The Fallen Angel by Daniel Silva Page A

knickknack gathering dust on a shelf. If it belonged anywhere, he thought, it was in the tomb of the wealthy Etruscan who had purchased it from a Greek trader two and a half thousand years ago.
    Gabriel heard the clatter of high heels and, turning, glimpsed a tall, elegant woman coming through the passage from the adjoining gallery. Dark hair fell softly about her shoulders, and wide brown eyes shone intelligently from her face. The cut of her suit suggested a source of income beyond the museum, as did the jewelry that sparkled on the suntanned hand she extended in Gabriel’s direction. She held the embrace for a moment longer than was necessary, as though she had been waiting to meet him for some time. She seemed well aware of the impact of her appearance.
    â€œYou were expecting someone in a white lab coat?”
    â€œI only know one archaeologist,” said Gabriel, “and he’s usually covered in dirt.”
    Dr. Veronica Marchese gave a fleeting smile. She was at least fifty, but even in the unflattering halogen light of the museum she could have easily passed for thirty-five. Her name, when spoken by General Ferrari, had been instantly familiar to Gabriel, for it had appeared dozens of times in Claudia’s e-mail accounts. Now he realized her face was familiar, too. He had seen it for the first time outside the Church of St. Anne, at the conclusion of Claudia Andreatti’s funeral mass. She had been standing slightly apart from the other mourners, and her eyes had been fixed not on the casket but upon Luigi Donati. Something about her gaze, remembered Gabriel, had been vaguely accusatory.
    Now she slipped past Gabriel and peered through the shatterproof glass of the display case at the image on the side of the krater. It depicted the lifeless body of Sarpedon, son of Zeus, being carried off for burial by the personifications of Sleep and Death. The image was strikingly similar to the composition of The Deposition of Christ .
    â€œI never tire of looking at it,” Dr. Marchese said softly. “It’s almost as beautiful as the Caravaggio you’re restoring for the Vatican.” She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Allon?”
    â€œActually, I wouldn’t.”
    â€œYou don’t care for Greek vases?”
    â€œI don’t believe I said that.”
    Her eyes swept slowly over him, as if he were a statue mounted atop a plinth. “Greek vases are among the most extraordinary objects ever created,” she said. “Without them, there would have been no Caravaggio. And unfortunately, there are some men in the world who will do anything to possess them.” She paused thoughtfully. “But you didn’t come here for a debate about the aesthetic merits of ancient art. You’re here because of Claudia.”
    â€œI assume you saw General Ferrari’s news conference?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œThe general tells me you were the one who was responsible for Claudia getting the job at the Vatican.”
    â€œShe was my best friend,” Veronica Marchese replied, “but she didn’t need my help. Claudia was one of the most talented people who ever