The Fallen Angel

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 quietly investigate her death.”
    “Monsignor Donati?”
    “Monsignor?” She gave a melancholy smile. “I still find it hard to refer to him as that.”
     
     
    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.
    “Your 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.”
    “How was it broken?”
    “Sometimes 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.”
    “And dangerous,” added Gabriel.
    “So 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.”
    “What else has he told you?”
    “He said you’re one of the most remarkable men he’s ever met. He also said you would have made an excellent priest.”
    “I minister to paintings, not souls. Besides,” he added, “I’m a sinner without hope of redemption.”
    “Priests 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.
    “I thought spies were supposed to be good at concealing their thoughts,” she said.
    “I’m officially retired.”
    “Good. Because you’re obviously curious about how Luigi and I know each other. Suffice it to say we’ve been friends for a long time. In fact, I was the one who first suggested a review of the Church’s collection.”
    “You were concerned it might be tainted?”
    “Let’s just say that, given current political realities, I thought it wise for Luigi to know more than his potential enemies.”
    “You would have made a good lawyer.”
    “I am a lawyer,” she said, “as well as an archaeologist.”
    “Why didn’t you volunteer to conduct the review yourself?”
    “It’s not my collection. Besides, Luigi had a perfect candidate for the job on the staff of the museum.”
    “Claudia.”
    Veronica Marchese nodded slowly. “She was a natural detective. Her work was impeccable.”
    “But when I reviewed her notes and research files, there was no mention of any problem whatsoever. In fact, it appeared she’d given the collection a clean bill of health.”
    “That’s because she was advised not to put any of her findings in writing.”
    “By whom?”
    “Me.”
    “Did she tell you what was missing?”
    “She didn’t go into specifics, only that she couldn’t account for several dozen pieces. Nothing major,” she added quickly, “but they were of great value, exactly the sort of things that can confer instant prestige upon your average Arab sheikh or Russian oligarch. She compiled a list of the