Читать книгу The Fallen Angel - Daniel Silva - Страница 18

AMONG THE PERQUISITES OF WORKING at the palazzo was Le Cave. Regarded as one of the finest restaurants in Rome, it was located just steps from the entrance of the building, in a quiet corner of the piazza. In summer the tables stood in neat rows across the cobbles, but on that February evening they were stacked forlornly against the outer wall. General Ferrari arrived without advance warning and was immediately shown, along with his two guests, to a table at the back of the room. A waiter brought a plate of arancini di riso and red wine from Ferrari’s native Campania. The general made a toast to a marriage that, for the moment, had yet to be consummated. Then, as he picked at one of the risotto croquettes, he spoke disdainfully of a man named Giacomo Medici.

Though he bore no relation to the Florentine banking dynasty, Medici shared the family’s passion for the arts. A broker of antiquities based in Rome and Switzerland, he had quietly supplied high-quality pieces for decades to some of the world’s most prominent dealers, collectors, and museums. But in 1995, his lucrative business began to unravel when Italian and Swiss authorities raided his warehouse in the Geneva Freeport and found a treasure trove of unprovenanced antiquities, some of which had clearly been recently excavated. The discovery touched off an international investigation led by the Art Squad that would eventually ensnare some of the biggest names in the art world. In 2004, an Italian court convicted Medici of dealing in stolen antiquities and gave him the harshest sentence ever handed down for such a crime—ten years in prison and a ten-million-euro fine. Italian prosecutors then used the evidence against Medici to secure the return of looted artifacts from several prominent museums. Among the items was the renowned Euphronios krater, which New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art reluctantly agreed to return to Italy in 2006. Medici, who was accused of playing a key role in the vessel’s looting, had famously posed before its display case at the Met with his arms akimbo. General Ferrari had mimicked the pose on the day the krater was triumphantly placed in its new display case at Rome’s Villa Giulia museum.

“All told,” Ferrari continued, “Medici was responsible for the looting of thousands of antiquities from Italian soil. But he didn’t do it alone. His operation was like a cordata, a rope that stretched from the tombaroli to the capi zoni to the dealers and auction houses and, ultimately, to the collectors and museums. And let’s not forget our good friends in the Mafia,” Ferrari added. “Nothing came out of the ground without their approval. And nothing went to market without a payoff to the bosses.”

Ferrari spent a moment contemplating his ruined hand before resuming his briefing. “We didn’t spend ten years and millions of euros just to bring down one man and a few of his lieutenants. Our goal was to destroy a network that was slowly pillaging the treasures bequeathed to us by our ancestors. Against all odds, we managed to succeed. But I’m afraid our victory was only temporary. The looting continues. In fact, it’s worse than ever.”

“A new network has taken the place of Medici’s?”

Ferrari nodded and then indulged in a disciplined sip of wine. “Criminals are a bit like terrorists, Allon. If you kill a terrorist, a new terrorist is sure to take his place. And almost without fail, he is more dangerous than his predecessor. This new network is far more sophisticated than Medici’s. It’s a truly global operation. And, obviously, it’s far more ruthless.”

“Who’s running it?”

“I wish I knew. It could be a consortium, but my instincts tell me it’s one man. I’d be surprised if he has any overt links to the antiquities trade. That would be beneath him,” the general added quickly. “He’s a major criminal who’s into more than selling hot pots. And he has the muscle to keep everyone in line, which means he’s connected to the Mafia. This network has the ability to rip a statue out of the ground in Greece and sell it at Sotheby’s a few months later with what appears to be an entirely clean provenance.” The general paused, then added, “He’s also getting product from your neck of the woods.”

“The Middle East?”

“Someone’s been supplying him with artifacts from places like Lebanon, Syria, and Egypt. There are some nasty people in that part of the world. One wonders where all the money is going.”

“Where did Falcone fit into the picture?”

“When we stumbled upon his operation a few years ago, I convinced him to go to work for me. It wasn’t difficult,” Ferrari added, “since the alternative was a long prison sentence. We spent several weeks debriefing him here at the palazzo. Then we sent him back to Cerveteri and allowed him to resume his wicked ways.”

“But now you were looking over his shoulder,” Chiara said.

“Exactly.”

“What would happen when a tombarolo brought him a vase or a statue that he’d found?”

“Sometimes we quietly took it off the market and put it away for safekeeping. But usually we allowed Falcone to sell it up the line. That way we could track it as it moved through the bloodstream of the illicit trade. And we wanted everyone in the business to think that Roberto Falcone was a man to be reckoned with.”

“Especially the man at the top of this new smuggling network.”

“You’ve obviously done this a time or two yourself,” the general said.

Gabriel ignored the remark. “How high were you able to get him into the network?” he asked.

“Only the first rung of the ladder,” Ferrari said, frowning. “This new network learned from the mistakes of its predecessor. The men at the top don’t talk to people like Roberto Falcone.”

“So why was Claudia Andreatti talking to him?”

“Clearly, she must have found something during her review of the Vatican’s collection that led her to Falcone’s door. Something dangerous enough to get her killed. The fact that Falcone was killed too suggests it had something to do with the network. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few more bodies turn up in short order.”

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”

Ferrari trained his sightless eye on Gabriel and leaned across the table. “It’s not a suggestion,” he said. “I’m saying that Dr. Andreatti discovered a connection between the network and the Vatican. And that means your friend Monsignor Donati has a much bigger problem on his hands than a dead curator. It also means that you and I are pursuing the same target.”

“Which is why you’re willing to pretend that my wife and I were never in Cerveteri today,” Gabriel said. “Because if I can find out who killed Claudia, it will save you the trouble of having to crack the network.”

“It is a rather elegant solution to our dilemma,” Ferrari said.

“Why don’t you just hand me over to the security service and pursue the case yourself?”

“Because now that Falcone is dead, the only door into this new network has been slammed in my face. The chances of putting another informant in place are slim. By now, they’re well aware of my tools and techniques. They also know my personnel, which makes it difficult for me to send them undercover. I need someone who can help me destroy this network from the inside, someone who can think like a criminal.” The general paused. “Someone like you, Allon.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Just a statement of fact.”

“You overestimate my abilities.”

The general gave a knowing smile. “Early in my career, when I was working in the counterterrorism division, I was assigned to a case here in Rome. It seemed a Palestinian translator was shot to death in the lobby of his apartment building. It turned out he was no ordinary translator. As for the man who killed him, we were never able to find a single witness who could recall seeing him. It was as if he were a ghost.” The general paused. “And now he sits before me, in a restaurant in the heart of Rome.”

“I would have never figured you for a blackmailer, General.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to blackmail you, Allon. I was simply saying that our paths crossed once before. Now it seems fate has reunited us.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“Neither do I,” Ferrari replied. “But I do believe that if there’s anyone who can crack this network, it’s you. Besides,” he added, “the fact that you are already positioned inside the Vatican gives you a distinct advantage.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “What happens if I succeed?” he asked finally.

“I will take your information and build a case that will stand up in the Italian courts.”

“And what if that case destroys my friends?”

“I am well aware of your close relationship with this pope and with Monsignor Donati,” the general said evenly. “But if the Vatican has engaged in misdeeds, it will have to atone. Besides, I’ve always found that confession can be good for the soul.”

“If it’s done in private.”

“That might not be possible. But the best way for you to look after the interests of your friends is to accept my offer. Otherwise, there’s no telling what dirt might turn up.”

“That sounds a great deal like blackmail.”

“Yes,” the general said reflectively, “I suppose it does.”

He was smiling slightly, but his prosthetic eye stared blankly into space. It was like gazing into the eye of a figure in a painting, thought Gabriel, the all-seeing eye of an unforgiving God.

Which left only Roberto Falcone—or, more precisely, what to tell the public about his unfortunate demise. Ultimately, it came down to a choice of tactics. The matter could be handled quietly, or, as Gabriel put it, they could announce Falcone’s death with a fanfare of trumpets and thus help their own cause in the process. Ferrari chose the second option, for, like Gabriel, he was predisposed toward operational showmanship. Besides, it was budget time in a season of austerity, and Ferrari needed a victory, even an invented one, to ensure the Art Squad’s enviable funding levels continued for another fiscal year.

And so late the following morning, Ferrari summoned the news media to the palazzo for what he promised would be a major announcement. It being an otherwise slow news day, they came in droves, hoping for something that might actually sell a newspaper or entice a television viewer to pause for a few seconds before surfing off to the next channel. As usual, the general did not disappoint. Impeccably dressed in his blue Carabinieri uniform, he strode to the podium and proceeded to spin a tale as old as Italy itself. It was a tale of a man who appeared to be of modest means but was in fact one of Italy’s biggest looters of antiquities. Regrettably, the man had been brutally murdered, perhaps in a dispute with a colleague over money. The general did not specify exactly how the body was discovered, though he doled out enough of the gruesome details to guarantee front-page play in the livelier tabloids. Then, with the flawless timing of a skilled performer, he drew back a black curtain, revealing a treasure trove of artifacts recovered from the tombarolo’s workshop. The reporters let out a collective gasp. Ferrari beamed as the cameras flashed.

Needless to say, the general made no mention of the role played by the retired Israeli spy and art restorer Gabriel Allon or of the somewhat Machiavellian agreement the two men had reached over dinner at Le Cave. Nor did he divulge the name he had whispered into Gabriel’s ear as they parted company in the darkened piazza.

Gabriel waited until the end of the general’s news conference before ringing her. It was clear from her tone that she had been expecting his call.

“I’m in a meeting until five,” she said. “How about five-thirty?”

“Your place or mine?”

“Mine is safer.”

“Where?”

“The krater,” she said. And then the line went dead.