The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva
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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 someone 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.
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