The Fallen Angel

owner,” Gabriel said.
    “He did so at my request. We were afraid we would be targeted again if the thieves knew the quality of the pieces contained in our collection.”
    “There were reports at the time that the owner played a significant role in the painting’s recovery.”
    “You have a good memory, Mr. Allon. I personally conducted the ransom negotiations. In fact, I didn’t even tell General Ferrari the painting had been stolen until after the deal had been struck. He arrested the thieves when they tried to collect the money. They weren’t terribly professional.”
    “I remember,” said Gabriel. “I also remember that they were killed not long after their arrival at Regina Coeli Prison.”
    “Apparently, it was the result of some sort of struggle over prison turf.”
    Or perhaps you had them killed for stealing from the boss , thought Gabriel. ”Is there something in particular you wanted to show me?” he asked.
    “This,” Carlo said, inclining his head toward the large canvas at the farthest end of the gallery. The image, a depiction of the Adoration of the Shepherds, was scarcely visible beneath a dense layer of surface grime and a coat of heavily discolored varnish. Carlo illuminated the painting with the flick of a light switch. “I assume you recognize the artist.”
    “Guido Reni,” replied Gabriel, “with considerable help from one or two of his better assistants, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “You’re not. It’s been in my family’s collection for more than two centuries. Unfortunately, it’s been many years since it was restored. I was wondering whether you would consider taking it on after you’ve finished the Caravaggio.”
    “I’m afraid I have a prior commitment.”
    “So I’ve heard.” Carlo looked at Gabriel. “I know that Monsignor Donati has asked you to investigate Claudia’s death.” Lowering his voice, he added, “The Vatican is nothing if not a village, Mr. Allon. And villagers like to gossip.”
    “Gossip can be dangerous.”
    “So can sensitive investigations at the Vatican.”
    Carlo lowered his chin and stared at Gabriel unblinkingly. Most men tended to avoid looking directly into his eyes, but not Carlo. He possessed a cool, aristocratic assurance that bordered on arrogance. He was also, Gabriel decided, a man without physical fear.
    “The Vatican is like a labyrinth,” Carlo continued. “You should know there are forces within the Curia who believe Monsignor Donati has unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box that will further damage the Church’s reputation at a time when it cannot afford it. They also resent the fact that he has chosen to place this matter in the hands of an outsider.”
    “I assume you share their opinion.”
    “I am officially agnostic on the question. But I’ve learned from experience that, when it comes to the Vatican, it’s often better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
    “What about dead women?”
    It was a deliberate provocation. Carlo appeared impressed by Gabriel’s nerve. “Dead women are like bank vaults,” he responded with surprising candor. “They almost always contain unpleasant secrets.” He removed a business card from a silver case. “I hope you’ll reconsider my offer on the Reni. I can assure you I’ll make it well worth your while.”
    As Gabriel slipped the card into his pocket, there came the sound of a chime summoning the guests to dinner. Carlo placed a hand at the small of Gabriel’s back and guided him toward the staircase. A moment later, he was taking his seat next to Chiara. “What did he want?” she asked quietly in Hebrew.
    “I think he was trying to put me on the Marchese family payroll.”
    “Is that all?”
    “No,” said Gabriel. “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t carrying a gun.”
     
     
    They emerged from the palazzo shortly after midnight to find the air filled with soft, downy snowflakes the size of Eucharistic wafers. A Vatican sedan waited curbside; it followed slowly behind as Donati, Gabriel, and Chiara made their way along the deserted pavements of the Via Veneto. Chiara held Gabriel’s arm tightly as the snow whitened her hair. Donati walked wordlessly next to her. A moment earlier, as he bade farewell to Veronica with a formal kiss on her cheek, he had been smiling. Now, faced with the prospect of a long, cold night in an empty bed, his mood was noticeably gloomy.
    “Was it my imagination,” Gabriel asked, “or were you actually enjoying yourself tonight?”
    “I