The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva

be surprised if a few more bodies turn up in short order.”

      “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,