“The worst of the worst,” remarked Donati. “But how did they know about the painting’s existence?”
“Obviously someone told them.”
“Any suspects?”
“Your private secretary seems to think I should march Antonio Calvesi down to the Castel Sant’Angelo and attach him to the rack.”
“Do you think he’s behind it?”
“Antonio is not without faults,” said Gabriel. “But he’s no thief.”
“Who else knew?”
“Besides Penelope Radcliff? Everyone in the conservation lab, I suppose. And then, of course, there’s the esteemed Giorgio Montefiore from the Uffizi.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“He once remarked favorably on one of my restorations. But, no, I have never had the pleasure.”
“He has an ego the size of St. Peter’s.” Donati lowered his voice. “Or so I’m told.”
“Told by whom?”
“A friend of mine who knows him well. She once attended a party at Montefiore’s villa in Florence. He lives like a Medici, does our Giorgio. And he owes it all to his claim of being the world’s foremost Leonardist.”
“Do you think he would agree to see your friend on short notice?”
“I don’t see why not. But I’d keep your name out of it. Giorgio might get suspicious.”
Gabriel inserted his fork into the tagliatelle and twirled. “Not bad, Holiness.”
“I’m a Jesuit,” said Donati. “I’m conspiratorial by nature.”
19
Galleria degli Uffizi
Gabriel was standing outside the entrance of the Hassler the following morning when Veronica Marchese pulled up in her flashy open-top Mercedes Cabriolet. She wore a pair of movie-starlet sunglasses and an Hermès scarf over her dark hair. All that was missing, he thought, was a devilishly handsome leading man at her side. He supposed he would have to do.
He dropped into the passenger seat and placed his lips against the proffered cheek. It smelled of jasmine and vanilla. “Is that intoxicating French perfume for me or your friend Giorgio?”
“A little of both.” Veronica pressed the throttle and the car lurched away from the curb. “Did you enjoy Osteria Lucrezia?”
“I don’t believe my text message made any mention of where I dined last evening.”
“How else could I have possibly known?”
“Good question.” They shot past the church of Trinità dei Monti in a blur and a moment later careened around the Piazza del Popolo. “Do the brakes work on this thing?”
“I don’t often use them, if you must know.”
“They can be quite useful at controlling your forward momentum.”
“Venetians,” she said with mock contempt.
“Admittedly we do move at a slower pace.”
“But when in Rome, speed is of the essence. Besides, we don’t want to keep Giorgio waiting.”
