Page 35 of An Inside Job
“The Holy See shall bide its time and say nothing.”
“We’re rather good at that around here.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“And when the authorities in Venice release the identity of the young woman whose body was discovered in thelaguna?”
“The Vatican Press Office will express deep sadness over her death. It will remain silent, however, on the issue of the missing painting, which will allow me to continue my investigation unhindered by the glare of publicity.”
“Fact-finding mission,” said Father Keegan. “Since no crime has been committed, there can be no investigation.”
“Well played.”
“I’m a sneaky little Jesuit, remember?” Father Keegan slowed to a stop at the foot of the Egyptian obelisk. “Are you free for dinner, by any chance?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The Holy Father was wondering whether you might like to join his table at the Casa.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll dine elsewhere.”
“Allow me to suggest a quiet little place off the Via Veneto.” The priest handed Gabriel a slip of paper. “The food is quite magnificent. And best of all, it’s very discreet.”
Gabriel looked down. He recognized the address. “What time am I expected?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Table for two?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Dress code?”
Father Keegan smiled. “No cassocks.”
14
Villa Marchese
Gabriel prevailed upon Chiara to acquire accommodations for him at the luxurious Hotel Hassler, though he declined to provide an estimate as to the length of his stay or divulge the reason he was in need of Roman lodging in the first place. Upstairs in his suite, he shaved and showered and changed into clean clothing. He briefly considered locking the photographs and infrared images in his room safe but slipped them into his attaché case instead. His dinner companion, a woman named Veronica Marchese, had a rather good eye for Italian Renaissance paintings—and a finely tuned ear for salacious art world gossip. Gabriel had not seen her since the night their mutual friend stepped onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica as the new supreme pontiff. He therefore feared a chilly reception. Priests were compelled by Catholic doctrine to forgive those who wronged them, but Veronica always struck Gabriel as the sort to hold a grudge.
They had met for the first time in the garden café of Italy’s National Etruscan Museum. Veronica, one of the world’s foremost authorities on Etruscan civilization and antiquities, was then a senior curator and an occasional consultant to the Art Squad. She was now the museum’s director and its largest private benefactor, having inheriteda substantial fortune from her late husband, Carlo, a member of Rome’s Black Nobility. Unbeknownst to Veronica, he was also the leader of an antiquities smuggling network with connections in violent corners of the Middle East. Gabriel, in his first collaboration with General Ferrari, had smashed the network to pieces. Then, late one evening in St. Peter’s Basilica, he had done the same to Carlo Marchese.
But Veronica had kept a secret from her husband as well—that many years earlier, while working on an archaeological dig near the Umbrian village of Monte Cucco, she had fallen desperately in love with a wayward Jesuit priest who had lost his faith while serving as a missionary in the Morazán province of El Salvador. Their affair had ended abruptly when the priest returned to the Church. Twenty-five years later, after one of the shortest conclaves in modern history, he was elected pope. Veronica had wept at the sight of the man she loved standing on the Loggia of the Blessings with his arms spread wide. They were not tears of joy.
The luxurious palazzo left to Veronica Marchese by her late husband was a pleasant five-minute walk from the Hassler. Gabriel rang the bell at the stroke of eight o’clock, and a sultry voice over the intercom informed him that the door was unlocked. It opened onto a long gallery hung with Italian School paintings. Veronica, in a stunning emerald-green pantsuit, waited at the opposite end. The second of her twobaci sulla guancialingered on his right cheek a moment longer than was customary in Roman social settings.
“I’ve missed you terribly, Gabriel Allon. Where on earth have you been?”
“In Venice.”
“A scant two hours by train. And yet never once have you come to see me.”
“I wasn’t at all sure I would be welcome.”
Veronica drew away and regarded him playfully through a pair of fashionable cat-eyed glasses. “Whyever not?”
“Because I made a mess of your life.”
