Page 59

What happened to the painting next is unclear, but the provenance researcher discovered records in Milan suggesting it entered the estate of a Milanese nobleman.

At some point in the mid-seventeenth century, the nobleman’s descendants disposed of the painting, which by then was doubtless in a degraded condition.

A hundred years later it was subjected to a restoration that left it a ruin.

The walnut panel was salvageable, though, so a nameless Milanese School artist used it for a Madonna and Child, unwittingly burying a Leonardo in the process.

The painting hung in the chapel of an abbey near Bergamo until the outbreak of World War I, when it entered the Vatican’s collection, mistakenly attributed to Raphael’s busy Florence workshop.

Some years later it was demoted to an eighteenth-century imitator of Raphael and consigned to storage, where it would remain until a routine cleaning resulted in one of the most important artistic discoveries ever made.

Gabriel, after reviewing the provenance, plucked a pen from his pocket and added the name of the young British art conservator who had found the Leonardo.

He then informed Antonio Calvesi that in forty-eight hours’ time, General Ferrari of the Art Squad would hold a news conference and lift the veil on the entire affair.

“If he does that,” said Calvesi, “it will forever tarnish the painting’s reputation.”

“I disagree. But I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s all going to come out.”

“In that case, tell your friend the general he can hold his news conference here at the museum.”

“He was hoping you would say that.”

“Will you be in attendance?” asked Calvesi.

“Why should I be there?”

“You’re the one who found it.”

“Not me,” said Gabriel. “I’m only the restorer.”

***

He paid a brief call on His Holiness in his rooms at the Casa Santa Marta and then walked through the soft Roman evening to Veronica Marchese’s palazzo.

She answered the bell wearing a stunning cream-colored pantsuit and her cat-eyed spectacles.

She was a kilo or two thinner, perhaps, but Gabriel could see no evidence of damage.

In fact, in his professional opinion, she had never looked more beautiful.

He told her so while removing the cork from a bottle of Alteni di Brassica sauvignon blanc.

“You should see my scar,” she answered.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Your lovely wife might not appreciate that.” Veronica accepted a glass of the wine and settled carefully into a brocade armchair in her elegant drawing room. “To what shall we drink this time?”

Gabriel raised his glass and said, “To life.”

“I owe mine to you and your friend Luca Rossetti.”

“You haven’t watched the video, I hope.”

“I saw it once or twice while I was at the Gemelli. The last thing I remember about that day were those green eyes of yours looking down at me after I had been shot.”

“You lost consciousness very quickly.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No,” lied Gabriel. “You weren’t able to speak.”

“My doctors told me that I had to be resuscitated in the ambulance. It’s a strange feeling knowing that you’ve been dead. Even if it was only for a moment or two.”

“But you were never alone.”

“I’m told you stayed at the hospital all night.”

“Luigi was there too.”

“That much I remember.” She drank some of the wine. “At least I think I do.”

“He was a wreck that night. He blamed himself for what happened.”

“It wasn’t his fault. In fact, I’m to blame for everything that happened.”

“Why you?”

“Because I was the one who rekindled our friendship after the death of my husband. It’s a miracle we were able to keep my identity a secret after I was shot.

Can you imagine the scandal that would have erupted if the press had found out that the Holy Father’s former lover was recuperating in his private suite at the Gemelli? ”

“His Holiness managed to change the subject rather quickly. For better or worse, you were something of an afterthought. ”

“As were you, it seems.”

“Not for long, I’m afraid.”

“The Leonardo?”

He smiled.

“Am I allowed to see it?”

Gabriel handed over his phone.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “You did a remarkable job.”

“I had a rather good collaborator. Not to mention subject,” he added. “I have no doubt the girl from Milan will soon be the most famous woman in the world.”

“Better her than me.” Veronica returned the phone. “Did you see His Holiness when you were at the Vatican today?”

“Briefly.”

“Did he ask after me?”

“He spoke of nothing else.”

She sighed. “It’s rather pathetic, don’t you think? This tragic tale of mine?”

“So write a new one.”

“As it happens, I’m hard at work on an alternative ending.”

“Anyone I know?”

“A handsome young captain who works for the Art Squad in Venice.”

“Veronica . . .”

“I know, I know. He’s very young.”

“But?”

She smiled. “He positively adores my scar.”

***

Shortly before 9:00 a.m. the following Thursday, there appeared on the website of ARTnews magazine a story that sent shock waves through the art world.

Written by Amelia March, it detailed the reappearance, theft, and eventual recovery of a lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.

The original discovery, according to ARTnews , had been made by Penelope Radcliff, the apprentice art conservator whose body had been found floating in the waters of the Venetian Lagoon the previous autumn.

The source for the story was identified only as “a person connected to the project.”

General Cesare Ferrari, commander of the Art Squad, provided further details later that morning at a news conference held in the lobby of the Vatican Museums. Flanked by museum officials, he alleged that the disgraced Cardinal Matteo Bertoli had played a role in the painting’s theft, as had the murdered Leonardist Giorgio Montefiore and elements of the Camorra.

When pressed by reporters, General Ferrari declined to say where or when the painting had been recovered.

He then stepped away from the microphones while the director of the Pinacoteca—the first woman to ever lead the museum—unveiled the painting.

From the four corners of the art world there arose a collective gasp.

In the days that followed, other details about the painting’s rediscovery emerged, including the name of the prominent Venice-based art conservator who had conducted the restoration on behalf of the Vatican Museums. Gabriel’s concerns about how his work would be received proved unfounded.

Indeed, with the exception of a social media screed by a notorious art world gadfly, the reviews were overwhelmingly laudatory.

The kindest words were written by Professor Maximillian Zeller from Leipzig, who declared that “Gabriel Allon had doubtless learned his craft in Leonardo’s busy studio in Milan, along with Boltraffio, Luini, d’Oggiono, and the rest of the Leonardeschi . ”

When the Pinacoteca finally announced the date that the painting would go on public display, the demand for tickets repeatedly crashed the museum’s website.

In the first twenty-four hours alone, more than a million tickets were sold.

By week’s end, those wishing to see the painting could expect a wait of six months.

But on the eve of the painting’s public exhibition, one thousand invited guests arrived at the Pinacoteca for a black-tie exclusive viewing—moguls and magnates, curators and collectors, prominent dealers and other assorted glitterati.

Cameras flashed as Gabriel and Chiara headed up the red carpet toward the museum’s entrance, accompanied by Irene and Raphael.

The painting hung in Room IX of the gallery, next to Leonardo’s St. Jerome .

The museum staff tried to keep the line moving, but the girl from Milan cast a spell over everyone who gazed into her mismatched pupils.

Gabriel bade her a final farewell and escorted Chiara and the children to the museum’s courtyard for the cocktail reception.

There were lights in the trees and tables on the green lawn, and a chamber orchestra was playing Vivaldi.

Chiara led Irene and Raphael over to the buffet, and Gabriel headed toward one of the courtesy bars in search of liquid refreshment.

There were eight bars in all, but the one he chose was under British occupation.

Tweedy Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams, suntanned Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, the learned Niles Dunham from the National Gallery.

Sarah Bancroft, the only American present, had somehow managed to acquire a three-olive martini.

She was murmuring something into the ear of her husband, who had an arm draped over the shoulders of tubby Oliver Dimbleby.

Julian Isherwood, the very picture of sprezzatura in an old evening jacket and carelessly knotted tie, had taken up his usual position at the end of the bar.

Gabriel settled next to him and asked, “Well, Julian?”

“Well what, petal?”

“What do you think of it? ”

“Think of what, darling?”

“The Leonardo, for heaven’s sake.”

“What bloody Leonardo?” blared Oliver Dimbleby. “We just came to Rome for the party.”

It ended shortly after ten o’clock and resumed in a much smaller form in the terrace bar at the Hotel Hassler.

The children wilted at midnight, so Gabriel and Chiara said their goodnights and carried them downstairs to their suite.

They were late in rising and missed the noon train back to Venice, taking the one fifteen instead.

Gabriel sat next to Raphael, listening to the soft scratch of a Faber-Castell pencil against a Strathmore Series 300 sketchpad.

He wondered, not for the first time, why the boy had changed his mind.

Surely, he thought, it had been an inside job. They always were.