The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva

      “You wouldn’t be in Rome if it wasn’t for the intervention of my master and me. And now we need a favor in return.”

      “How Christlike of you, Monsignor.”

      “Christ never had to run a church. I do.”

      Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. “You told the Italian security services you needed me to clean a Caravaggio. Something tells me they won’t be pleased if they find out I’m conducting a murder investigation.”

      “So I suppose we’ll have to deceive them. Trust me,” Donati added, “it won’t be the first time.”

      They paused along the railing. Directly below, in the small courtyard outside the entrance to the Vatican necropolis, the body of Claudia Andreatti was being placed in the back of an unmarked van. Standing a few feet away, like a mourner at the side of an open grave, was Lorenzo Vitale.

      “I’ll need a few things to get started,” Gabriel said, watching the Vatican police chief. “And I need you to get them for me without Vitale knowing.”

      “Such as?”

      “A copy of the hard drive of the computer in her office, along with her telephone records and all the documentation she assembled while conducting her review of the Vatican collection.”

      Donati nodded. “In the meantime,” he said, “it might be wise to have a look inside Claudia’s apartment before Vitale can obtain clearance from the Italian authorities to do so himself.”

      “How do you suggest I get through the front door?”

      Donati handed Gabriel a ring of keys.

      “Where did you get these?”

      “Rule number one at the Vatican,” Donati said. “Don’t ask too many questions.”

      5

      PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROME

      BY THE TIME THE VATICAN PRESS OFFICE confirmed that Dr. Claudia Andreatti, the esteemed curator of antiquities, had committed suicide in St. Peter’s Basilica, rumors of her demise had thoroughly penetrated the gossipy little village known as the Holy See. Inside the restoration lab, work ceased as the staff gathered around the examination tables to ponder how they had missed the signs of Dr. Andreatti’s emotional distress, how it was possible to work with someone for years and know so little about her personal life. Gabriel murmured a few appropriate words of sympathy but for the most part kept to his private corner of the lab. He remained there, alone with the Caravaggio, until late afternoon, when he hiked back to the apartment near the Piazza di Spagna through a freezing drizzle. He found Chiara leaning against the kitchen counter. Her dark hair was held in place by a velvet ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were fixed on the television, where a reporter for the BBC was recounting a story of a tragic suicide under a computer-generated banner that read DEATH IN THE BASILICA. When a still photograph of Claudia appeared on the screen, Chiara shook her head slowly.

      “She was such a beautiful girl. Somehow it always seems harder to understand when they’re pretty.”

      She removed the cork from a bottle of Sangiovese and poured out two glasses. Gabriel reached for his, then stopped. Dark and rich, the wine was the color of blood.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “Donati asked me to have a look at the body.”

      “Why ever would he do that?”

      “He wanted a second opinion.”

      “He doesn’t think she committed suicide?”

      “No. And neither do I.”

      He told Chiara about the broken necklace, about the shoes that landed too far apart, about the quiet review of the Vatican’s antiquities collection. Lastly, he told her about the urgent meeting that was supposed to take place in Donati’s office.

      “Now I understand the problem,” Chiara said. “Attractive female curator is supposed to meet with powerful private secretary. Instead, attractive female curator ends up dead.”

      “Leaving every conspiracy theorist in the world to speculate that the powerful private secretary was somehow involved in the curator’s death.”

      “Which explains why he’s asking you to help with a cover-up.”

      “That’s not how I would describe it.”

      “How would you?”

      “A private fact-finding mission, like the ones we used to carry out for King Saul Boulevard.”

      King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Even retired agents like Gabriel and Chiara referred to it as the Office and nothing else.

      “This has all the makings of yet another Vatican scandal,” Chiara warned. “And if you’re not careful, your friend Monsignor Luigi Donati is going to drop you right in the middle of it.”

      She switched off the television without another word and carried their wineglasses into the sitting room. On the coffee table was a tray of assorted bruschetta. Chiara watched Gabriel intently as he selected one smeared with artichoke hearts and ricotta cheese and washed it down with the Sangiovese. Her eyes, wide and oriental in shape, were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. They tended to change color with her mood. Gabriel could see she was troubled. She had a right to be. Their last assignment for the Office, an operation against a jihadist terror network, had been a particularly violent affair that ended in the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia. Chiara had hoped the Caravaggio restoration would prove to be the final stage of Gabriel’s long and difficult recovery, the start of a new life free from the gravitational pull of the Office. It was not supposed to include an investigation carried out on behalf of the pope’s private secretary.

      “Well?” she asked.

      “It was delicious,” said Gabriel.

      “I wasn’t talking about the bruschetta.” Chiara rearranged the pillows at the end of the couch. She always rearranged things when she was annoyed. “Have you considered what the Italian security service is going to do if they find out you’re freelancing for the Vatican? They’ll run us out of the country. Again.”

      “I tried to explain that to Donati.”

      “And?”

      “He invoked the name of his master.”

      “He’s not your pope, Gabriel.”

      “What should I have said?”

      “Find someone else,” she replied. “They’re three lovely little words you need to learn.”

      “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen Claudia’s body.”

      “That’s not fair.”

      “But it happens to be the truth. I’ve seen many dead bodies in my life, but I’ve never seen one that had fallen more than a hundred and fifty feet and landed on a marble floor.”

      “What a terrible way to die.” Chiara watched the rain pattering on the little terrace overlooking the Spanish Steps. “How certain are you that Donati is telling you the truth?”

      “About what?”

      “About his relationship with Claudia Andreatti.”

      “If you’re asking whether I think they were romantically involved, the answer is no.”

      “You grew up with a mother who never told you about the things that happened to her during the war.”

      “Your point?”

      “Everyone keeps secrets. Even from the people they trust the most. Call it female intuition, but I’ve always