The Fallen Angel

  “Infamously. Her husband is Carlo Marchese. He’s one of the most successful businessmen in Italy.” Donati paused and looked at Gabriel gravely. “He’s also the reason Claudia Andreatti is dead.”

  Somewhere beyond the walls of the Vatican a car backfired with the sharp report of a gunshot. A squadron of rooks whirled noisily in the trees before flying off in formation toward the dome of the Basilica. Gabriel watched them for a moment as he pieced together the implications of the story Donati had just told him. He felt as though he were wandering beneath the surface of an altarpiece, stumbling upon partial images concealed beneath layers of obliterating paint—here a woman lying dead on the floor of a church, here a tomb robber suffering for his sins in a cauldron of acid, here a fallen priest searching for God in the arms of his lover. He had questions, a thousand questions, but he knew better than to break the spell under which Donati had fallen. And so he walked at the monsignor’s shoulder with the austere silence of a confessor and waited for his friend to make a full accounting of his sins.

  “Carlo descends from the Black Nobility,” Donati said, “the aristocratic Roman families who remained loyal to the pope after the conquest of the Papal States in 1870. His father was part of Pius the Twelfth’s inner circle. He was close to the CIA as well.”

  “In what way?”

  “He was involved in the Christian Democratic Party. After the Second World War, he worked with the CIA to prevent the Communists from taking control of Italy. Several million dollars’ worth of secret CIA funds flowed through his hands before the election in 1948. Carlo says they used to give his father suitcases filled with cash in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel.”

  “It sounds as if you and Carlo are rather well acquainted.”

  “We are,” Donati replied. “Like his father, Carlo is a member in good standing of the papal court. He also serves on the lay supervisory council of the Vatican Bank, which means he knows as much about Church finances as I do. Carlo is the kind of man who doesn’t need to stop at the Permissions Desk before entering the Apostolic Palace. He likes to remind me that he’ll still be at the Vatican long after I’m gone.”

  “Who appointed him to the bank?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Veronica asked me to. And because Carlo appeared to be the perfect man for the job, a man with long-standing ties to the papacy who was regarded as one of the most honest businessmen in a country known for corruption. Unfortunately, that turned out not to be the case. Carlo Marchese controls the international trade in illicit antiquities. But that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. He sits atop a global criminal empire that’s into everything from narcotics to counterfeiting to arms trafficking. And he’s laundering his dirty money at the Vatican Bank.”

  “And you, the private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh, helped him get the job.”

  “Unwittingly,” Donati said defensively. “But that small detail won’t matter if this explodes into yet another scandal.”

  “When did you learn the truth about Carlo?”

  “It wasn’t until I asked a talented curator to conduct a review of the Vatican’s collection of antiquities,” Donati said. “First she discovered that dozens of pieces had vanished from the Vatican Museums. Then she discovered a connection between the thieves and one Carlo Marchese.”

  “Why did she want to see you the night of her death?”

  “She told me she had evidence of Carlo’s involvement. The next morning, she was dead, and whatever evidence she had was gone.” Donati shook his head. “Carlo actually rang my office that afternoon to offer his condolences. He had the decency not to show his face at the funeral.”

  “He had other matters to attend to.”

  “Such as?”

  “Killing a tombarolo named Roberto Falcone.”

  They walked past St. John’s Tower and made their way to the helipad in the far southwest corner of the city-state. Donati stared at the walls for a moment, as though calculating how to scale them, before taking a seat on a bench at the edge of the tarmac. Gabriel sat next to him and began mentally sorting through the notes of his investigation. One entry stood out: Claudia Andreatti’s final telephone call on the night of her death. It had been placed to the Villa Giulia, to the wife of a man who didn’t need to stop at the Permissions Desk before entering the Apostolic Palace.

  “How much does Veronica know about her husband?”

  “If you’re asking whether she thinks Carlo is a criminal, the answer is no. She believes her husband is a descendant of an old Roman family who parlayed his modest inheritance into a successful business.”

  “Does this successful businessman know you were engaged to his wife?”

  Donati shook his head solemnly.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Veronica never breathed a word of it to him.”

  “What about El Salvador?”

  “He knows I served there and that, like most of the Jesuits, I had some trouble with the death squads and their friends in the military. But he has no idea I ever left the priesthood. In fact, very few people inside the Church know about my little sabbatical. Any mention of the affair was purged from my personnel files after I went to work for Lucchesi in Venice. It’s as if it never happened.”

  “Almost like Claudia’s murder.”

  Donati made no response.

  “You lied to me, Luigi.”

  “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

  “I don’t want your apology. I just want an explanation of why you allowed me to investigate a murder when you already knew the identity of the killer.”

  “Because I needed to know how much you could find out on your own before moving on to the next step.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I would like you to bring me incontrovertible proof that Carlo Marchese is running a global criminal enterprise from inside my bank. And then I want you to make him go away. Quietly.”

  “There’s just one problem with that,” Gabriel said. “After my visit to the Villa Giulia, I suspect I’ve lost the element of surprise.”

  “I concur. In fact, I’m quite sure Carlo knows exactly what you’re up to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been invited to an intimate dinner party tomorrow evening at his palazzo. I’ve already accepted on your behalf. But do try to find something presentable to wear,” Donati said, frowning at Gabriel’s leather jacket and paint-smudged jeans. “I don’t mind if you walk around the palace dressed like that, but the Black Nobility tend to be a bit on the formal side.”

  15

  PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROME

  GABRIEL POSSESSED A SINGLE SUIT. Italian in design, Office in manufacture, it had hidden compartments for concealing false passports and a holster sewn into the waistband of the trousers large enough to hold a Beretta pistol and a spare magazine. After much debate, he decided it would be unwise to bring a firearm to Carlo Marchese’s dinner party. He knotted the pale blue necktie that Chiara had bought for him that afternoon from a shop in the Via Condotti and artfully stuffed a silk handkerchief into his breast pocket. Chiara made subtle adjustments to both before slipping into the bathroom to finish putting on her makeup. She was wearing a black cocktail-length dress and black stockings. Her hair hung loosely about her bare shoulders, and on her right wrist was the pearl-and-emerald bracelet Gabriel had given her on the occasion of her last birthday. She looked astonishingly beautiful, he thought, and far too young to be on the arm of a battered wreck like him.

  “You’d better put some clothes on,” he said. “We need to leave in a few minutes.”

  “You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s rather provocative,” said Gabriel, his eyes roaming freely over her body. “After all, we are having dinner with a priest.”

  “At the home of his former lover.” She
brushed a bit of powder across her cheekbones that brought out the flecks of honey and gold in her wide brown eyes. “I have to admit I’m curious to meet the woman who managed to penetrate Donati’s armor.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She would have been the perfect match for Donati if he’d chosen a different occupation.”

  “It’s more than an occupation. And I’m sure Donati had very little to do with choosing it.”

  “You believe it’s truly a calling?”

  “I’m the daughter of a rabbi. I know it’s a calling.” Chiara examined her appearance in the mirror for a moment before resuming work on her exquisite face. “For the record, I was right about Donati from the beginning. I told you he had a past. And I warned you that he was hiding something.”

  “He had no choice.”

  “Really?”

  “If he’d told me the truth, that he wanted me to go to war with a made Mafia man like Carlo Marchese, I would have finished the Caravaggio and left town as quickly as possible.”

  “It’s still an option.”

  Gabriel, with a glance into the mirror, made clear it wasn’t.

  “You have no idea what you’re getting into, darling. I grew up in this country. I know them better than you.”

  “I never realized the Jewish ghetto of Venice was such a hotbed of Mafia activity.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Chiara replied with a frown. “And they kill anyone who gets between them and their money—judges, politicians, policemen, anyone. Carlo has already killed two people to protect his secret. And he won’t hesitate to kill you too if he thinks you’re a threat.”

  “I’m not a politician. And I’m not a policeman, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they have to play by the rules. I don’t.” Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket and smoothed the front of his suit jacket.

  “I liked it better before,” Chiara said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “They’re very fashionable these days.”

  “That’s why I don’t like it.”

  Chiara wordlessly returned the handkerchief to Gabriel’s pocket. “I never thought I’d meet a woman whose love life was more complicated than my own,” she said, inspecting her work. “First Veronica falls in love with a priest who’s lost his faith in God. Then, when the priest dumps her, she marries a Mafia chieftain who’s running a global crime syndicate.”

  “Donati didn’t dump her,” Gabriel replied. “And Veronica Marchese has no idea where her husband gets his money.”

  “Maybe,” Chiara said without conviction. “Or maybe she sees exactly what she wants to see and turns a blind eye to the rest. It’s easier that way, especially when there’s a great deal of money involved.”

  “Is that why you married me? For the money?”

  “No,” she said, “I married you because I adore your fatalistic sense of humor. You always make dreadful jokes when you’re upset about something and you’re trying to hide it.”

  “Why would I be upset?”

  “Because you came to Rome to restore one of your favorite paintings. And now you’re about to make an enemy of a man who could kill you with one phone call.”

  “I’m not so easy to kill.”

  Chiara gathered up her hair and turned her back toward Gabriel. He raised the zipper of her dress slowly and then pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. In the mirror he could see her eyes closing.

  “Why do you suppose he wants us at his dinner table tonight?” Chiara asked.

  “I can only imagine that he intends to send me a message.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to listen very carefully,” Gabriel said, kissing her neck one last time. “And then I’m going to send him one in return.”

  16

  THE VIA VENETO, ROME

  THE MARCHESES LIVED WITHIN walking distance of the Piazza di Spagna, on a quiet street off the Via Veneto where the ceaseless march of time seemed to have stopped, however briefly, in an age of grace. This was the Rome that travelers dreamed of but rarely saw, the Rome of poets and painters and the fabulously rich. In Carlo’s private little corner of the Eternal City, la dolce vita endured, if only for the moment.

  His home was not a real home but a vast ocher-colored palazzo set amid an expanse of parkland. Surrounding it was an iron fence topped with many security cameras—so many, in fact, the property was often mistaken for an embassy or a government building. A large Baroque fountain splashed in the forecourt, and in the entrance hall loomed an armless statue of Pluto, lord of the underworld. Standing next to it was Veronica Marchese, dressed in a flowing gown of crushed green silk. She greeted Gabriel and Chiara warmly and then led them along a wide corridor hung with Italian Renaissance paintings in ornate frames. Between the canvases, balanced atop fluted shoulder-height pedestals, were Roman busts and statuary. The paintings were museum quality. So were the antiquities.

  “The Marchese family has been collecting for many generations,” she explained, a note of disapproval in her voice. “I don’t mind the paintings, but the antiquities have been a source of some embarrassment for me, since I am on record as saying the collectors are the real looters. It’s quite simple. If the rich would stop buying antiquities, the tombaroli would stop digging them up.”

  “Your husband has excellent taste,” Chiara said.

  “He has an expert adviser,” Veronica replied playfully. “But we’re not responsible for any of these acquisitions. Carlo’s ancestors purchased them long before there were any laws restricting the trade in ancient artifacts. Even so, I’m trying to convince him to give away at least a portion of the collection so the public can finally see it. I’m afraid I still have a bit of work to do.”

  At the end of the hall was a wide double doorway that gave onto a grand drawing room with tapestried walls. The furnishings were stately and elegant, as were the guests scattered among them. Gabriel had been expecting a quiet dinner for six, but the room was filled with no fewer than twenty people, including the Italian minister of finance, the host of an influential television talk show, and one of the country’s most popular sopranos. Donati had cloistered himself at one end of a brocaded sofa. He was dressed in a double-breasted clerical suit and was imparting some well-rehearsed Curial gossip to a pair of bejeweled women who seemed to be hanging breathlessly on his every utterance.

  At the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a group of prosperous-looking businessmen, stood Carlo Marchese. He had the square shoulders of a man who had been a star athlete at school, and was groomed as if for a photo shoot. His small wireless spectacles lent a priestly gravity to his even features, and he was gesturing thoughtfully with a hand that had wielded no tool other than a Montblanc pen or a silver fork. His resemblance to Donati was unmistakable. It was as if Veronica, having lost Donati to the Church, had acquired another version of him absent a Roman collar and a conscience.

  As Gabriel and Chiara entered the room, several heads turned in unison and the conversation fell silent for a few seconds before resuming in a subdued murmur. Gabriel accepted two glasses of Prosecco from a white-jacketed waiter and handed one to Chiara. Then, turning, he found himself staring into Carlo’s face.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Allon.” One hand closed around Gabriel’s while the other grasped his arm just above the elbow. “I was in St. Peter’s Square when the terrorists attacked the Vatican. None of us who are close to the Holy Father will ever forget what you did that day.” He released Gabriel’s hand and introduced himself to Chiara. “Would you be kind enough to allow me to borrow your husband for a moment? I have a small problem I’d like to discuss with him.”

  “I suppose that depends on the nature of the problem.”

  “I can assure you it’s entirely artistic in nature.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Carlo Marchese led Gabriel up
a sweeping central staircase, to the second level of the palazzo. Before them stretched an endless gallery of ancestral treasures: paintings and tapestries, sculptures and timepieces, antiquities of every sort. Carlo played the role of tour guide, slowing every few paces in order to point out a noteworthy piece or two. He spoke with the erudition of a man who knew much about art but also with a trace of discomfort, as though his possessions were a great burden to him. Even Gabriel found the presence of so much art in one space overwhelming; it was like wandering through storerooms filled with the plunder of a distant war. He paused before a Canaletto. The painting, a luminous depiction of the Piazza di San Marco, was vaguely familiar. Then Gabriel realized where he had seen it before. A few years earlier, the work had been stolen. Its successful recovery, announced with much fanfare by General Ferrari, was regarded as one of the great triumphs of the Art Squad.

  “Now I know why the general refused to release the name of the owner,” Gabriel said.

  “He did so at my request. We were afraid we would be targeted again if the thieves knew the quality of the pieces contained in our collection.”

  “There were reports at the time that the owner played a significant role in the painting’s recovery.”

  “You have a good memory, Mr. Allon. I personally conducted the ransom negotiations. In fact, I didn’t even tell General Ferrari the painting had been stolen until after the deal had been struck. He arrested the thieves when they tried to collect the money. They weren’t terribly professional.”

  “I remember,” said Gabriel. “I also remember that they were killed not long after their arrival at Regina Coeli Prison.”

  “Apparently, it was the result of some sort of struggle over prison turf.”

  Or perhaps you had them killed for stealing from the boss, thought Gabriel. ”Is there something in particular you wanted to show me?” he asked.

  “This,” Carlo said, inclining his head toward the large canvas at the farthest end of the gallery. The image, a depiction of the Adoration of the Shepherds, was scarcely visible beneath a dense layer of surface grime and a coat of heavily discolored varnish. Carlo illuminated the painting with the flick of a light switch. “I assume you recognize the artist.”