by Jack Murray
‘As you will know by now,’ replied Goodman, ‘it is a small carving of a falcon.’
Kit neither confirmed nor denied he knew what the package contained. Goodman paused for a few seconds. Once again, his mind whirled through the permutations of how much to reveal. Decision made he pressed on.
‘This small carving has a certain value for the right owner. It is an antique and, as a result, both the government of Turkey and the United States would feel duty bound either to prevent its leaving their shores, or in the latter case, impose significant duties on its import. You, Lord Aston, presented a solution for Mr Israel as he did not believe for one moment that your bags would be searched. Unfortunately, Mr Israel has attracted, if I may say, the wholly unwarranted attention of various police forces in Europe and, it seems, the United States. The fact that you have this artefact in your safe possession at Bellavista proves the wisdom of his choice.’
Kit sensed this was the truth. Some of it at least. He also sensed there was much more to this, but Goodman was unlikely to reveal his hand. Yet.
‘What’s so special about this blessed falcon anyway?’ interjected Alastair.
The smile returned to Goodman’s face.
‘Have you heard of Michelangelo Merisi?’ asked Goodman.
‘Caravaggio,’ said Kit and Alastair in unison.
25
Valletta, Malta 1607
What made Michelangelo Merisi, Caravaggio, move to Malta? Who knows? All we can be certain of is that he went there in 1607, a fugitive from justice. A murderer, or so people believed. Certainly, the courts had decided his fate. He was effectively under sentence of death. His defenders, and there were many, claimed the killing of young Ranuccio Tomassoni was accidental. They pointed to the fact that Caravaggio had also been wounded, badly. Others were less sure. And so, the artist fled to Malta.
Perhaps he harboured hopes of allying himself with the Knights of St John in order to gain some redemption for his crime or perhaps he had always held a desire to join this famous, infamous even, military order. Whatever the truth, the Knights welcomed the runaway artist with open arms.
Who were the Military Order of St John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and Malta? They were missionaries of a sort; the sort that preached the gospel of the love of Christ using stallion, shield and sword.
They were led, at this time, by a Grand Master named Alof de Wigancourt. He was a visionary man. Not for him the idea of being the head of a once great military order located on a far flung, provincial rock in the Mediterranean. He saw the Order as a bulkhead of Christianity. It had been so in the past during the Crusades; it could be again. Attracting the greatest artist of the day was a coup for him. Here was a man that could bring glory to the island through the creation of works of art to decorate the homes of the senior members of the Order and, more importantly, the churches. The Order would, once more, be seen as the first line of defence for the faith against Islam.
Once upon a time the Knights had been a formidable fighting force. They established garrisons and castles along the front line between Christianity and Islam. For centuries they fought, won, and lost battles from Asia Minor to Egypt until they were finally forced to leave the Holy Land in 1291.
Soon after leaving, they captured the Island of Rhodes. The island was used as a base to attack Turkish shipping and coastal settlements. In fact, they became such a nuisance to the Islamic world that reprisals were inevitable. The warriors of the Order held out for decades but eventually succumbed to overwhelming force.
The Knights were defeated by Suleiman the Magnificent in 1522, a man who would reach the gates of Vienna. By 1530 they had a new home. Charles V gave them the fortress of Malta. He hoped their presence on the strategically important island, would protect his underbelly in Italy and ultimately Rome.
The Knights were grateful to the Holy Roman Emperor and in return they promised an annual tribute to him and his mother, Joanna of Castille. This annual tribute was to be a single falcon. Not any falcon, though. This was a bejewelled falcon. Imagine that. Something so small. Priceless.
This is where Caravaggio enters our story. By 1607 he was living on the island and producing portrait commissions for the great and the good of the Order, including the Grand Master himself. These, unquestionably, bought the redemption of the artist. He was invested with the habit of Knight of Magistral Obedience and given the title of ‘Fra Michelangelo Merisi’.
Such an investiture required Papal permission, which was forthcoming. It meant that by becoming a Knight, the death sentence would become void. As payment for this great honour, Caravaggio delivered a magnificent altarpiece, ‘The Beheading of St John’. The altarpiece was to hang in the Oratory of St John, a co-cathedral of St John in Valletta. The finished work was enormous, some ten feet high and fifteen feet wide, the biggest he would ever paint and the only painting that he would ever sign. The signature was written in the blood of St John, a public confession, a penance and a forgiveness of his mortal sin.
So, all was well. Caravaggio was a free man, but he could not stay away from trouble. His nature was too volatile, the violence in his blood too overpowering. He strayed again. An ill-considered quarrel with a noble Knight of Justice and this time there would be no forgiveness. He was imprisoned on the island in a cell cut into the rock of Castel Sant’ Angelo. Our story takes a new turn.
Caravaggio escaped.
Yes, this genius, this murderer, this troubled soul broke free from the prison. To escape was, of course not only impossible, it was unimaginable. But this is the great, the mad Caravaggio. The extraordinary becomes ordinary for such a man. He scaled the ramparts of the castle, lowering himself down a two-hundred foot precipice and boarding a waiting boat that transported him to Sicily.
Did he do this alone? Of course not. He had help. And the price for this help?
This is where our story becomes interesting. Legend has it that during his incarceration, he produced his own falcon. Think of it. A tribute to win, once again, his freedom. And what greater symbol of freedom can there than a bird? His early biographer, Baglione, hints at the existence of the bird, which could only have been a falcon. Later writers mentioned it also, but they suggest it was merely a story. It seemed too fantastic. They said it was out of character. It was just a story to be used by dishonest men to profit from the gullible.
It was not a story. It was true. Many men have searched for this legendary bird. Rumours emerged over the years of its existence. Stories almost as amazing as the falcon itself. Legendary owners such as Catherine the Great, Napoleon and other rich men prepared to pay vast sums of money to own this falcon. Perhaps even to kill.
Then it disappeared again. Or so it seemed.
26
When Goodman had finished telling the story he sat back in his chair, seemingly satisfied by the impact that he’d had on his two guests. This was punctured in seconds by Alastair.
‘I told you he likes the sound of his own voice. Dear God. What next? A long-lost detective novel by Michelangelo?’
The smile leaving Goodman’s face felt like a whip cracking. Goodman stood up from his seat. Kit tensed, ready for what would happen next. ‘Miss Robins,’ he barked at the door. Gone was the cat-like purr voice. Now it was cold, hard like a dagger.
The door opened and Miss Robins walked in followed by a young man. Both Kit and Alastair at the same time as realising their situation was perilous also noted the young man badly needed a new tailor.
‘This is William,’ said Goodman by way of introduction. ‘He will take one of you back to your house to collect the bird.’
Kit and Alastair were both looking at the new entrant when Kit returned his attention to Goodman. He saw a gun pointing at him. A moment later he heard Alastair’s surprised voice as he also saw the gun.
‘I knew I couldn’t trust you, Sidney,’ said Alastair. ‘You’re a scoundrel. Always have been.’
Goodman ignored this jibe and continued, ‘My suggestion is that you will stay
here, Lord Aston, as our guest, while my old friend Alastair retrieves our possession. As soon as we receive what is ours, then you will be free to leave.’
Kit looked at Goodman coolly, ‘At least you’re making no pretence that I’m to be anything other than your prisoner.’
‘I dislike such a pejorative view of the situation. You’re my guest and your time here will be short, I promise, if Alastair does as he is told. It’s really just a very simple exchange. There is no need to complicate matters with unnecessary heroics.’
Alastair’s irritability breached its, already low, threshold and he poured forth a volley of invective that was as surprising to William Cookson as it was unsurprising to Goodman who knew him only too well. However, Goodman’s eyes never left Kit. He sensed that the man before him would only need half a chance to turn the situation around.
‘Search them,’ he ordered Cookson.
The young man stepped forward and rapidly frisked both men. He looked up at Goodman and shook his head. This seemed to amaze Goodman.
‘Really?’ he said in a kind of wonder. His eyes hardened again, and he looked at Kit. ‘Almost too naïve to be true. I see I must impress upon you the seriousness of your situation. A situation, I reiterate, that we can resolve amicably by the return of the falcon.’
Goodman went over to his phone. A minute later he motioned for Kit to come over. He glanced back at Alastair. Cookson had a gun trained on him. There was little either could do about the situation for the moment.
Things were about to get worse, though. A lot worse.
-
As the door lock sounded, Algy’s eyes lit up. He glanced round at Mary, relief surged through his body and love descended on him like a fog, obscuring reality, imperilling him, compelling him to move forward.
And then the feeling evaporated.
‘What are you doing here? What have you done with Dain?’ shouted Algy, wildly.
Joel Israel smiled at Algy and Mary. He could afford to smile. He was the one holding the gun. He glanced down at it and said, ‘I took the precaution of loading it this time. Do come in.’ He stood back and motioned them both in with the gun.
‘What have you done with her, you animal?’ snarled Algy at the little man. Joel Israel, once again, seemed positively hurt by the insult.
‘I have no idea where she is,’ he replied with as much dignity as a man in the undignified position of holding a gun on someone else could muster. Algy looked as if he was straining to avoid tearing him limb from limb. ‘Please don’t do that, Mr Aston. I really must insist you calm down. If you’ll take a seat, please.’
‘Algy, let’s do as he says,’ said Mary. Joel Israel looked into her blue eyes. My word, he thought, what a woman: without fear, utterly composed. He was even prepared to forgive the mild contempt in her eyes. Perhaps her situation merited such a reaction. The two captives did eventually sit down.
Mary looked around the apartment. The décor was in the modern style: long stemmed lamps, wooden tables, wooden chairs, parquet floor with a Japanese rug that did not look like it owed its provenance to a street market. Chinese watercolours adorned the walls. Someone has good taste, thought Mary. Did it feel female to her? Not in the slightest.
She heard Joel Israel speak to someone on the phone. She heard him say, ‘You were right. It’s Aston, and he’s with the English girl. Yes, I’ll wait for your call.’
He finished his call and sat down looking at the two young people. He wore a smile, the smile of man nearing the completion of a particularly complicated puzzle. And it had been complicated. Stealing the item in Constantinople from a rich, well-known collector of art and antiques with shady connections to crime, then smuggling it out of Constantinople, across Europe, into England, across an ocean and, finally, a continent. It had gone to plan. Almost. Staggering in conception, audaciously executed. The plan was Goodman’s, but he, Joel Israel, had carried it off with style and, yes, no little dignity. If any man had earned the right to smile, it was he. If any man had earned the respect of another, it was he.
Yet, as he gazed at the two young people, he knew it would never be forthcoming from people such as them. The smile faded from his face. It became an animal like snarl. How he hated these people. Born into privilege. They had done nothing in their lives. Nothing. They commanded respect, not because of their talent, not because of their achievements, not for how they had overcome the greatest of challenges. They commanded respect because of their names.
His finger tightened on the trigger. As it did so, the phone rang. The pressure of the trigger eased.
Slightly.
-
The hardness of Goodman’s features eased again, and the serpent-smile returned as he heard a voice at the other end of the telephone line.
‘Mr Israel, I have Lord Aston and Alastair with me now. Do you want to put your guests on the phone?’ A voice came on the line and Goodman said, ‘One moment, please.’
He gestured for Kit to step forward. Kit did so and picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ Kit’s eyes widened as he heard Mary’s voice. Then the line went dead. ‘Mary,’ he shouted. “Mary, are you there?’ No answer. He put the phone down and stepped towards Goodman. The gun stopped him.
‘I wouldn’t do that, Lord Aston. Sit down,’ ordered Goodman impatiently. There was no choice. He turned around; Alastair looked desolate.
‘She’s with Algy. They have both of them.’
‘We do,’ confirmed Goodman, ‘but no harm shall come to them. Just return the artefact. We shall make an exchange. Your son Alastair and the girl, for the falcon. Do as you’re told; all will be well. I promise.’
Alastair snorted dismissively. Goodman ignored his former friend and focused his attention on Kit.
‘What’s to stop you reneging on this? You must know the police will become involved,’ said Kit.
‘They shan’t,’ replied Goodman calmly. ‘By the time they do, I will have moved the artefact on to its ultimate home. All the police will find is a law-abiding businessman, wrongly accused of holding stolen property. Anyway, I have insurance.’
Alastair looked at Goodman, unable to disguise his horror at the man he had once called a partner. He asked, ‘What do you mean?’
Kit looked at Goodman and his eyes narrowed. ‘You’re holding Dain Collins?’
Goodman smiled and shrugged complacently. His voice was a purr again. The cat was in complete control.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Lord Aston.’
‘How would you put it then?’
The smile evaporated again, ‘You will do as you’re told, and then you will be free to find out at your leisure. We mean to have our property, Lord Aston. We want it back. We do not want trouble. But if you create any problems, it will surely be the worse for you. I hope this is clear. William, would you be so good as to take Alastair back to his house? I trust, Lord Aston, that you can tell my old friend where to locate the artefact without any coded messages to contact help. I should add that young Will here will have no hesitation in taking the most extreme measures to ensure the safe return of our property.’
Kit did as he was told. They nodded to one another and then Cookson led Alastair out of the office.
‘What do you intend doing with me?’ asked Kit.
‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’ asked Goodman, genially, gesturing with his gun towards a tray with several glasses and a decanter containing, Kit surmised, whisky.
‘A little bit early,’ suggested Kit.
‘I quite understand. Then if you will please move towards the door, I would like you to go to another office, in the basement.’
‘Sounds rather like a prison cell,’ commented Kit, like he was talking to an acquaintance about the weather.
‘It can be whatever you want it to be, Lord Aston.’ The voice was hard, now. The fat man was nearing the coup of a lifetime. Perhaps his nerve was beginning to fray. His patience certainly was wearing thin.
Kit walke
d ahead towards another door to the side of the office. He opened the door. It was a stairwell, and it was dark. It was also cold, as if all the life of the world had been sucked out and replaced by death.
‘You’re not afraid of the dark, Lord Aston, surely?’
‘No, Goodman. Not too keen on guns, however,’ said Kit, picking his way carefully down the steps. The door shut behind him, leaving him completely in darkness save for the light coming from the bottom of the door. Kit reached the bottom of the stairs and held his hand outwards looking for a wall to support himself against. He walked forward slowly.
Then he tripped over an object on the floor. A body.
Kit rolled the body over and checked for a pulse. As Kit’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, or lack of it, he was able to see that it was a man. He began to slap the face of the man gently, urging him to wake up. Finally, his efforts gained their reward as signs of life appeared in the prone man.
After a few minutes, the man uttered a few slurred words, like he was still drunk from the night before. He wanted to be left alone, it seemed. Kit persisted in trying to wake him.
‘Who are you?’ asked the man, a few minutes later. Reasonable question, I suppose, thought Kit.
‘Kit Aston,’ replied Kit.
Silence for a moment. Just as Kit was about to repeat his name, the man said, ‘Aston?’
‘Yes, Kit Aston.’
Kit sensed the man was fully awake now. He was right. The man sat up and they looked at one another.
‘And you are?’
The man was silent for a moment. He was, clearly, having difficulty remembering his name. In fact, the truth was much simpler. He was still trying to process the combination of English accent and the name Aston. The last Englishman he had spoken to had slipped him a drug to knock him out. He was still somewhat suspicious, but the Aston name threw a lifeline to another part of his brain. He remembered that Algernon Aston’s father was English. With each second, the fog cleared. Connections began to be made.
