Page 21 of An Inside Job

“Might I make another observation?” inquired Gabriel.

“Please.”

“We still don’t know whether the woman I found in thelagunais Penelope Radcliff.”

The general trained his monocular gaze on Rossetti. “Perhaps you should find out where she was staying.”

“Shall I call the Vatican?”

“No, Luca. Not yet.”

***

It took Luca Rossetti only a few minutes to determine that Penelope Anne Radcliff, twenty-seven years of age, born in the western Britishcity of Bristol, had been living in a rented apartment in Prati, a fashionable art nouveau quarter of Rome located on the northern fringes of the Vatican. General Ferrari, with the forefinger of his ruined right hand, pressed random buttons on the intercom panel of her building until a startled tenant finally admitted them. Upstairs, Rossetti pounded on the door of her apartment and, receiving no answer, tried the latch. It was locked.

“Allow me,” said Gabriel, and drew two slender metallic tools he carried habitually in the breast pocket of his sport coat. Crouching, he inserted them into the barrel of the lock and began expertly manipulating the pins.

“Is there anything youcan’tdo?” asked Ferrari.

“I can’t pick this lock if you insist on talking.” Gabriel twisted the lock to the right, and the latch gave way. Then he looked at Luca Rossetti and said, “After you.”

Rossetti drew a stubby Beretta Cougar from his shoulder holster and headed inside, with Gabriel and General Ferrari a step behind. The sitting room was in semidarkness. Rossetti, alert to danger, swung the Beretta to the left and right with a tactical two-handed grip. The general observed his movements with a faintly bemused expression.

“That’s quite enough, Luca. Put that thing away before you hurt someone.”

Rossetti holstered the Beretta while Gabriel moved about the room, switching on lights. The search had been thorough but unprofessional, a ransacking. The couch cushions were askew, a chair was overturned, the top drawer of the writing desk was ajar. An Apple power cord was plugged into a nearby wall socket, but there was no trace of a computer. A small collection of monographs lay atop the coffee table. Giotto, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Raphael—four giants of the Florentine School.

“Interesting,” observed General Ferrari.

“How so?”

“No books about Leonardo.”

In the galley kitchen the cupboard doors hung ajar, and the contents of two drawers lay scattered across the countertop. Gabriel tore a sheet from a roll of paper towels and used it to open the refrigerator. General Ferrari contemplated the spoiled food lining the shelves.

“Perhaps we should have a look at the rest of the apartment.”

They entered the bedroom to find Luca Rossetti, hands on his hips, surveying the disorder around him. The mattress had been stripped bare, and the floor was littered with clothing and personal effects, including a collection of Winsor & Newton sable-hair brushes and several vials of pigment and medium. The items had been purchased at L. Cornelissen & Son, an artists’ supply shop located in London’s Great Russell Street. Gabriel was a frequent customer.

“Seen enough?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the general. “I believe I have.”

***

The official record of the case would later assert that General Ferrari rang the commander of the Carabinieri at twelve fifteen that afternoon and provided him with the name and Rome address of the unfortunate young woman whose body had been fished from the waters of the Venetian Lagoon by none other than the noted art conservator and erstwhile spy Gabriel Allon. Precisely how the general had come upon this information he neglected to say, though he intimated it had been supplied by a trusted source. This source, he added, had also informed him that the young woman had beenserving an apprenticeship in the restoration lab of the Vatican Museums.

“Am I to assume,” asked the commander, “that the Art Squad wishes to take control of the investigation?”

“We think it’s for the best.”

As did the commander of the Carabinieri. “How do you intend to handle things with the Vatican?” he asked.

“As quietly as possible. Otherwise they’ll close ranks and refuse to cooperate.”

“The chief of the Vatican Gendarmerie is an old friend. I’d be happy to call him on your behalf.”

“In my experience it’s better to start at the top.”