The Heist. Daniel Silva

and Lorenzo Vasari had found it in their hearts to forgive Gabriel’s deception, but not Antonio Politi. In his youth, he had once accused Mario Delvecchio of being a terrorist, and he regarded Gabriel Allon as a terrorist, too. Secretly, he suspected it was because of Gabriel that he spent his days in the upper reaches of the nave, supine and contorted, isolated from human contact, with solvent and paint dripping onto his face. The panels depicted the story of Queen Esther. Surely, Politi told anyone who would listen, it was no coincidence.

      In truth, Gabriel had had nothing to do with the decision; it had been made by Francesco Tiepolo, owner of the most prominent restoration firm in the Veneto and director of the San Sebastiano project. A bearlike figure with a tangled gray-and-black beard, Tiepolo was a man of enormous appetites and passions, capable of great anger and even greater love. As he strode up the center of the nave, he was dressed, as usual, in a flowing tunic-like shirt with a silk scarf knotted around his neck. The clothing made it seem as though he were overseeing the construction of the church rather than its renovation.

      Tiepolo paused briefly to cast an admiring glance at Adrianna Zinetti, with whom he had once had an affair that was among the worst-kept secrets in Venice. Then he scaled Gabriel’s scaffolding and barged through the gap in the tarpaulin shroud. The wooden platform seemed to bow under the strain of his enormous weight.

      “Careful, Francesco,” said Gabriel, frowning. “The floor of the altar is made of marble, and it’s a long way down.”

      “What are you saying?”

      “I’m saying that it might be wise for you to lose a few kilos. You’re starting to develop your own gravitational pull.”

      “What good would it do to lose weight? I could shed twenty kilos, and I’d still be fat.” The Italian took a step forward and examined the altarpiece over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Very good,” he said with mock admiration. “If you continue at this pace, you’ll be finished in time for the first birthday of your children.”

      “I can do it quickly,” replied Gabriel, “or I can do it right.”

      “They’re not mutually exclusive, you know. Here in Italy, our restorers work quickly. But not you,” Tiepolo added. “Even when you were pretending to be one of us, you were always very slow.”

      Gabriel fashioned a fresh swab, moistened it with solvent, and twirled it over Sebastian’s arrow-pierced torso. Tiepolo watched intently for a moment; then he fashioned a swab of his own and worked it against the saint’s shoulder. The yellowed varnish dissolved instantly, exposing Veronese’s pristine paint.

      “Your solvent mixture is perfect,” said Tiepolo.

      “It always is,” replied Gabriel.

      “What’s the solution?”

      “It’s a secret.”

      “Must everything be a secret with you?”

      When Gabriel made no reply, Tiepolo glanced down at the flasks of chemicals.

      “How much methyl proxitol did you use?”

      “Exactly the right amount.”

      Tiepolo scowled. “Didn’t I arrange work for you when your wife decided she wanted to spend her pregnancy in Venice?”

      “You did, Francesco.”

      “And do I not pay you far more than I pay the others,” he whispered, “despite the fact that you’re always running out on me every time your masters require your services?”

      “You’ve always been very generous.”

      “Then why won’t you tell me the formula for your solvent?”

      “Because Veronese had his secret formula, and I have mine.”

      Tiepolo gave a dismissive wave of his enormous hand. Then he discarded his soiled swab and fashioned a new one.

      “I got a call from the Rome bureau chief of the New York Times last night,” he said, his tone offhand. “She’s interested in doing a piece on the restoration for the Sunday arts section. She wants to come up here on Friday and have a look around.”

      “If you don’t mind, Francesco, I think I’ll take Friday off.”

      “I thought you’d say that.” Tiepolo gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “Not even tempted?”

      “To what?”

      “To show the world the real Gabriel Allon. The Gabriel Allon who cares for the works of the great masters. The Gabriel Allon who can paint like an angel.”

      “I only talk to journalists as a last resort. And I would never dream of talking to one about myself.”

      “You’ve lived an interesting life.”

      “That’s putting it mildly.”

      “Perhaps it’s time for you to come out from behind the shroud.”

      “And then what?”

      “You can spend the rest of your days here in Venice with us. You always were a Venetian at heart, Gabriel.”

      “It’s tempting.”

      “But?”

      With his expression, Gabriel made it clear he wished to discuss the matter no further. Then, turning to the canvas, he asked, “Have you received any other phone calls I should know about?”

      “Just one,” answered Tiepolo. “General Ferrari of the Carabinieri is coming into town later this morning. He’d like a word with you in private.”

      Gabriel turned sharply and looked at Tiepolo. “About what?”

      “He didn’t say. The general is far better at asking questions than answering them.” Tiepolo scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “I never knew that you and the general were friends.”

      “We’re not.”

      “How do you know him?”

      “He once asked me for a favor, and I had no choice but to agree.”

      Tiepolo made a show of thought. “It must have been that business at the Vatican a couple of years ago, that girl who fell from the dome of the Basilica. As I recall, you were restoring their Caravaggio at the time it happened.”

      “Was I?”

      “That was the rumor.”

      “You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Francesco. They’re almost always wrong.”

      “Unless they involve you,” Tiepolo responded with a smile.

      Gabriel allowed the remark to echo unanswered into the heights of the chancel. Then he resumed his work. A moment earlier, he had been using his right hand. Now he was using his left, with equal dexterity.

      “You’re like Titian,” Tiepolo said, watching him. “You are a sun amidst small stars.”

      “If you don’t leave me in peace, the sun is never going to finish this painting.”

      Tiepolo didn’t move. “Are you sure you’re not him?” he asked after a moment.

      “Who?”

      “Mario Delvecchio.”

      “Mario is dead, Francesco. Mario never was.”

       3

       VENICE

      THE REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE Carabinieri, Italy’s national military police force, was located in the sestiere of Castello, not far from the Campo San Zaccaria. General Cesare Ferrari emerged from the building promptly at one. He had forsaken his blue uniform with its many medals