The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,14

question the most damaged canvas he had ever seen. Little was known of its long journey from the Oratorio di San Lorenzo to the church where he had found it. The stories, however, were legion. It had been kept by a Mafia don as a prize and brought out for important meetings of his henchmen. It had been chewed by rats, damaged in a flood, and burned in a fire. Gabriel was certain of only one thing: the painting’s wounds, while grievous, were not fatal. But Ephraim Cohen, the museum’s chief of conservation, was dubious. Upon seeing the painting for the first time, he advised Gabriel to administer last rites and return the altarpiece to the Vatican in the same wooden coffin in which it had arrived.

“Ye of little faith,” Gabriel had said.

“No,” replied Cohen. “Me of limited talent.”

Cohen, like the other members of the staff, had heard the stories—the stories of deadlines missed, of commissions abandoned, of church reopenings delayed. The snail-like pace of Gabriel’s work habits was legendary, almost as legendary as his exploits on the secret battlefields of Europe and the Middle East. But they soon discovered that his slowness was voluntary rather than instinctive. The craft of restoration, he explained to Cohen one evening while swiftly repairing the tattered face of Saint Francis, was a bit like making love. It was best done slowly and with painstaking attention to detail, with occasional breaks for rest and refreshment. But in a pinch, if the craftsman and his subject matter were adequately acquainted, a restoration could be done at extraordinary speed, with more or less the same result.

“You and Caravaggio are old friends?” asked Cohen.

“We’ve collaborated in the past.”

“So the rumors are true then?”

Gabriel had been painting with his right hand. Now he moved the brush to his left and worked with equal dexterity.

“What rumors are those?” he asked after a moment.

“That you were the one who restored the Deposition for the Vatican Museums a few years ago.”

“You should never listen to rumors, Ephraim, especially when they concern me.”

“Or the news,” said Cohen darkly.

His hours were erratic and unpredictable. An entire day might pass with no sign of him. Then Cohen would arrive at the museum to find a large portion of the canvas miraculously restored. Surely, he thought, he had a secret helper. Or perhaps Caravaggio himself was stealing into the museum at night, a sword in one hand, a brush in the other, to assist with the work. After one nocturnal session—a particularly productive visit during which the Virgin was returned to her former glory—Cohen actually checked the security footage. He found that Gabriel had entered the lab at half past ten in the evening and had departed at seven twenty the next morning. Not even the fawn-eyed bodyguard had been with him. Perhaps it was true, thought Cohen, as he watched the ghostly figure moving at one frame per second along a half-lit hall. Perhaps he was an archangel after all.

When he was present during normal business hours, there was always music. La Bohème was a particular favorite. Indeed, he played it so often that Cohen, who spoke not a word of Italian, could soon sing “Che gelida manina” from memory. Once Gabriel entered his curtained grotto, he never reappeared until the session was complete. There were no strolls in the museum’s sculpture garden to clear his head, no trips to the staff lunchroom for a jolt of caffeine. Only the music, and the soft tap-tap-tap of his brush, and the occasional click of his Nikon camera as he recorded his relentless progress. Before leaving the laboratory he would clean his brushes and his palette and put his trolley in order—precisely, noted Cohen, so he would be able to detect whether anyone touched his things in his absence. Then the music would go silent, the halogen lamps would dim, and with little more than a cordial nod to the others he would be gone.

By early April, with the winter rains a memory and the days warm and bright, he was hurling himself headlong toward a finish line only he could see. All that remained was the winged angel of the Lord, an ivory-skinned boy who floated in the upper reaches of the composition. It was a curious choice to leave for last, thought Cohen, for the boy angel had suffered serious injury. His limbs were scarred by heavy paint losses, his white garment was in tatters. Only his right hand, which was pointed heavenward, was