The Fallen Angel ga-12 Page 8

  “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”

  Ferrari trained his sightless eye on Gabriel and leaned across the table. “It’s not a suggestion,” he said. “I’m saying that Dr. Andreatti discovered a connection between the network and the Vatican. And that means your friend Monsignor Donati has a much bigger problem on his hands than a dead curator. It also means that you and I are pursuing the same target.”

  “Which is why you’re willing to pretend that my wife and I were never in Cerveteri today,” Gabriel said. “Because if I can find out who killed Claudia, it will save you the trouble of having to crack the network.”

  “It is a rather elegant solution to our dilemma,” Ferrari said.

  “Why don’t you just hand me over to the security service and pursue the case yourself?”

  “Because now that Falcone is dead, the only door into this new network has been slammed in my face. The chances of putting another informant in place are slim. By now, they’re well aware of my tools and techniques. They also know my personnel, which makes it difficult for me to send them undercover. I need someone who can help me destroy this network from the inside, someone who can think like a criminal.” The general paused. “Someone like you, Allon.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Just a statement of fact.”

  “You overestimate my abilities.”

  The general gave a knowing smile. “Early in my career, when I was working in the counterterrorism division, I was assigned to a case here in Rome. It seemed a Palestinian translator was shot to death in the lobby of his apartment building. It turned out he was no ordinary translator. As for the man who killed him, we were never able to find a single witness who could recall seeing him. It was as if he were a ghost.” The general paused. “And now he sits before me, in a restaurant in the heart of Rome.”

  “I would have never figured you for a blackmailer, General.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying to blackmail you, Allon. I was simply saying that our paths crossed once before. Now it seems fate has reunited us.”

  “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “Neither do I,” Ferrari replied. “But I do believe that if there’s anyone who can crack this network, it’s you. Besides,” he added, “the fact that you are already positioned inside the Vatican gives you a distinct advantage.”

  Gabriel was silent for a moment. “What happens if I succeed?” he asked finally.

  “I will take your information and build a case that will stand up in the Italian courts.”

  “And what if that case destroys my friends?”

  “I am well aware of your close relationship with this pope and with Monsignor Donati,” the general said evenly. “But if the Vatican has engaged in misdeeds, it will have to atone. Besides, I’ve always found that confession can be good for the soul.”

  “If it’s done in private.”

  “That might not be possible. But the best way for you to look after the interests of your friends is to accept my offer. Otherwise, there’s no telling what dirt might turn up.”

  “That sounds a great deal like blackmail.”

  “Yes,” the general said reflectively, “I suppose it does.”

  He was smiling slightly, but his prosthetic eye stared blankly into space. It was like gazing into the eye of a figure in a painting, thought Gabriel, the all-seeing eye of an unforgiving God.

  Which left only Roberto Falcone—or, more precisely, what to tell the public about his unfortunate demise. Ultimately, it came down to a choice of tactics. The matter could be handled quietly, or, as Gabriel put it, they could announce Falcone’s death with a fanfare of trumpets and thus help their own cause in the process. Ferrari chose the second option, for, like Gabriel, he was predisposed toward operational showmanship. Besides, it was budget time in a season of austerity, and Ferrari needed a victory, even an invented one, to ensure the Art Squad’s enviable funding levels continued for another fiscal year.

  And so late the following morning, Ferrari summoned the news media to the palazzo for what he promised would be a major announcement. It being an otherwise slow news day, they came in droves, hoping for something that might actually sell a newspaper or entice a television viewer to pause for a few seconds before surfing off to the next channel. As usual, the general did not disappoint. Impeccably dressed in his blue Carabinieri uniform, he strode to the podium and proceeded to spin a tale as old as Italy itself. It was a tale of a man who appeared to be of modest means but was in fact one of Italy’s biggest looters of antiquities. Regrettably, the man had been brutally murdered, perhaps in a dispute with a colleague over money. The general did not specify exactly how the body was discovered, though he doled out enough of the gruesome details to guarantee front-page play in the livelier tabloids. Then, with the flawless timing of a skilled performer, he drew back a black curtain, revealing a treasure trove of artifacts recovered from the tombarolo’s workshop. The reporters let out a collective gasp. Ferrari beamed as the cameras flashed.

  Needless to say, the general made no mention of the role played by the retired Israeli spy and art restorer Gabriel Allon or of the somewhat Machiavellian agreement the two men had reached over dinner at Le Cave. Nor did he divulge the name he had whispered into Gabriel’s ear as they parted company in the darkened piazza. Gabriel waited until the end of the general’s news conference before ringing her. It was clear from her tone that she had been expecting his call.

  “I’m in a meeting until five,” she said. “How about five-thirty?”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Mine is safer.”

  “Where?”

  “The krater,” she said. And then the line went dead.

  12

  VILLA GIULIA, ROME

  IN A CITY FILLED WITH museums and archaeological wonders, the Villa Giulia, Italy’s national repository of Etruscan art and antiquities, somehow manages to keep a low profile. Rarely visited and easily missed, it occupies a rambling palazzo on the edge of the Borghese Gardens that was once the country house of Pope Julius III. In the sixteenth century, the villa had overlooked the city walls of Rome and the gentle tan slopes of the Parioli hills. Now the hills were lined with apartment blocks, and beneath the windows of the old papal retreat thundered a broad boulevard that pedestrians crossed at their own risk. The weedy forecourt had been turned into the staff parking lot. The battered fenders and sun-faded paint bore witness to the low wages earned by those who toiled within the state museums of Italy.

  Gabriel arrived at 5:15 and made his way to the second-floor gallery where the Euphronios krater, regarded as one of the greatest single pieces of art ever created, resided in a simple glass display case. A small placard told of the vessel’s tangled history—how it had been looted from a tomb near Cerveteri in 1971 and sold to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the astonishing price of one million dollars, and how, thanks to the tireless efforts of the Italian government, it had finally been returned to its rightful home. Cultural patrimony had been protected, thought Gabriel, looking around the uninhabited room, but at what cost? Nearly five million people visited the Met each year, but here in the deserted halls of the Villa Giulia, the krater was left to stand alone with the sadness of a knickknack gathering dust on a shelf. If it belonged anywhere, he thought, it was in the tomb of the wealthy Etruscan who had purchased it from a Greek trader two and a half thousand years ago.

  Gabriel heard the clatter of high heels and, turning, glimpsed a tall, elegant woman coming through the passage from the adjoining gallery. Dark hair fell softly about her shoulders, and wide brown eyes shone intelligently from her face. The cut of her suit suggested a source of income beyond the museum, as did the jewelry that sparkled on the suntanned hand she extended in Gabriel’s direction. She held the embrace for a moment longer than was necessary, as though she had been waiting to meet him for some time. She seemed well aware of the impact of her appearance.

  “You were expecting someo
ne in a white lab coat?”

  “I only know one archaeologist,” said Gabriel, “and he’s usually covered in dirt.”

  Dr. Veronica Marchese gave a fleeting smile. She was at least fifty, but even in the unflattering halogen light of the museum she could have easily passed for thirty-five. Her name, when spoken by General Ferrari, had been instantly familiar to Gabriel, for it had appeared dozens of times in Claudia’s e-mail accounts. Now he realized her face was familiar, too. He had seen it for the first time outside the Church of St. Anne, at the conclusion of Claudia Andreatti’s funeral mass. She had been standing slightly apart from the other mourners, and her eyes had been fixed not on the casket but upon Luigi Donati. Something about her gaze, remembered Gabriel, had been vaguely accusatory.

  Now she slipped past Gabriel and peered through the shatterproof glass of the display case at the image on the side of the krater. It depicted the lifeless body of Sarpedon, son of Zeus, being carried off for burial by the personifications of Sleep and Death. The image was strikingly similar to the composition of The Deposition of Christ.

  “I never tire of looking at it,” Dr. Marchese said softly. “It’s almost as beautiful as the Caravaggio you’re restoring for the Vatican.” She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Allon?”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t care for Greek vases?”

  “I don’t believe I said that.”

  Her eyes swept slowly over him, as if he were a statue mounted atop a plinth. “Greek vases are among the most extraordinary objects ever created,” she said. “Without them, there would have been no Caravaggio. And unfortunately, there are some men in the world who will do anything to possess them.” She paused thoughtfully. “But you didn’t come here for a debate about the aesthetic merits of ancient art. You’re here because of Claudia.”

  “I assume you saw General Ferrari’s news conference?”

  “He had the reporters eating out of his hand as usual.” She didn’t sound impressed. “But he’s obviously been taking lessons in evasion from the Vatican.”

  The general had warned Gabriel about Dr. Marchese’s acerbic wit. A graduate of Rome’s La Sapienza University, she was regarded as Italy’s foremost authority on Etruscan civilization and had served as an expert consultant to the Art Squad on numerous cases, including the Medici investigation. After the raid on Medici’s warehouse in Geneva, she had spent weeks examining the contents, trying to determine the origin of each piece and, if possible, when it had been ripped from the ground by tomb raiders. Working at her side had been a gifted young protégée named Claudia Andreatti.

  “The general tells me you were the one who was responsible for Claudia getting the job at the Vatican.”

  “She was my best friend,” Veronica Marchese replied, “but she didn’t need my help. Claudia was one of the most talented people who ever worked for me. She earned the job entirely on her own.”

  “You knew that she had undertaken a review of the Vatican’s collection of antiquities. In fact, she consulted with you on a regular basis.”

  “I see you’ve been reading her e-mail.”

  “And her phone records as well. I know that she was in contact with Roberto Falcone before her death. I was hoping you might be able to tell me why.”

  Veronica Marchese lapsed into silence. “Claudia said she’d discovered a problem with the collection,” she said finally. “She thought Falcone could help.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Apparently things were missing. Lots of things.”

  “From the storerooms?”

  “Not just the storerooms. From the galleries as well.”

  Gabriel joined her at the display case, his eyes on the krater. “And when the Vatican announced that Claudia had committed suicide in the Basilica?”

  “I was dubious, to say the least.”

  “But you remained silent.”

  It was a statement. She delivered her response not to Gabriel but to the corpse of Sarpedon.

  “It was difficult,” she said quietly. “But, yes, I remained silent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was asked to.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the same man who asked you to quietly investigate her death.”

  “Monsignor Donati?”

  “Monsignor?” She gave a melancholy smile. “I still find it hard to refer to him as that.”

  The museum’s café was housed in an old greenhouse set against the villa’s main courtyard. The attendant, a woman of sixty with pins in her gray hair, was in the process of closing down the cash register as they entered, but Veronica managed to cajole her into making two final cups of cappuccino. They sat together at a small wrought-iron table in the corner, next to a trellis of flowering vine. Rain pattered overhead on the glass roof while she examined the fragment of pottery Gabriel had taken from Falcone’s house in Cerveteri.

  “Your wife has an excellent eye. The figure is clearly a follower of Dionysus. If I had to guess, it’s probably the work of the Menelaos Painter, which means it should be here in the Villa Giulia, not on the kitchen table of a tombarolo.” She returned the fragment to Gabriel. “Unfortunately, it was probably intact before it fell into the hands of Falcone and his men.”

  “How was it broken?”

  “Sometimes ceramics are shattered by the spilli that the tombaroli use to locate the tombs. But other times, the tombaroli and their middlemen break vases intentionally. Then they slide the fragments onto the market piecemeal over time so as not to attract unwanted attention. Once all the pieces are in the hands of a single dealer, they pretend a long-lost vase has suddenly materialized.” She shook her head slowly in disgust. “They’re scum. But they’re very clever.”

  “And dangerous,” added Gabriel.

  “So it would seem.” She started to light a cigarette but stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, sliding it back into the pack. “Luigi told me how much you hate tobacco.”

  “What else has he told you?”

  “He said you’re one of the most remarkable men he’s ever met. He also said you would have made an excellent priest.”

  “I minister to paintings, not souls. Besides,” he added, “I’m a sinner without hope of redemption.”

  “Priests sin, too. Even the good ones.”

  She poured three packets of sugar into her cappuccino and gave it a gentle stir. Gabriel should have been thinking about the case, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the life of the Holy Father’s private secretary had intersected with a woman like Veronica Marchese. He imagined several scenarios, none of them good.

  “I thought spies were supposed to be good at concealing their thoughts,” she said.

  “I’m officially retired.”

  “Good. Because you’re obviously curious about how Luigi and I know each other. Suffice it to say we’ve been friends for a long time. In fact, I was the one who first suggested a review of the Church’s collection.”

  “You were concerned it might be tainted?”

  “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 s
he 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.”