The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva
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Название: The Fallen Angel
Автор: Daniel Silva
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Классическая проза
isbn: 9780007433322
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“That’s quite a coincidence.” Gabriel looked at the body again. “What do you suppose the odds are that she decided to kill herself during the time the cameras were switched off?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence at all,” said Metzler. “Perhaps she chose the time intentionally so there would be no video recording of her death.”
“How would she have known about the cameras being shut down?”
“It’s common knowledge around here.”
Gabriel shook his head slowly. Despite numerous outside threats, terrorist and otherwise, security inside the borders of the world’s smallest country remained startlingly lax. What’s more, those who worked behind the walls enjoyed extraordinary freedom of movement. They knew the doors that were never locked, the chapels that were never used, and the storerooms where it was possible to plot, scheme, or caress the flesh of a lover in complete privacy. They also knew the secret passageways leading into the Basilica. Gabriel knew one or two himself.
“Was there anyone else in the Basilica at the time?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” replied Vitale.
“But you can’t rule it out.”
“That’s correct. But no one reported anything unusual.”
“Where’s her handbag?”
“She left it up in the gallery before jumping.”
“Was anything missing?”
“Not that we know of.”
But there was something missing; Gabriel was certain of it. He closed his eyes and for an instant saw Claudia as she had been the previous evening—the warm smile, the flirtatious glance from her brown eyes, the batch of files she had been clutching to her breast.
And the cross of gold around her neck.
“I’d like to have a look at the gallery,” he said.
“I’ll take you up,” answered Vitale.
“That won’t be necessary.” Gabriel rose. “I’m sure the monsignor will be good enough to show me the way.”
4
ST. PETER’S BASILICA
THERE WERE TWO WAYS TO make the ascent from the main level of the Basilica to the base of the dome—a long, twisting stairwell or an elevator large enough to accommodate two dozen well-fed pilgrims. Donati, an unrepentant smoker, suggested the elevator, but Gabriel headed for the steps instead.
“The elevator is shut down in the afternoon after the last group of tourists is admitted. There’s no way Claudia could have used it late at night.”
“That’s true,” Donati said with a morose glance at his handmade loafers, “but it’s several hundred steps.”
“And we’re going to search every one.”
“For what?”
“When I saw Claudia last night, she was wearing a gold cross around her neck.”
“And?”
“It’s no longer there.”
Gabriel mounted the first step with Donati at his heels and climbed slowly upward. His careful search of the stairwell produced nothing but a few discarded admission tickets and a crumpled flier advertising the services of a less-than-saintly enterprise involving young women from Eastern Europe. At the top of the stairs was a landing. In one direction was the roof terrace; in the other, the viewing gallery for the dome. Gabriel peered over the balustrade at the now-miniaturized figures of Vitale and Metzler, then set out slowly along the catwalk with his eyes lowered toward the time-worn marble. After a few paces, he found the cross. The clasp was intact, but the thin gold chain had been snapped.
“It’s possible she tore it off before climbing over the balustrade,” Donati said, examining the broken chain by the light of one of the dome’s sixteen windows.
“I suppose anything is possible. But the more likely explanation is that the chain was broken by someone else.”
“Who?”
“The person who killed her.” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Her neck was snapped like a twig, Luigi. I suppose the break could have occurred on impact, but I believe it happened up here. Her killer probably didn’t notice he broke the chain of Claudia’s cross as well. He did notice the shoes, though. That’s why they were found so far apart. He probably hurled them over the barrier before making his escape.”
“How certain are you that she was murdered?”
“As certain as you are.” Gabriel studied Donati’s face carefully. “Something tells me you know more than you’re saying, Luigi.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Is there anything you wish to confess, Monsignor?”
“Yes,” said Donati, peering down at the floor of the Basilica. “It’s possible the person responsible for Claudia Andreatti’s death might be standing right in front of you.”
They headed out onto the roof terrace of the Basilica to walk among the apostles and the saints. Donati’s black cassock billowed and snapped in the cold wind. In one hand, entwined around his fingers like the beads of a rosary, was Claudia’s gold necklace.
“She was conducting …” Donati paused for a moment, as if searching for the appropriate word. “An investigation,” he said at last.
“What sort of investigation?”
“The only kind we ever do around here.”
“A secret investigation,” said Gabriel. “Ordered by you, of course.”
“At the behest of the Holy Father,” Donati added hastily.
“And the nature of this investigation?”
“As you know, there’s been a debate raging within the art world and the curatorial community over who owns antiquity. For centuries, the great empires of Europe looted the treasures of the ancient world with reckless abandon. The Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles, the great temples of ancient Egypt—the list goes on and on. Now the source countries are demanding the symbols of their cultural heritage be returned. And they often turn to the police and courts for help in getting them back.”
“You were afraid the Vatican Museums were vulnerable?”
“We probably are.” Donati paused along the façade of the Basilica and pointed toward the Egyptian obelisk in the center of the square. “It’s one of eight here in Rome. They were built by craftsmen from an empire that no longer exists and brought СКАЧАТЬ