Page 40

T he French police officers deposited Gabriel on the other side of the border in the faded Ligurian resort town of Ventimiglia.

Luca Rossetti, in gabardine trousers and a woolen pullover, was drinking coffee at a little bar along the waterfront.

Gabriel sat down at Rossetti’s table and placed the museum case upright on the floor. The Carabinieri officer ignored it.

“How was the drive?” he asked.

“Longer than expected.”

“Those idiot French cops couldn’t find Italy?”

“Franco Tedeschi moved the goalposts.”

“But the sale went smoothly?”

Gabriel nodded. “And the money is now in the hands of the Ukrainian government.”

“There’s going to be hell to pay.”

“And then some,” added Gabriel.

Rossetti signaled the barman and ordered two coffees.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving, Luca?”

“What’s the rush?”

Gabriel lowered his eyes toward the museum case.

“Don’t worry, we’re safe here.”

“Are you suggesting there are no mafiosi in Liguria?”

“A few, I suppose. But have a look at the other patrons in this establishment.”

Gabriel glanced around the interior of the little café. Four other tables were occupied, all by plainclothes Carabinieri officers. “What about the heartthrob behind the bar?”

“His name is Angelo. He’s a great kid. Everybody loves him.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

Angelo the beloved barman placed two coffees on their table and withdrew. Rossetti added sugar to his and stirred it slowly. He seemed in no hurry to be on his way.

“We’ve been digging through those documents that your girlfriend stole from SBL PrivatBank.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Luca. But please continue.”

“Two names appear over and over again. Interestingly enough, these names appear frequently in our files as well, not to mention the files of our colleagues at the Guardia di Finanza.”

“And they are?”

“Nico Ambrosi and Piedmont Global Capital.”

“The Milan firm that was part of the London real estate deal?”

Rossetti nodded. “Ambrosi and his firm are one of SBL’s biggest clients. He feeds hundreds of millions into the bank’s investment funds each year and borrows hundreds of millions to finance real estate and development deals all over Europe.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except that everyone seems to think Nico’s money is dirty.”

“How dirty?”

“Camorra dirty,” replied Rossetti. “And he’s working hand-in-glove with his friend Franco Tedeschi to launder and invest the Camorra’s money.”

“Why is he still in business?”

“Regrettably the Guardia di Finanza has never been able to make a case against him. Nico has friends in high places, including at the Vatican. Or so it is said.”

“By whom?”

Rossetti shrugged his shoulders but said nothing.

“What aren’t you telling me, Luca?”

“That your friend Martin Landesmann knows how to spot a bad deal on a balance sheet. After reviewing all of the underlying documents, General Ferrari and I agree that there was something wrong with the purchase of that office building in London. And with SBL’s decision to forgive the loan as well,” added Rossetti.

“We are of the opinion that the transaction warrants further investigation, as are our associates at the Guardia.”

“I wish you and your associates well, Luca. But my work here is done.”

“Almost.”

Rossetti left a banknote on the table and they went into the street, followed closely by the other four officers. From somewhere over the Ligurian came the faint beating of a helicopter rotor. The lights appeared a moment later.

“Your chariot has arrived,” said Rossetti.

“I hope the pilot knows what he’s doing.”

“Apparently this is his first flight.”

“Just my luck.”

The helicopter alighted on Ventimiglia’s beachfront esplanade. Gabriel waited until the rotor had slowed nearly to a stop before carrying his fragile cargo aboard. He strapped himself into a seat and looked at the youthful pilot.

“My friend tells me this is your first flight.”

“Second, actually,” the pilot replied with a crooked smile .

“How did the first one go?”

“I had to ditch it in the Ligurian. I was lucky to survive.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re telling me.”

***

As they were approaching the northern tip of the island of Corsica, the pilot admitted that he had logged several thousand hours of flying time for the Carabinieri with no incidents other than a single hard landing in the Dolomites during a blizzard.

Gabriel nevertheless breathed a small sigh of relief when he spotted the floodlit dome of St. Peter’s rising over the seven hills of Rome.

The Vatican’s helipad was located at the eastern tip of the city-state.

From there it was a walk of five minutes through the Vatican Gardens to the small courtyard at the foot of a rather ordinary-looking structure with walls the color of dun.

Gabriel slipped through the unlocked door and climbed the steps to the Sala Regia.

Father Mark Keegan, a phone to his ear, nodded toward the entrance of the Sistine Chapel.

Inside, His Holiness Luigi Donati, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, successor to the Apostle Peter, knelt on a simple wooden prie-dieu before Michelangelo’s Last Judgment .

Gabriel passed through the opening in the transenna , the marble screen that divided the chapel in two, and approached his old friend soundlessly from behind.

“Don’t skulk, Gabriel.” Donati peered at him over one shoulder. “It makes me nervous when you skulk.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I don’t require complete silence to pray. I’m rather good at it after all these years. ”

Gabriel went to Donati’s side. “Come here often?”

“Every chance I get. It’s my personal chapel, you know.” Donati lifted his gaze toward the Last Judgment , with its swirling mass of souls rising and falling to their eternal fates. “Have you an opinion about it?”

“As a depiction of the end of days?”

“As a work of art,” answered Donati.

“It is not without its shortcomings.”

“The Council of Trent thought the nudity blasphemous.”

“But your predecessor Pius the Sixth had the good sense to wait until Michelangelo died before adding fig leaves and garments to some of the figures.”

“One of history’s great artistic crimes.

Fortunately it was rectified during the last restoration.

” Donati rose from the prie-dieu and gazed down the length of the empty chapel.

“Do you remember the last time we were here together? I begged you to take me away before the cardinal-electors could place the awful burden of the papacy on my shoulders. And you, as I recall, refused.”

“You’re mistaken, Holiness.”

“I’m infallible.”

“Only when you speak ex cathedra. I, however, am never wrong.”

Donati looked at the museum case hanging from Gabriel’s right hand. “And what do you have there?”

“Something that belongs to you.”

“Is it a painting, by any chance?”

“A rather good one.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Gabriel removed the Leonardo from the case and balanced the panel atop the armrest of the prie-dieu. Donati stared at the girl from Milan as though he had been struck mute.

“Are you certain it’s a Leonardo?” he asked at last.

“He trained and employed a large number of very talented studio assistants, all of whom could mimic his style. It’s possible that someone like Giovanni Boltraffio or Bernardino Luini made it. But I think it’s a Leonardo, and I’m not alone.”

“What now?”

“We remove all the many layers of overpaint and strip it down to the original. Then we invite the greatest Leonardo scholars in the world to examine it. I’m confident they will reach a consensus on the attribution.”

“And then?”

“The painting will have to be restored.”

“Is there any chance I could convince you to handle it?”

“So much for your infallibility, Holiness.” Gabriel smiled. “It would be the honor of a lifetime to restore the painting. In fact, I’ve already made a perfect copy of it.”

“Really? Where is it now?”

“It was sold to a Russian oligarch this afternoon for a half billion dollars.”

“Sold by whom?” asked Donati.

“A Swiss bank controlled by the Camorra.”

“But why did the bank sell your copy to the Russian?”

“They were under the impression it was the real Leonardo.”

“You somehow managed to switch the paintings?”

Gabriel smiled but said nothing.

“I’m afraid to ask how the Camorra-controlled bank ended up with the Leonardo in the first place.”

“It appears as though it was used to pay off a loan for a piece of commercial real estate in London.”

Donati’s eyes narrowed. “And the address of this property?”

“New Bond Street. The borrower was something called the Mayfair Group. We haven’t been able to determine who or what it is.”

“You should have come to me, mio amico .” Donati turned to face the Last Judgment . “I could have told you everything you needed to know.”