Page 33 of An Inside Job

“Your specialty.”

“Forgive me, Antonio. But I needed to know what she found while she was working here.”

“And you were afraid that I wouldn’t tell you if I knew she was dead?”

“Would you have answered my questions if I had told you the truth?”

“Not without a lawyer present.” They passed through the doorway and headed down a flight of steps. “Who are you working for this time? General Ferrari or your friend the Holy Father?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“In that case, I’ll light a candle for you.”

“Light one for Penelope Radcliff instead.”

“Do you really think she was killed because of that painting?”

“Someone turned over her apartment not long after she was murdered. I have a feeling they were looking for copies of those infrared images.”

“She had a complete set of printouts. The last time I saw them, they were tucked inside her copy of Giorgio Montefiore’s Leonardo monograph.”

The indispensableComplete Paintings and Drawings of Leonardo da Vinci. “That would explain why the book wasn’t in her apartment,” said Gabriel.

“Could she have taken it with her to Venice?”

“Unlikely. That thing weighs about a ton and a half.”

At the bottom of the stairwell they were confronted with another locked door. Calvesi opened it with his keycard and together they set off along a brightly lit corridor. By Gabriel’s calculation they were now two levels beneath the Picture Gallery. The public exhibition rooms held only a small percentage of the vast papal collection of paintings, sculptures, and other objets d’art, the fair market value of which was so incalculable the Vatican listed it as a symbolic single euro. Gabriel reckoned it was about to increase substantially.

Antonio Calvesi slowed to a stop at a door labeledcamera iv. He unlocked it with his keycard and led Gabriel inside. Overhead fluorescent lights flickered automatically to life.

“Motion detectors,” explained Antonio. Then he pointed to a surveillance camera and added, “Say hello to the boys in the control room.”

“Since I’m not actually here, I’d rather not.”

“Your inquiry is of an unofficial nature?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Not at the Vatican.”

The room was approximately the size of the Sistine Chapel. Arrayed along the walls were pullout storage racks. Gabriel grasped the handle of one of the racks and wheeled it into view. It was hung on both sides with paintings, all of Italian origin, most in need of conservation. The best of the lot was a picture of the resurrected Jesus.

“If I’m not mistaken,” said Gabriel, “that’s a Botticelli.”

“You’re not.”

“Why is it down here?”

“Long story.”

Gabriel rolled the rack back into place. “Where’s my Leonardo?”

“Our only Leonardo is upstairs in the Picture Gallery,” replied Calvesi, and set off toward the back of the room. With Gabriel looking on, he seized the handle of a rack labeled 27 and rolled it away from the wall. There were eight paintings on one side of the wire mesh and six on the other. There was more than sufficient space, thought Gabriel, for a seventh picture measuring, say, 78 by 56 centimeters.

“Perhaps this is the wrong rack.”

“It isn’t.”