The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva

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СКАЧАТЬ They depicted a painting that had not fared well after more than forty years underground. The edges of the canvas were badly frayed—the result of the painting being cut from its stretcher with a razor—and deep cracks and abrasions marred the once glorious image.

      “What happened to the thief who gave you the tip?”

      “I sent him to prison.”

      “But the information he gave you was good.”

      “That’s true. But it wasn’t timely. And in this business, timing is everything.” Ferrari gave a brief smile that did not quite extend to his prosthetic eye. “If we do ever manage to find it, the restoration is obviously going to be difficult, even for a man of your skills.”

      “I’ll make you a deal, General. If you find it, I’ll fix it.”

      “I’m not in the mood for deals just yet, Allon.”

      Ferrari accepted the Polaroids of the lost Caravaggio and returned them to their file. Then he stared contemplatively out the window in the manner of Bellini’s Doge Leonardo Loredan, as if debating whether to send Gabriel across the Bridge of Sighs for a few hours in the torture chambers.

      “I’m going to begin this conversation by telling you everything I know. That way, you might be less tempted to lie to me. I know, for example, that your friend Monsignor Donati arranged for you to restore The Deposition of Christ for the Vatican Picture Gallery. I also know that he asked you to view the body of Dottoressa Claudia Andreatti while it was still in the Basilica—and that, subsequently, you undertook a private investigation of the circumstances surrounding her unfortunate death. That investigation led you to Roberto Falcone. And now it has landed you here,” Ferrari concluded, “in the palazzo.”

      “I’ve been in far worse places than this.”

      “And you will be again unless you cooperate.”

      The general lit an American cigarette. He smoked it somewhat awkwardly with his left hand. The right, the one missing two fingers, was concealed in his lap.

      “Why was the monsignor so concerned about this woman?” he asked.

      Gabriel told him about the review of the Vatican’s antiquities.

      “I was led to believe it was nothing more than a routine inventory.”

      “It might have started that way. But it appears that somewhere along the line, Claudia uncovered something else.”

      “Do you know what?”

      “No.”

      Ferrari scrutinized Gabriel as if he didn’t quite believe him. “Why were you sniffing around Falcone’s place?”

      “Dr. Andreatti was in contact with him shortly before her death.”

      “How do you know this?”

      “I found his phone number in her records.”

      “She called him from her office at the Vatican?”

      “From her mobile,” said Gabriel.

      “How were you, a foreigner residing in this country temporarily, able to obtain the mobile phone records of an Italian citizen?”

      When Gabriel made no reply, Ferrari eyed him over the tip of his cigarette like a marksman lining up a difficult shot.

      “The most logical explanation is that you called upon friends in your old service to retrieve the records for you. If that’s the case, you violated your agreement with our security authorities. And that, I’m afraid, places you in a very precarious position indeed.”

      It was a threat, thought Gabriel, but only a mild one.

      “Did you ever speak to Falcone yourself?” the general asked.

      “I tried.”

      “And?”

      “He wasn’t answering his phone.”

      “So you decided to break into his property?”

      “Out of concern for his safety.”

      “Oh, yes, of course,” said Ferrari sarcastically. “And once inside, you discovered what appeared to be a large cache of antiquities.”

      “Along with a tombarolo simmering in a pot of hydrochloric acid.”

      “How did you get past the locks?”

      “The dog was more of a challenge than the locks.”

      The general smiled, one professional to another, and tapped his cigarette thoughtfully against his ashtray. “Roberto Falcone was no ordinary tombarolo,” he said. “He was a capo zona, the head of a regional looting network. The low-level looters brought him their goods. Then Falcone moved the product up the line to the smugglers and the crooked dealers.”

      “You seem to know a great deal about a man whose body was discovered just a few hours ago.”

      “That’s because Roberto Falcone was also my informant,” the general admitted. “My very best informant. And now, thanks to you, he’s dead.”

      “I had nothing to do with his death.”

      “So you say.”

      A uniformed aide knocked discreetly on Ferrari’s door. The general waved him away with an imperious gesture and resumed his doge-like pose of solemn deliberation.

      “As I see it,” he said at last, “we have two distinct options before us. Option one, we handle everything by the book. That means throwing you to the wolves at the security service. There might be some negative publicity involved, not only for your government but for the Vatican as well. Things could get messy, Allon. Very messy indeed.”

      “And the second option?”

      “You start by telling me everything you know about Claudia Andreatti’s death.”

      “And then?”

      “I’ll help you find the man who killed her.”

      11

      PIAZZA DI SANT’IGNAZIO, ROME

      AMONG THE PERQUISITES OF WORKING at the palazzo was Le Cave. Regarded as one of the finest restaurants in Rome, it was located just steps from the entrance of the building, in a quiet corner of the piazza. In summer the tables stood in neat rows across the cobbles, but on that February evening they were stacked forlornly against the outer wall. General Ferrari arrived without advance warning and was immediately shown, along with his two guests, to a table at the back of the room. A waiter brought a plate of arancini di riso and red wine from Ferrari’s native Campania. The general made a toast to a marriage that, for the moment, had yet to be consummated. Then, as he picked at one of the risotto croquettes, he spoke disdainfully of a man named Giacomo Medici.

      Though СКАЧАТЬ