The Fallen Angel by Daniel Silva

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 .
    “I 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?”
    “Actually, I wouldn’t.”
    “You don’t care for Greek vases?”
    “I 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.”
    “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