thinks you’re a threat.”

“I’m not a politician. And I’m not a policeman, either.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they have to play by the rules. I don’t.” Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket and smoothed the front of his suit jacket.

“I liked it better before,” Chiara said.

“I didn’t.”

“They’re very fashionable these days.”

“That’s why I don’t like it.”

Chiara wordlessly returned the handkerchief to Gabriel’s pocket. “I never thought I’d meet a woman whose love life was more complicated than my own,” she said, inspecting her work. “First Veronica falls in love with a priest who’s lost his faith in God. Then, when the priest dumps her, she marries a Mafia chieftain who’s running a global crime syndicate.”

“Donati didn’t dump her,” Gabriel replied. “And Veronica Marchese has no idea where her husband gets his money.”

“Maybe,” Chiara said without conviction. “Or maybe she sees exactly what she wants to see and turns a blind eye to the rest. It’s easier that way, especially when there’s a great deal of money involved.”

“Is that why you married me? For the money?”

“No,” she said, “I married you because I adore your fatalistic sense of humor. You always make dreadful jokes when you’re upset about something and you’re trying to hide it.”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Because you came to Rome to restore one of your favorite paintings. And now you’re about to make an enemy of a man who could kill you with one phone call.”