Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“Gossip can be dangerous.”

“So can sensitive investigations at the Vatican.”

Carlo lowered his chin and stared at Gabriel unblinkingly. Most men tended to avoid looking directly into his eyes, but not Carlo. He possessed a cool, aristocratic assurance that bordered on arrogance. He was also, Gabriel decided, a man without physical fear.

“The Vatican is like a labyrinth,” Carlo continued. “You should know there are forces within the Curia who believe Monsignor Donati has unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box that will further damage the Church’s reputation at a time when it cannot afford it. They also resent the fact that he has chosen to place this matter in the hands of an outsider.”

“I assume you share their opinion.”

“I am officially agnostic on the question. But I’ve learned from experience that, when it comes to the Vatican, it’s often better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“What about dead women?”

It was a deliberate provocation. Carlo appeared impressed by Gabriel’s nerve. “Dead women are like bank vaults,” he responded with surprising candor. “They almost always contain unpleasant secrets.” He removed a business card from a silver case. “I hope you’ll reconsider my offer on the Reni. I can assure you I’ll make it well worth your while.”

As Gabriel slipped the card into his pocket, there came the sound of a chime summoning the guests to dinner. Carlo placed a hand at the small of Gabriel’s back and guided him toward the staircase. A moment later, he was taking his seat next to Chiara. “What did he want?” she asked quietly in Hebrew.

“I think he was trying to put me on the Marchese family payroll.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t carrying a gun.”

They emerged from the palazzo shortly after midnight to find the air filled with soft, downy snowflakes the size of Eucharistic wafers. A Vatican sedan waited curbside; it followed slowly behind as Donati, Gabriel, and Chiara made their way along the deserted pavements of the Via Veneto. Chiara held Gabriel’s arm tightly as the snow whitened her hair. Donati walked wordlessly next to her. A moment earlier, as he bade farewell to Veronica with a formal kiss on her cheek, he had been smiling. Now, faced with the prospect of a long, cold night in an empty bed, his mood was noticeably gloomy.

“Was it my imagination,” Gabriel asked, “or were you actually enjoying yourself tonight?”

“I always do. It’s the hardest part about spending time with her.”

“So why do you do it?”

“Veronica is convinced it’s a little-known Jesuitical test of faith, that I deliberately place myself in the proximity of temptation to see whether God will reach down and catch me if I fall.”

“Do you?”

“It’s not as Ignatian as all that. I simply enjoy her company. Most people can never see past the Roman collar, but Veronica doesn’t see it at all. She makes me forget I’m a priest.”

“What happens if you fail your test?”

“I would never allow that to happen. And neither would Veronica.” Donati signaled for his car. Then he turned to Gabriel and asked, “How was your meeting with Carlo?”

“Businesslike.”

“Did he mention my name?”

“He spoke of you only in the most glowing of terms.”

“What did he want?”

“He thinks it would be a good idea if I dropped the investigation.”

“I don’t suppose he confessed to killing Claudia Andreatti.”

“No, Luigi, he didn’t.”

“What now?”

“I’m going to find something irresistible,” answered Gabriel. “And then I’m going to smash it to pieces.”

“Just make sure it isn’t my Church—or me, for that matter.”

Donati made two solemn movements of his long hand, one vertical, one horizontal, and disappeared into the back of his car.

By the time Gabriel and Chiara reached the Via Gregoriana, the snowfall had ended. Gabriel paused at the base of the street and peered up the hill toward the Church of the Trinità dei Monti. The streetlamps were doused, yet another effort by the government to preserve precious resources. Rome, it seemed, was receding into time. Gabriel would have scarcely been surprised to see a chariot clattering toward them through the gloom.

The cars were parked tightly against the narrow pavements, so they walked, like most Romans, in the center of the street. The engine block of a wrecked Fiat ticked like cracking ice, but otherwise there was no sound, only the rhythmic tapping of Chiara’s heels. Gabriel could feel the heavy warmth of her breast pressing against his arm. He imagined her lying nude in their bed, his private Modigliani. A part of him wanted to keep her there until a child appeared in her womb, but it was not possible; the case had its hooks in him. To abandon it would be tantamount to leaving a masterpiece partially restored. He would pursue the truth not for General Ferrari, or even for his friend Luigi Donati, but for Claudia Andreatti. The image of her lying dead on the floor of the Basilica now hung in his nightmarish gallery of memory— Death of the Virgin , oil on canvas, by Carlo Marchese.

Dead women are like bank vaults. They almost always contain unpleasant secrets. . . .

The buzz of an approaching motorcycle dissolved the image in Gabriel’s thoughts. It was speeding directly toward them, the beam of its headlight quivering with the vibration of the cobbles. Gabriel nudged Chiara closer to the parked cars and trained his gaze toward the helmeted figure atop the bike. He was piloting the machine with one hand. The other, the right, was inserted into the front of his leather jacket. When it emerged, Gabriel saw the unmistakable silhouette of a gun with a suppressor screwed into the barrel. The gun moved first toward Gabriel’s chest. Then it swung a few degrees and took aim at Chiara.

Gabriel felt a sudden hollowness at the small of his back where he usually carried his Beretta. As a student of Krav Maga, the Israeli martial arts discipline, he was trained in the many techniques of neutralizing an armed opponent. But nearly all involved an opponent standing in close proximity, not one riding at high speed on a motorbike. Gabriel had no choice but to rely upon one of the central tenets of Office tradecraft—when confronted with few decent options, improvise, and do it quickly.

Using his left hand, he forced Chiara to the paving stones. Then, with a violent blow of his right elbow, he snapped a side view mirror off the nearest parked car. The throw, while lacking in velocity, was remarkably accurate. The assassin instinctively swerved to avoid the projectile, thus shifting the gun off its target line for a crucial second or two. Gabriel immediately dropped into a crouch. Then, with the bike bearing down on him, he drove his shoulder into the visor of the assassin’s helmet, separating man, bike, and gun. The assassin crashed to the cobblestones, the gun a few inches beyond his reach. Gabriel broke the man’s wrist, just to be on the safe side, and kicked the helmet from his head. The killer had the complexion of a Calabrian. His breath stank of tobacco and fear.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” asked Gabriel calmly.

“No,” the assassin gasped, clutching his broken limb.

“That means you are the dumbest contract killer who ever walked the earth.” Gabriel picked up the gun, a Heckler & Koch .45-caliber, and pointed it at the assassin’s face. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know,” the assassin replied, panting. “I never know.”

“Wrong answer.”

Gabriel placed the end of the suppressor against the assassin’s kneecap.

“Let’s try this one more time. Who sent you?”