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T he five names and their accompanying personnel files were by eleven thirty that morning in the hands of Luca Rossetti.

He subjected each of the names to an invasive background check—the same check the Art Squad conducted on all applicants seeking employment at one of Italy’s many national museums, especially security guards.

At half past two, as Gabriel and General Ferrari were enjoying a late lunch in the Campo de’ Fiori, Rossetti found his man.

He collected Gabriel fifteen minutes later in an unmarked Alfa Romeo.

They headed south on the Corso Vittorio.

“It’s Pozzi,” said Rossetti. “Ottavio Pozzi.”

“What’s he hiding?”

“His older brother Sandro.”

“A troubled soul, is he?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Rossetti inclined his head in the general direction of Trastevere. “Sandro is currently residing at Regina Coeli.”

“How long is his lease?”

“He’s doing twenty-five to thirty years for armed robbery, the sale and distribution of illegal narcotics, and murder. None of which Ottavio mentioned when he applied to work at the Vatican.”

“How is it possible that no one noticed?”

“You know how the Vatican operates. As long as someone says he’s a practicing Catholic, he’s in. Even the Swiss Guards receive almost no vetting.”

“Tell me about it,” murmured Gabriel.

Luca Rossetti rounded the Colosseum, practically on two wheels, then raced past the Circus Maximus. His destination was an apartment block in the working-class district of Ostiense. The ground floor was covered in graffiti. Thick metal bars defended the windows and the street-level entrance.

“How shall we handle it?” asked Rossetti.

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“Which one am I?”

“Since you’re the one with the badge, Luca, I suggest you play the role of bad cop.”

Rossetti had two files in his possession. One was the Vatican personnel file. The other, the thicker of the two, was Sandro Pozzi’s extensive criminal file. He carried them over to the entrance of the apartment block and jabbed at the weather-beaten intercom panel. A woman answered at once.

“ Buongiorno .”

“Signora Pozzi?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Capitano Luca Rossetti of the Carabinieri. I’m here to see your husband.”

“Can you come back later? Ottavio is sleeping now.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait. Please open the door.”

Several seconds elapsed before the buzzer sounded and the lock snapped open.

Gabriel followed Rossetti into the foyer and up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Giada Pozzi, wife of Ottavio Pozzi, waited in the doorway of apartment 408.

She was a thin, sinewy woman of perhaps thirty-five, pierced and heavily tattooed.

She ignored the Carabinieri identification that Rossetti held before her nearly black eyes.

“Why do you want to talk to him?”

“Move aside, Signora Pozzi.”

“He’s done nothing wrong.”

“In that case, he has nothing to worry about.”

The woman held her ground for a moment longer before finally yielding. Rossetti brushed past her, with Gabriel at his heels. Two children, a boy and a girl, were staring at the television in the sitting room. The boy looked to be about eight or nine. The girl was a year or two younger.

“Where’s Ottavio?” asked Rossetti.

“I told you, he’s sleeping.”

“Wake him up. We haven’t got all day.”

The woman disappeared down a hallway and returned a moment later with her husband. He wore a wrinkled cotton pullover and a pair of jeans. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin was pale, his dark hair was uncombed.

He looked at Rossetti and asked, “What do you want?”

“Is there somewhere we can speak in private? I wouldn’t want to upset the children.”

They all four went into the kitchen. Pozzi joined Gabriel and Rossetti at the linoleum table while his wife filled a Bialetti stovetop with Illy and San Benedetto.

Rossetti laid one of the files on the tabletop and lifted the cover. “Your Vatican personnel file, along with a copy of your original application and security questionnaire.”

Ottavio Pozzi regarded the material with the blank expression of the sleep-deprived. “Where did you get that?”

“It was given to us by your boss.” Rossetti placed the second file on the table. “This one we found all on our own.”

Pozzi was silent.

“Why did you lie on your application?” asked Rossetti.

“I needed a job. And I knew they would never hire me if I told them my brother was a criminal.”

“You could have found a job somewhere else.”

“I wanted to work at the Vatican.”

“Why?”

“To be close to the Holy Father.”

“You admire His Holiness?”

“I love all the popes.”

“You’re a devout Catholic?”

“Very.”

Rossetti looked at the pierced, tattooed woman. “And what about you, Signora Pozzi?”

She placed a cup of coffee before her husband but said nothing.

“Giada left the Church because of the sex abuse scandal,” explained Ottavio Pozzi. “She refuses to set foot in the Vatican.”

“And yet her husband spends every night there,” said Rossetti. “Never the day shift. Always the night.”

“I prefer it.”

“And why is that?”

Pozzi gave a dreamy smile. “Have you ever been in the Sistina alone? Or the Raphael Rooms?”

“What about the storage rooms?” asked Gabriel.

Pozzi’s smile faded. “I rarely go there, Signore.”

“But you went there on the night of the power failure, didn’t you?

And while you were there, you removed this.

” Gabriel laid a photograph of the painting on the tabletop.

“The person who hired you for the job assured you that no one would ever notice the painting was missing. And you foolishly believed him.”

Pozzi glanced at the painting, then looked away. “You are mistaken, Signore.”

Rossetti sighed heavily. “I would advise you to choose another path, Ottavio. Otherwise I will have no choice but to arrest you in front of your children and lock you away in Regina Coeli with that brother of yours.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Rossetti ignored the denial. “If, however, you help us recover the painting, I might be able to persuade my commanding officer to overlook your conduct. Oh, you’ll lose your job, of course. But your children won’t have to visit their father in prison.”

Pozzi exchanged a long look with his wife before answering. “I’m sorry, Capitano, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, they’ll kill him.”

“Kill who?”

“My brother Sandro.”

“Is that why you agreed to steal the painting? Because they threatened your brother?”

Pozzi hesitated, then nodded once.

“But that’s not the only reason, is it? Surely they must have paid you some thing.”

“A hundred thousand.”

“Is that all?” Luca Rossetti smiled. “Try again, Ottavio.”