by Daniel Silva
“This has all the makings of yet another Vatican scandal,” Chiara warned. “And if you’re not careful, your friend Monsignor Luigi Donati is going to drop you right in the middle of it.”
She switched off the television without another word and carried their wineglasses into the sitting room. On the coffee table was a tray of assorted bruschetta. Chiara watched Gabriel intently as he selected one smeared with artichoke hearts and ricotta cheese and washed it down with the Sangiovese. Her eyes, wide and oriental in shape, were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. They tended to change color with her mood. Gabriel could see she was troubled. She had a right to be. Their last assignment for the Office, an operation against a jihadist terror network, had been a particularly violent affair that ended in the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia. Chiara had hoped the Caravaggio restoration would prove to be the final stage of Gabriel’s long and difficult recovery, the start of a new life free from the gravitational pull of the Office. It was not supposed to include an investigation carried out on behalf of the pope’s private secretary.
“Well?” she asked.
“It was delicious,” said Gabriel.
“I wasn’t talking about the bruschetta.” Chiara rearranged the pillows at the end of the couch. She always rearranged things when she was annoyed. “Have you considered what the Italian security service is going to do if they find out you’re freelancing for the Vatican? They’ll run us out of the country. Again.”
“I tried to explain that to Donati.”
“And?”
“He invoked the name of his master.”
“He’s not your pope, Gabriel.”
“What should I have said?”
“Find someone else,” she replied. “They’re three lovely little words you need to learn.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen Claudia’s body.”
“That’s not fair.”
“But it happens to be the truth. I’ve seen many dead bodies in my life, but I’ve never seen one that had fallen more than a hundred and fifty feet and landed on a marble floor.”
“What a terrible way to die.” Chiara watched the rain pattering on the little terrace overlooking the Spanish Steps. “How certain are you that Donati is telling you the truth?”
“About what?”
“About his relationship with Claudia Andreatti.”
“If you’re asking whether I think they were romantically involved, the answer is no.”
“You grew up with a mother who never told you about the things that happened to her during the war.”
“Your point?”
“Everyone keeps secrets. Even from the people they trust the most. Call it female intuition, but I’ve always felt there was more to Monsignor Donati than meets the eye. He has a past. I’m sure of it.”
“We all do.”
“But some of us have more interesting pasts than others. Besides,” she added, “how much do you really know about his personal life?”
“Enough to know that he would never do anything as reckless as having an affair with an employee of the Vatican.”
“I suppose you’re right. But I can’t imagine what it’s like for a man who looks like Luigi Donati to be celibate.”
“He deals with it by giving off an aura of absolute unavailability. He also wears a long black skirt and sleeps next door to the pope.”
Chiara smiled and plucked a bruschetta from the tray. “There is at least one fringe benefit to accepting the case,” she said thoughtfully. “It would give us a chance to take a look at the Church’s private collection of antiquities. God only knows what they really have locked away in their storerooms.”
“God and the popes,” said Gabriel. “But it’s far too much material for me to review on my own. I’m going to need help from someone who knows a thing or two about antiquities.”
“Me?”
“If the Office hadn’t got its hooks into you, you’d be a professor at an important Italian university.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But I studied the history of the Roman Empire.”
“Anyone who studies the Romans knows something about their artifacts. And your knowledge of Greek and Etruscan civilization is far superior to mine.”
“I’m afraid that’s not saying much, darling.”
Chiara arched one eyebrow before raising the glass of wine to her lips. Her appearance had changed noticeably since their arrival in Rome. Seated as she was now, with her hair tumbling about her shoulders and her olive skin aglow, she looked remarkably like the intoxicating young Italian woman Gabriel had encountered for the first time, ten years earlier, in the ancient ghetto of Venice. It was almost as if the toll of the many long and dangerous operations had been erased. Only the faint shadow of loss fell across her face. It had been left there by the child she had miscarried while being held as ransom by the Russian oligarch and arms dealer Ivan Kharkov. They had not been able to conceive since. Privately, Chiara had resigned herself to the prospect that she and Gabriel might never have a child.
“There is one other possibility,” she suggested.
“What’s that?”
“That Dr. Claudia Andreatti climbed to the top of the Basilica in a state of emotional turmoil and threw herself to her death.”
“When I saw her last night, she didn’t look like a woman in turmoil. In fact . . .” Gabriel’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“I got the sense she wanted to tell me something.”
Chiara was silent for a moment. “How long will it take for Donati to get us her files?” she asked finally.
“A day or two.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?”
“I think we should get to know her a little better.”
“How?”
Gabriel held up the ring of 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
THE WOMAN WAS NOT CLAUDIA, 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 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, closing the cabinet. “We shared everything—our mother’s womb, our nursery, our clothing. You might find this rather strange, Mr. Allon, but I always assumed my sister and I would share the same coffin.”
She walked over to the refrigerator. On the door, held in place by a magnet, was a photograph of the sisters posed along the railing of a ferry. Even Gabriel, who had an artist’s appreciation of the human form, could scarcely tell one from the other.
“It was taken during a day cruise on Lake Como last August,” said Paola Andreatti. “I was recently separated from my husband. Claudia and I went alone, just the two of us. I paid, of course. Employees of the Vatican can’t afford to stay in five-star hotels. It was the best vacation I’d had in years. Claudia said all the appropriate things about my pending divorce, but I suspect she was secretly relieved. It meant she would have me to herself again.”
She opened the refrigerator, exhaled heavily, and began placing the contents in a plastic rubbish bin. “As of this moment,” she said, “several hundred million people around the world believe my sister committed suicide. But not one of them knows that Gabriel Allon, a former Israeli intelligence agent and friend of the Vatican, is now sitting at her kitchen table.”
“I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“I’m sure the men of the Vatican would, too. Be
cause your presence suggests they believe there’s more to my sister’s death than merely a soul in distress.”
Gabriel made no response.
“Do you believe Claudia killed herself?”
“No,” Gabriel said. “I do not believe Claudia killed herself.”
“Why not?”
He told her about the broken necklace, about the shoes, and about the perfect rectangle on her sister’s desk where no dust was present. “You weren’t the first person to come here tonight,” he said. “Others came before you. They were professionals. They took anything that might be incriminating, including your sister’s laptop computer.”
She closed the refrigerator and stared silently at the photograph on the door.
“You did notice the computer was missing, didn’t you?”
“It’s not the only thing,” she said softly.
“What else?”
“My sister never went to sleep at night without writing a few lines in her diary. She kept it on her bedside table. It’s no longer there.” Paola Andreatti looked at Gabriel for a moment without speaking. “How long will it be necessary to allow this terrible lie about my sister to persist?”
“For as long as it takes to discover the truth. But I can’t do it alone. I’m going to need your help.”
“What kind of help?”
“You can start by telling me about your sister.”
“And then?”
“We’re going to search this apartment together one more time.”
“I thought you said the men were professionals.”
“They were,” said Gabriel. “But sometimes even professionals make mistakes.”
They moved into the sitting room and settled amid Claudia’s books and papers. Paola Andreatti spoke of her sister as though she were speaking of herself. For Gabriel, it was like interviewing a corpse that had been granted the ability to speak.
“Did she use any other e-mail address besides her Vatican account?”
“Everyone at the Vatican keeps a private account. Especially the priests.”
She recited a Gmail address. Gabriel didn’t need to write it down; his uncanny ability to mimic the brushstrokes of the Old Masters was matched only by the precision of his memory. Besides, he thought, when one is pitted against professionals, it is best to behave like one.
