The Fallen Angel by Daniel Silva Page B

worked for me. She earned the job entirely on her own.”
    â€œYou knew that she had undertaken a review of the Vatican’s collection of antiquities. In fact, she consulted with you on a regular basis.”
    â€œI see you’ve been reading her e-mail.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œWhat kind of problem?”
    â€œApparently things were missing. Lots of things.”
    â€œFrom the storerooms?”
    â€œNot 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?”
    â€œI was dubious, to say the least.”
    â€œBut you remained silent.”
    It was a statement. She delivered her response not to Gabriel but to the corpse of Sarpedon.
    â€œIt was difficult,” she said quietly. “But, yes, I remained silent.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I was asked to.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œBy the same man who asked you to quietly investigate her death.”
    â€œMonsignor Donati?”
    â€œMonsignor?” She gave a melancholy smile. “I still find it hard to refer to him as that.”
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    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.
    â€œYour 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.”
    â€œHow was it broken?”
    â€œSometimes 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.”
    â€œAnd dangerous,” added Gabriel.
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œWhat else has he told you?”
    â€œHe said you’re one of the most remarkable men he’s ever met. He also said you would have made an excellent priest.”
    â€œI minister to paintings, not souls. Besides,” he added, “I’m a sinner without hope of redemption.”
    â€œPriests 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.
    â€œI thought spies were supposed to be good