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P enelope Radcliff had served her first apprenticeship in the restoration lab of the Courtauld Gallery, and her mobile phone number was still on file.

Gabriel dialed it for the first time while standing on the busy pavement of the Strand.

The call went straight to voicemail, as did the next three.

It was possible she had switched off the device or allowed the battery to expire.

The more likely explanation, he thought, was that the phone was resting on the bottom of the Venetian Lagoon.

He placed his next call to Chiara and gave her an update on his findings.

“Small world,” she observed. “Where do you suppose she made this startling discovery of hers?”

“She refused to say in her emails to Amelia. But we should assume it was made at the Vatican.”

“And now she’s dead?”

“That’s a matter for Colonel Baggio to determine.”

“When are you planning to tell him?”

“The minute we hang up.”

“Might I suggest an alternative course of action?”

“By all means.”

“You should go to Rome and warn your friend that the Vatican is about to be engulfed in yet another scandal.”

“What makes you think I can get to him?”

“You’re one of his most trusted friends in the world. Besides, he wouldn’t be pope if it wasn’t for you.”

“All the more reason why he might refuse to see me.”

“Be that as it may, you need to tell him that he has yet another problem on his hands.”

“His problems have a way of becoming my problems.”

“And vice versa,” said Chiara.

***

Gabriel spent the night at the Sloane Square Hotel and in the morning caught an early flight to Rome. As he was stepping off the jetway at Fiumicino he spotted Luca Rossetti, in a dark suit and open-necked dress shirt, waiting at the arrival gate.

“When were you planning to tell us?” he asked.

“Tell you what?”

“About the girl from Bar Dogale.”

“I see you’ve been talking to my friend Paolo Caruso.”

“I popped into the Salute yesterday afternoon to see if you had made any progress on the sketch. And when you weren’t there...”

“You headed straight to my usual hangout in the Campo dei Frari.”

Rossetti nodded. “Paolo told me about the sketch of the young Englishwoman who had been sitting next to you and the children.”

“And you put two and two together.”

“Math was always my best subject.”

“How did you know I was in London?”

Rossetti made a typing motion with the fingers of one hand, indicating that he had searched the manifests of flights departing from Venice. “Needless to say,” he added, “I was rather surprised by the second leg of your itinerary.”

“Does Baggio know you’re here?”

Luca Rossetti shook his head.

“In that case, who sent you?”

“Who do you think?”

***

The headquarters of the Art Squad were located in an ornate yellow palazzo in Rome’s tranquil Piazza di Sant’Ignazio.

On the second floor was the large, high-ceilinged office of the unit’s longtime commander, General Cesare Ferrari.

Seated behind his desk in his blue-and-gold Carabinieri finery, he contemplated the forensic sketch displayed on Gabriel’s mobile phone.

The general held the device in his left hand, for his right was missing the third and fourth fingers, the result of a parcel bomb he received while serving as chief of the Carabinieri’s Naples division.

The assassination attempt, mounted by elements of the ultraviolent criminal organization known as the Camorra, had claimed his right eye as well.

His ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil and unyielding gaze, unnerved underlings and adversaries alike.

Even Gabriel, who had worked with General Ferrari on several high-profile cases, found his gaze difficult to bear.

“When did you realize it was her?” the general asked at last.

“The instant I laid my hand on the bones of her face. The surveillance video from Bar Dogale confirmed my suspicions.”

“And yet you failed to report your findings to Colonel Baggio.”

“Is that a crime?”

“A rather serious one.” The general turned to Rossetti. “Wouldn’t you agree, Luca?”

“At the very least, he interfered with an official investigation. I’m afraid we have no choice but to haul him before a magistrate and press charges.”

Ferrari nodded his head solemnly in agreement. “Regrettably I must concur. Still, there are extenuating circumstances. After all, our mutual friend’s conduct, as deplorable as it is, has resulted in a windfall of valuable information.”

“Information,” added Gabriel, “that might very well allow the Art Squad to assume control of the investigation.” With a smile he added, “Wouldn’t you agree, General Ferrari?”

Ferrari laid a hand piously over his heart. “The thought never entered my mind. That said, you’ve raised a valid point. A sensitive case involving the Vatican couldn’t possibly be handled by the Venice office. It requires someone of my expertise.” He paused, then added, “And yours as well.”

“Might I make another observation?” inquired Gabriel.

“Please.”

“We still don’t know whether the woman I found in the laguna is 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 British city 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 you can’t do?” 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 been serving 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.”

“The secretary of state?”

“The man in white.”

“His Holiness? I wish you luck, Cesare.”

“I don’t need luck,” replied the general. “I have Gabriel Allon.”