The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,7

that it would take place the following Tuesday and that the conclave would convene ten days after that. The vaticanisti were predicting a hard-fought and divisive contest between reformers and conservatives. The smart money was on Cardinal José Maria Navarro, who had used his position as the Church’s doctrinal gatekeeper to build a power base within the College of Cardinals that rivaled even the dead pope’s.

In Venice, where Pietro Lucchesi had reigned as patriarch, the mayor declared three days of mourning. The bells of the city were silent, and a moderately attended prayer service was held in St. Mark’s Basilica. Otherwise, life went on as normal. A minor acqua alta flooded a portion of Santa Croce; a colossal cruise ship plowed into a wharf on the Giudecca Canal. In the bars where locals gathered for coffee or a glass of brandy against the autumn chill, one rarely heard the dead pontiff’s name. Cynical by nature, few Venetians bothered to attend Mass on a regular basis, and fewer still lived their lives in accordance with the teachings of the men from the Vatican. The churches of Venice, the most beautiful in all of Christendom, were places where foreign tourists went to gawk at Renaissance art.

Gabriel, however, followed the events in Rome with more than a passing interest. On the morning of the pope’s funeral, he arrived at the church early and worked without interruption until twelve fifteen, when he heard the hollow echo of footfalls in the nave. He raised his magnifying visor and cautiously parted the tarpaulin shroud that covered his platform. General Cesare Ferrari, commander of the carabinieri’s Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, better known as the Art Squad, returned his gaze without expression.

Uninvited, the general stepped behind the shroud and contemplated the enormous canvas, which was awash in the searing white light of two halogen lamps. “One of his better ones, don’t you think?”

“He was under enormous pressure to prove himself. Veronese had been publicly recognized as the successor of Titian and the finest painter in Venice. Poor Tintoretto was no longer receiving the sort of commissions he once did.”

“This was his parish church.”

“You don’t say.”

“He lived around the corner on the Fondamenta di Mori.” The general swept aside the tarpaulin and went into the nave. “There used to be a Bellini in this church. Madonna with Child. It was stolen in 1993. The Art Squad has been looking for it ever since.” He peered at Gabriel over his shoulder. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

Gabriel smiled. Shortly before becoming chief of the Office, he had recovered the most sought-after stolen painting in the world, Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. He had made certain that the Art Squad received all the credit. It was for that reason, among others, that General Ferrari had agreed to provide round-the-clock security for Gabriel and his family during their Venetian holiday.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” said the general.

Gabriel lowered his magnifying visor. “I am.”

“Any problems?”

“For inexplicable reasons, I’m having a bit of trouble recreating the color of this woman’s garment.”

“I was referring to your security.”

“It seems my return to Venice has gone unnoticed.”

“Not entirely.” The general glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to take a break for lunch?”

“I never eat lunch when I’m working.”

“Yes, I know.” The general switched off the halogen lamps. “I remember.”

TIEPOLO HAD GIVEN GABRIEL A key to the church. Watched by the commander of the Art Squad, he engaged the alarm and locked the door. Together they walked to a bar a few doors down from Tintoretto’s old house. The papal funeral played on the television behind the counter.

“In case you were wondering,” said the general, “Archbishop Donati wanted you to attend.”

“Then why wasn’t I invited?”

“The camerlengo wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Albanese?”

The general nodded. “Apparently, he was never comfortable with the closeness of your relationship with Donati. Or with the Holy Father, for that matter.”

“It’s probably better I’m not there. I would have only been a distraction.”

The general frowned. “They should have seated you in a place of honor. After all, were it not for you, the Holy Father would have died in the terrorist attack on the Vatican.”

The barman, a skinny twentysomething in a black T-shirt, delivered two coffees. The general added sugar to his. The hand that stirred it was missing two fingers. He had lost them to a letter bomb when he was the commander of the Camorra-infested Naples division of the carabinieri. The explosion had