The Fallen Angel

keys.
     
     
    She lived on the opposite side of the river in Trastevere, in a faded old palazzo that had been converted into a faded old apartment house. Gabriel and Chiara strolled past the doorway twice while determining that their usual complement of Italian watchers had decided to take the night off. Then, on the third pass, Gabriel approached the door with the easy confidence of a man who had business within the premises and ushered Chiara inside. They found the foyer in semi-darkness and Claudia’s mailbox bulging with what appeared to be several days’ worth of uncollected post. Gabriel removed the items and placed them into Chiara’s handbag. Then he led her to the base of the wide central staircase and together they started to climb.
    It did not take long for Gabriel to feel a familiar sensation spreading over him. Shamron, his mentor, called it “the operational buzz.” It caused him to walk on the balls of his feet with a slight forward tilt and to draw his breath with the evenness of a ventilator. And it compelled him to instinctively assume the worst, that behind every door, around every darkened corner, lurked an old enemy with a gun and an unpaid debt to collect. His eyes flickered restlessly, and his sense of hearing, suddenly acute, locked onto every sound, no matter how faint or trivial—the splash of water in a basin, the diminishment of a violin concerto, the wail of an inconsolable child.
    It was this sound, the sound of a child weeping, that followed Gabriel and Chiara onto the third-floor landing. Gabriel walked over to the door of 3B and ran his fingertips quickly round the doorjamb before inserting the key into the lock. Then, soundlessly, he turned the latch and they slipped inside. Instantly, they realized they were not alone. Seated in a pool of lamplight, weeping softly, was Dr. Claudia Andreatti.

6
     
    TRASTEVERE, ROME
     
    T HE WOMAN WAS NOT C LAUDIA , of course, but the likeness was unnerving. It was as if Caravaggio had painted the curator’s portrait, and then, pleased with his creation, had produced an exact copy down to the smallest detail—the same scale and composition, the same features, the same sandstone-colored hair, the same translucent blue eyes. Now the copy appraised Gabriel and Chiara silently for a moment before wiping a tear from her cheek.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked.
    “I’m a colleague of Claudia’s from the museum,” Gabriel answered vaguely. He realized suddenly that he was staring too intently at the woman’s face. Earlier that morning, on the way out of the Basilica, Luigi Donati had mentioned something about a sister who lived in London, but he’d left out the part about an identical twin.
    “You worked with Claudia in the antiquities division?” she asked.
    “No,” replied Gabriel. “I was asked to collect some files that she borrowed from the archives. If I had known you were here, I never would have intruded on your privacy.”
    The woman appeared to accept the explanation. Gabriel felt an uncharacteristic stab of guilt. Though he was trained in the fine art of lying, he was understandably apprehensive about telling an untruth to the wraith of a dead woman. Now the wraith rose to her feet and came slowly toward him through the half-light.
    “Where did you get those?” she asked, nodding toward the keys in Gabriel’s hand.
    “They were found in Claudia’s desk,” he said as the knife of guilt twisted slowly within his chest.
    “Was anything else found?”
    “Such as?”
    “A suicide note?”
    Gabriel could scarcely believe she hadn’t said my suicide note. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Vatican police about that,” he said.
    “I intend to.” She took a step closer. “I’m Paola Andreatti,” she said, extending her hand. When Gabriel hesitated to grasp it, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “So it’s true, after all.”
    “What’s that?”
    “My sister told me that you were the one who was restoring the Caravaggio, Mr. Allon. I have to admit I’m rather surprised to see you here now.”
    Gabriel grasped the outstretched hand and found it warm and damp to the touch.
    “Forgive me,” she said, “but I was doing the dishes before you arrived. I’m afraid my sister left quite a mess.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Everything in the apartment was slightly out of place,” she said, looking around. “I’ve tried to restore some semblance of order.”
    “When did you speak to her last?”
    “A