The Fallen Angel

week ago Wednesday.” The answer came without hesitation. “She sounded busy but entirely normal, not at all like someone who was about to . . .”
    She stopped herself and looked at Chiara. “Your assistant?” she asked.
    “She has the great misfortune of being married to me.”
    Paola Andreatti smiled sadly. “I’m tempted to say you’re a lucky man, Mr. Allon, but I’ve read enough about your past to know that’s not exactly the case.”
    “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”
    “I don’t.”
    She studied Gabriel carefully for a moment. Her eyes were identical to the ones he had seen earlier that morning staring lifelessly into the dome of the Basilica. It was like being scrutinized by a ghost.
    “Perhaps we should begin this conversation again,” she said finally. “But this time, don’t lie to me, Mr. Allon. I just lost my sister and my closest friend in the world. And there’s no way the Vatican would send a man like you to collect a few stray files.”
    “I won’t lie to you.”
    “Then please tell me why you’re here.”
    “For the same reason you are.”
    “I’m trying to find out why my sister is dead.”
    “So am I.”
    The ghost seemed relieved she was no longer alone. She stood her ground for another moment as if guarding the passageway to her secrets. Then she stepped to one side and invited Gabriel and Chiara to enter.
     
     
    The sitting room was a place of academic disarray, of shelves sagging beneath the weight of countless books, of end tables piled high with dog-eared files and hulking monographs. It had an air of urgency, as though its occupant had been in pursuit of something and had been struggling to meet a deadline. Paola Andreatti was right about one thing; everything in the apartment looked slightly askew, as though it had been moved and hastily put back into place. Gabriel walked over to the cluttered writing desk and switched on the lamp. Then he crouched and examined the surface of the desk in the raked lighting. In the center was a perfect rectangle, about ten inches by fifteen inches, where no dust was present. He picked up a half-drunk cup of coffee and carried it into the kitchen, where Chiara and Paola Andreatti stood before the sink finishing the last of the dishes. Neither woman spoke as he placed the cup on the counter and sat at the tiny café-style table.
    “Was your sister a believer?” he asked.
    “She was a devout Catholic. I’m not so sure whether she actually believed in God.” She looked up from her work at the sink. “Why do you ask?”
    “She wore a cross.”
    “It belonged to our mother. It was the one possession of hers that Claudia wanted. Fortunately, it was the one thing I didn’t want.”
    “You don’t share your sister’s faith?”
    “I’m a cardiologist, Mr. Allon. I’m a woman of science, not faith. I also believe that more evil has been carried out in the name of religion than any other force in human history. Look at the terrible fate of your own people. The Church falsely branded you as the murderers of God, and for two thousand years you’ve suffered the consequences. Now you’ve returned to the land of your birth only to find yourself locked in a war without end. Is this really what God had in mind when he made his pact with Abraham?”
    “Perhaps Abraham forgot to read the fine print.”
    Chiara fixed Gabriel with a reproachful stare, but Paola Andreatti managed a fleeting smile. “If you’re asking whether my sister would be reluctant to kill herself because of her religious beliefs, the answer is yes. She also regarded St. Peter’s Basilica as a sacred place that was inspired by God. Besides,” she added, “I’m a physician. I know a suicidal person when I see one. And my sister was not suicidal.”
    “No trouble at work?” asked Gabriel.
    “Not that she mentioned.”
    “What about a man?” asked Chiara.
    “Like many women in this country, my sister hadn’t managed to find an Italian man suitable for marriage or even a serious relationship. It’s one of the reasons I ended up in London. I married a proper Englishman. Then, five years later, he gave me a proper English divorce.”
    She dried her hands and began returning the newly clean dishes to the cabinets. There was something mildly absurd about her actions, like watering a garden while thunder cracked in the distance, but they seemed to give her a momentary sense of peace.
    “Twins are different,” she said,