Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“I’m not so easy to kill.”

Chiara gathered up her hair and turned her back toward Gabriel. He raised the zipper of her dress slowly and then pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. In the mirror he could see her eyes closing.

“Why do you suppose he wants us at his dinner table tonight?” Chiara asked.

“I can only imagine that he intends to send me a message.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to listen very carefully,” Gabriel said, kissing her neck one last time. “And then I’m going to send him one in return.”

THE MARCHESES LIVED WITHIN walking distance of the Piazza di Spagna, on a quiet street off the Via Veneto where the ceaseless march of time seemed to have stopped, however briefly, in an age of grace. This was the Rome that travelers dreamed of but rarely saw, the Rome of poets and painters and the fabulously rich. In Carlo’s private little corner of the Eternal City, la dolce vita endured, if only for the moment.

His home was not a real home but a vast ocher-colored palazzo set amid an expanse of parkland. Surrounding it was an iron fence topped with many security cameras—so many, in fact, the property was often mistaken for an embassy or a government building. A large Baroque fountain splashed in the forecourt, and in the entrance hall loomed an armless statue of Pluto, lord of the underworld. Standing next to it was Veronica Marchese, dressed in a flowing gown of crushed green silk. She greeted Gabriel and Chiara warmly and then led them along a wide corridor hung with Italian Renaissance paintings in ornate frames. Between the canvases, balanced atop fluted shoulder-height pedestals, were Roman busts and statuary. The paintings were museum quality. So were the antiquities.

“The Marchese family has been collecting for many generations,” she explained, a note of disapproval in her voice. “I don’t mind the paintings, but the antiquities have been a source of some embarrassment for me, since I am on record as saying the collectors are the real looters. It’s quite simple. If the rich would stop buying antiquities, the tombaroli would stop digging them up.”

“Your husband has excellent taste,” Chiara said.

“He has an expert adviser,” Veronica replied playfully. “But we’re not responsible for any of these acquisitions. Carlo’s ancestors purchased them long before there were any laws restricting the trade in ancient artifacts. Even so, I’m trying to convince him to give away at least a portion of the collection so the public can finally see it. I’m afraid I still have a bit of work to do.”

At the end of the hall was a wide double doorway that gave onto a grand drawing room with tapestried walls. The furnishings were stately and elegant, as were the guests scattered among them. Gabriel had been expecting a quiet dinner for six, but the room was filled with no fewer than twenty people, including the Italian minister of finance, the host of an influential television talk show, and one of the country’s most popular sopranos. Donati had cloistered himself at one end of a brocaded sofa. He was dressed in a double-breasted clerical suit and was imparting some well-rehearsed Curial gossip to a pair of bejeweled women who seemed to be hanging breathlessly on his every utterance.

At the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a group of prosperous-looking businessmen, stood Carlo Marchese. He had the square shoulders of a man who had been a star athlete at school, and was groomed as if for a photo shoot. His small wireless spectacles lent a priestly gravity to his even features, and he was gesturing thoughtfully with a hand that had wielded no tool other than a Montblanc pen or a silver fork. His resemblance to Donati was unmistakable. It was as if Veronica, having lost Donati to the Church, had acquired another version of him absent a Roman collar and a conscience.

As Gabriel and Chiara entered the room, several heads turned in unison and the conversation fell silent for a few seconds before resuming in a subdued murmur. Gabriel accepted two glasses of Prosecco from a white-jacketed waiter and handed one to Chiara. Then, turning, he found himself staring into Carlo’s face.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Allon.” One hand closed around Gabriel’s while the other grasped his arm just above the elbow. “I was in St. Peter’s Square when the terrorists attacked the Vatican. None of us who are close to the Holy Father will ever forget what you did that day.” He released Gabriel’s hand and introduced himself to Chiara. “Would you be kind enough to allow me to borrow your husband for a moment? I have a small problem I’d like to discuss with him.”

“I suppose that depends on the nature of the problem.”

“I can assure you it’s entirely artistic in nature.”

Without waiting for a reply, Carlo Marchese led Gabriel up a sweeping central staircase, to the second level of the palazzo. Before them stretched an endless gallery of ancestral treasures: paintings and tapestries, sculptures and timepieces, antiquities of every sort. Carlo played the role of tour guide, slowing every few paces in order to point out a noteworthy piece or two. He spoke with the erudition of a man who knew much about art but also with a trace of discomfort, as though his possessions were a great burden to him. Even Gabriel found the presence of so much art in one space overwhelming; it was like wandering through storerooms filled with the plunder of a distant war. He paused before a Canaletto. The painting, a luminous depiction of the Piazza di San Marco, was vaguely familiar. Then Gabriel realized where he had seen it before. A few years earlier, the work had been stolen. Its successful recovery, announced with much fanfare by General Ferrari, was regarded as one of the great triumphs of the Art Squad.

“Now I know why the general refused to release the name of the owner,” Gabriel said.

“He did so at my request. We were afraid we would be targeted again if the thieves knew the quality of the pieces contained in our collection.”

“There were reports at the time that the owner played a significant role in the painting’s recovery.”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Allon. I personally conducted the ransom negotiations. In fact, I didn’t even tell General Ferrari the painting had been stolen until after the deal had been struck. He arrested the thieves when they tried to collect the money. They weren’t terribly professional.”

“I remember,” said Gabriel. “I also remember that they were killed not long after their arrival at Regina Coeli Prison.”

“Apparently, it was the result of some sort of struggle over prison turf.”

Or perhaps you had them killed for stealing from the boss , thought Gabriel. ”Is there something in particular you wanted to show me?” he asked.

“This,” Carlo said, inclining his head toward the large canvas at the farthest end of the gallery. The image, a depiction of the Adoration of the Shepherds, was scarcely visible beneath a dense layer of surface grime and a coat of heavily discolored varnish. Carlo illuminated the painting with the flick of a light switch. “I assume you recognize the artist.”

“Guido Reni,” replied Gabriel, “with considerable help from one or two of his better assistants, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not. It’s been in my family’s collection for more than two centuries. Unfortunately, it’s been many years since it was restored. I was wondering whether you would consider taking it on after you’ve finished the Caravaggio.”

“I’m afraid I have a prior commitment.”

“So I’ve heard.” Carlo looked at Gabriel. “I know that Monsignor Donati has asked you to investigate Claudia’s death.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The Vatican is nothing if not a village, Mr. Allon. And villagers like to gossip.”