The Fallen Angel (10 page)

15

PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROME

G
ABRIEL 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.”

“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.”

16

THE VIA VENETO, ROME

T
HE
M
ARCHESES 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.”

“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.