The Fallen Angel

“I assume you saw General Ferrari’s news conference?”

“He had the reporters eating out of his hand as usual.” She didn’t sound impressed. “But he’s obviously been taking lessons in evasion from the Vatican.”

The general had warned Gabriel about Dr. Marchese’s acerbic wit. A graduate of Rome’s La Sapienza University, she was regarded as Italy’s foremost authority on Etruscan civilization and had served as an expert consultant to the Art Squad on numerous cases, including the Medici investigation. After the raid on Medici’s warehouse in Geneva, she had spent weeks examining the contents, trying to determine the origin of each piece and, if possible, when it had been ripped from the ground by tomb raiders. Working at her side had been a gifted young protégée named Claudia Andreatti.

“The general tells me you were the one who was responsible for Claudia getting the job at the Vatican.”

“She was my best friend,” Veronica Marchese replied, “but she didn’t need my help. Claudia was one of the most talented people who ever worked for me. She earned the job entirely on her own.”

“You knew that she had undertaken a review of the Vatican’s collection of antiquities. In fact, she consulted with you on a regular basis.”

“I see you’ve been reading her e-mail.”

“And her phone records as well. I know that she was in contact with Roberto Falcone before her death. I was hoping you might be able to tell me why.”

Veronica Marchese lapsed into silence. “Claudia said she’d discovered a problem with the collection,” she said finally. “She thought Falcone could help.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Apparently things were missing. Lots of things.”

“From the storerooms?”

“Not just the storerooms. From the galleries as well.”

Gabriel joined her at the display case, his eyes on the krater. “And when the Vatican announced that Claudia had committed suicide in the Basilica?”

“I was dubious, to say the least.”

“But you remained silent.”

It was a statement. She delivered her response not to Gabriel but to the corpse of Sarpedon.

“It was difficult,” she said quietly. “But, yes, I remained silent.”

“Why?”

“Because I was asked to.”

“By whom?”

“By the same man who asked you to quietly investigate her death.”

“Monsignor Donati?”

“Monsignor?” She gave a melancholy smile. “I still find it hard to refer to him as that.”

The museum’s café was housed in an old greenhouse set against the villa’s main courtyard. The attendant, a woman of sixty with pins in her gray hair, was in the process of closing down the cash register as they entered, but Veronica managed to cajole her into making two final cups of cappuccino. They sat together at a small wrought-iron table in the corner, next to a trellis of flowering vine. Rain pattered overhead on the glass roof while she examined the fragment of pottery Gabriel had taken from Falcone’s house in Cerveteri.

“Your wife has an excellent eye. The figure is clearly a follower of Dionysus. If I had to guess, it’s probably the work of the Menelaos Painter, which means it should be here in the Villa Giulia, not on the kitchen table of a tombarolo.” She returned the fragment to Gabriel. “Unfortunately, it was probably intact before it fell into the hands of Falcone and his men.”

“How was it broken?”

“Sometimes ceramics are shattered by the spilli that the tombaroli use to locate the tombs. But other times, the tombaroli and their middlemen break vases intentionally. Then they slide the fragments onto the market piecemeal over time so as not to attract unwanted attention. Once all the pieces are in the hands of a single dealer, they pretend a long-lost vase has suddenly materialized.” She shook her head slowly in disgust. “They’re scum. But they’re very clever.”

“And dangerous,” added Gabriel.

“So it would seem.” She started to light a cigarette but stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, sliding it back into the pack. “Luigi told me how much you hate tobacco.”

“What else has he told you?”

“He said you’re one of the most remarkable men he’s ever met. He also said you would have made an excellent priest.”

“I minister to paintings, not souls. Besides,” he added, “I’m a sinner without hope of redemption.”

“Priests sin, too. Even the good ones.”

She poured three packets of sugar into her cappuccino and gave it a gentle stir. Gabriel should have been thinking about the case, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the life of the Holy Father’s private secretary had intersected with a woman like Veronica Marchese. He imagined several scenarios, none of them good.

“I thought spies were supposed to be good at concealing their thoughts,” she said.

“I’m officially retired.”

“Good. Because you’re obviously curious about how Luigi and I know each other. Suffice it to say we’ve been friends for a long time. In fact, I was the one who first suggested a review of the Church’s collection.”

“You were concerned it might be tainted?”

“Let’s just say that, given current political realities, I thought it wise for Luigi to know more than his potential enemies.”

“You would have made a good lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer,” she said, “as well as an archaeologist.”

“Why didn’t you volunteer to conduct the review yourself?”

“It’s not my collection. Besides, Luigi had a perfect candidate for the job on the staff of the museum.”

“Claudia.”

Veronica Marchese nodded slowly. “She was a natural detective. Her work was impeccable.”

“But when I reviewed her notes and research files, there was no mention of any problem whatsoever. In fact, it appeared she’d given the collection a clean bill of health.”

“That’s because she was advised not to put any of her findings in writing.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

“Did she tell you what was missing?”

“She didn’t go into specifics, only that she couldn’t account for several dozen pieces. Nothing major,” she added quickly, “but they were of great value, exactly the sort of things that can confer instant prestige upon your average Arab sheikh or Russian oligarch. She compiled a list of the items and took it to an old friend who might know where she could find them.”

“Roberto Falcone?”

“Exactly.”

“How did Claudia know someone like Falcone?”

“He was an associate of her father.”

“Are you saying Claudia’s father worked for Roberto Falcone?”

“No,” Veronica Marchese said, shaking her head slowly. “Claudia’s father would never work for a man like Roberto Falcone. Falcone worked for him.”

The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes to indicate she wished to close for the night. Gabriel and Veronica Marchese quickly finished the last of their coffee and then headed outside. Darkness had fallen and a gusty wet wind was swirling in the arcades. Veronica lit a cigarette thoughtfully and proceeded to tell Gabriel things about Claudia Andreatti that had failed to make it into her Vatican personnel file. That she had been raised in Tarquinia, an ancient Etruscan town north of Cerveteri. That her father, Francesco Andreatti, a day laborer of peasant stock, had supplemented the family’s meager income with a spillo and a shovel. It seemed he