The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva
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she added, “how much do you really know about his personal life?”
“Enough to know that he would never do anything as reckless as having an affair with an employee of the Vatican.”
“I suppose you’re right. But I can’t imagine what it’s like for a man who looks like Luigi Donati to be celibate.”
“He deals with it by giving off an aura of absolute unavailability. He also wears a long black skirt and sleeps next door to the pope.”
Chiara smiled and plucked a bruschetta from the tray. “There is at least one fringe benefit to accepting the case,” she said thoughtfully. “It would give us a chance to take a look at the Church’s private collection of antiquities. God only knows what they really have locked away in their storerooms.”
“God and the popes,” said Gabriel. “But it’s far too much material for me to review on my own. I’m going to need help from someone who knows a thing or two about antiquities.”
“Me?”
“If the Office hadn’t got its hooks into you, you’d be a professor at an important Italian university.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But I studied the history of the Roman Empire.”
“Anyone who studies the Romans knows something about their artifacts. And your knowledge of Greek and Etruscan civilization is far superior to mine.”
“I’m afraid that’s not saying much, darling.”
Chiara arched one eyebrow before raising the glass of wine to her lips. Her appearance had changed noticeably since their arrival in Rome. Seated as she was now, with her hair tumbling about her shoulders and her olive skin aglow, she looked remarkably like the intoxicating young Italian woman Gabriel had encountered for the first time, ten years earlier, in the ancient ghetto of Venice. It was almost as if the toll of the many long and dangerous operations had been erased. Only the faint shadow of loss fell across her face. It had been left there by the child she had miscarried while being held as ransom by the Russian oligarch and arms dealer Ivan Kharkov. They had not been able to conceive since. Privately, Chiara had resigned herself to the prospect that she and Gabriel might never have a child.
“There is one other possibility,” she suggested.
“What’s that?”
“That Dr. Claudia Andreatti climbed to the top of the Basilica in a state of emotional turmoil and threw herself to her death.”
“When I saw her last night, she didn’t look like a woman in turmoil. In fact …” Gabriel’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“I got the sense she wanted to tell me something.”
Chiara was silent for a moment. “How long will it take for Donati to get us her files?” she asked finally.
“A day or two.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?”
“I think we should get to know her a little better.”
“How?”
Gabriel held up the ring of keys.
She lived on the opposite side of the river in Trastevere, in a faded old palazzo that had been converted into a faded old apartment house. Gabriel and Chiara strolled past the doorway twice while determining that their usual complement of Italian watchers had decided to take the night off. Then, on the third pass, Gabriel approached the door with the easy confidence of a man who had business within the premises and ushered Chiara inside. They found the foyer in semi-darkness and Claudia’s mailbox bulging with what appeared to be several days’ worth of uncollected post. Gabriel removed the items and placed them into Chiara’s handbag. Then he led her to the base of the wide central staircase and together they started to climb.
It did not take long for Gabriel to feel a familiar sensation spreading over him. Shamron, his mentor, called it “the operational buzz.” It caused him to walk on the balls of his feet with a slight forward tilt and to draw his breath with the evenness of a ventilator. And it compelled him to instinctively assume the worst, that behind every door, around every darkened corner, lurked an old enemy with a gun and an unpaid debt to collect. His eyes flickered restlessly, and his sense of hearing, suddenly acute, locked onto every sound, no matter how faint or trivial—the splash of water in a basin, the diminishment of a violin concerto, the wail of an inconsolable child.
It was this sound, the sound of a child weeping, that followed Gabriel and Chiara onto the third-floor landing. Gabriel walked over to the door of 3B and ran his fingertips quickly round the doorjamb before inserting the key into the lock. Then, soundlessly, he turned the latch and they slipped inside. Instantly, they realized they were not alone. Seated in a pool of lamplight, weeping softly, was Dr. Claudia Andreatti.
6
TRASTEVERE, ROME
THE WOMAN WAS NOT CLAUDIA, of course, but the likeness was unnerving. It was as if Caravaggio had painted the curator’s portrait, and then, pleased with his creation, had produced an exact copy down to the smallest detail—the same scale and composition, the same features, the same sandstone-colored hair, the same translucent blue eyes. Now the copy appraised Gabriel and Chiara silently for a moment before wiping a tear from her cheek.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m a colleague of Claudia’s from the museum,” Gabriel answered vaguely. He realized suddenly that he was staring too intently at the woman’s face. Earlier that morning, on the way out of the Basilica, Luigi Donati had mentioned something about a sister who lived in London, but he’d left out the part about an identical twin.
“You worked with Claudia in the antiquities division?” she asked.
“No,” replied Gabriel. “I was asked to collect some files that she borrowed from the archives. If I had known you were here, I never would have intruded on your privacy.”
The woman appeared to accept the explanation. Gabriel felt an uncharacteristic stab of guilt. Though he was trained in the fine art of lying, he was understandably apprehensive about telling an untruth to the wraith of a dead woman. Now the wraith rose to her feet and came slowly toward him through the half-light.
“Where did you get those?” she asked, nodding toward the keys in Gabriel’s hand.
“They were found in Claudia’s desk,” he said as the knife of guilt twisted slowly within his chest.
“Was anything else found?”
“Such as?”
“A suicide note?”
Gabriel could scarcely believe she hadn’t said my suicide note. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Vatican police about that,” he said.
“I intend to.” She took a step closer. “I’m Paola Andreatti,” she said, extending her hand. When Gabriel hesitated to grasp it, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “So it’s true, after all.”
“What’s that?”
“My sister told me that you were the one who was restoring the Caravaggio, Mr. Allon. I have to admit I’m rather surprised to see you here now.”
Gabriel grasped the outstretched hand and found it warm and damp to the touch.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I was doing the dishes before you arrived. I’m afraid my sister left quite a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything in the apartment was slightly out of place,” she said, looking around. “I’ve tried to restore some semblance of order.”