Conti turned and walked quickly out of the room, almost colliding with the top of the doorway. Cursing, he bent down and nearly ran through the other room toward the cave entrance where he did collide, but this time with a policeman whose head was down to enter the cave.
“Mi scusi, Commissario,” said the man as he picked himself off the floor, brushing his hands of the mud that had stuck to them when he fell. “I was bringing you an urgent message,” he added, hoping it could deflect some of his boss’ anger.
“Make it quick, I’m in a hurry.”
The man read from a piece of paper he took from his jacket pocket. “A call from the station. They found the red Opel. A meter maid spotted it after she had seen our notice on the bulletin board this morning.”
“She is to be complimented. Are they sure it’s the right one?”
“There was an English-Italian dictionary in the back seat.”
“Excellent. Where is it?”
Again the policeman glanced at the paper. “Via della Porta Marconi, a side street that doesn’t get much traffic. Near the Etruscan museum. In fact it was just off the street itself, parked in one of the spaces reserved for the museum.” He looked up from the paper and saw Conti staring down at his hands.
“Let me see, corporal.”
“But it just has what I—”
He grabbed the man’s hand. “No, not the paper, let me see your hands.” Conti looked at the upturned palms and then bent down to the ground and picked up some of the clay from the cave floor in his fingers. “This could be even worse than I thought.”
Conti was out of the cave before the young policeman could find any words to answer. As the commissario stepped outside he pulled out his cell phone, punched the buttons and then stared at the small screen when he heard the voice of one of the policeman above.
“There is no signal down there, Commissario,” the man shouted, “you’ll have to come up here.”
Conti cursed and started up the path, tripping a few times as he hurriedly made his way, so that when he got to the top and pulled out his phone again he was nearly out of breath.
“Rispondi, Montoya, per l’amore di dio, rispondi,” he gasped into the buzzing phone.
He gave up and tried another number.
“LoGuercio, where are you?…No, I want you to go back. Here’s what you should do.”
***
“There must be some misunderstanding, Arnolfo, I’m in Volterra to buy alabaster and other Etruscan reproductions.”
“Of course you are.” The grin stayed on Zerbino’s face as he raised his eyes to look past Rick toward the back of the room. “Ah, I thought you would never get here,” he said, still looking past Rick, who now turned around to follow Zerbino’s eyes. “Perfect timing, we are about to talk business,” said Zerbino as he turned back to Rick. “Riccardo, I think you have met Signor Malandro.”
It took a moment to place the man who was taking his place next to Zerbino. Rick looked at the face whose mouth now mirrored the half smile of the curator and remembered. When he had seen it the first time, the face was covered by the shadow of a stubbled beard and a film of alabaster dust. Without the chin stubble and dusty blue coat, Rick decided, the guy almost looked presentable. He even wore a relatively clean shirt. But why was the foreman of Landi’s workshop here? What did he have to do with Zerbino and the museum? Rick tried to put the pieces together, but nothing fit. It was all too confusing. Malandro works for Zerbino? We’re going to talk business? What the hell is going on here?
“Signor Malandro overheard you talking to Landi about artifacts. He was convinced that you could be a serious buyer, and I value his judgment. When you and I met for coffee I got the same impression. That is why I went ahead with your visit to the cave.”
Rick sighed. “Driven by your other, uh, colleague, Arnolfo?”
“I have many colleagues, Riccardo. The more of them one has, the more information one can accumulate, and information is the key to any successful business. Would you believe that the man who drove you to the cave works at the Volterra Chamber of Commerce?” He threw a smile at Malandro, which was reciprocated. “Passing information on, sometimes correct and sometimes wrong, can also be very helpful. Especially for keeping the police off our trail so they can spend their time sticking their noses into the business of others.” Zerbino and Malandro again exchanged grins.
He should have been scared, or at least worried, but instead a calm came over Rick as he arranged his thoughts. All right, Montoya, this was why Beppo sent you up here, and Beppo knew what he was doing. He knew you could handle it. Relax. This will be easy. Talk, play the part, get your ass safely out of the museum and then contact Conti. Remember how disappointed you were last night when Beppo and Conti jerked you off the case? Now you can finire con bellezza, as Italians say. Finish this with class.
“How nice that you are involved in this enterprise, Arnolfo, it now takes on a certain—what is the word?—a certain seriousness.” He noticed a suspicious look from Malandro and added: “Not that your other partners did not deal with me in a completely professional manner, of course. But let us go to the crux of the matter, an issue which concerns me greatly. Your little cave was impressive, but how do I know that it is the real thing?” His steady voice surprised even himself. “I’ve yet to be convinced that I have seen even a single genuine piece of Etruscan art. I can’t have you sending copies back to America, as good as they may be.”
The two Italians again smiled at each other, it was getting to be a big part of their routine. Then Zerbino laughed and stretched his arms wide. “Look around you, Riccardo, you are surrounded by genuine pieces of Etruscan art.”
Rick’s eyes went from one wall to the other and then back to Zerbino. “I hardly think we can just pull something off a shelf, Arnolfo. How do the pieces in this museum help me?”
Zerbino rubbed his hands together, ready for the question and relishing the opportunity to answer it. “Riccardo, there are hundreds of urns in these rooms. I am the curator of the museum and even I don’t know the exact number.” He pointed to one on a top shelf. “Do you see this wonderful piece? Notice the intricate carving of the battle scene. What beautiful work, don’t you think?” He glanced at Malandro whose half smile had turned full. “The original is in a private collection in Berlin, if I remember correctly.” Zerbino pointed to another shelf. “And that one up there, it is somewhere in the Middle East.” He paused to see the look on Rick’s face. “But you, Riccardo, you will have an advantage over those buyers. You can actually choose the exact piece you want to purchase. It will be like going into a fine jewelry store and pointing to the necklace you wish.”
He was enjoying the whole scene, striding from one side of the room to another, pointing at the shelves like he was once more lecturing to a class. “The process is quite simple. You pick the one you want and it will be removed from display, replaced by a small card indicating that the urn is under restoration. Then my friend here and his staff will work their magic. A few weeks after that, a piece of authentic Etruscan history is in your gallery in America. And at the same time, what everyone assumes is the lovingly restored urn returns to its place of honor on this shelf.”
Rick nodded, impressed, despite himself. “So everyone is happy, the buyer has his stolen art and the seller has made a profit. Your business plan is brilliant, Arnolfo.”
Zerbino positively glowed. He raised his index finger in the air. “Ah, but don’t forget about our precious museum patrons, those tourists and school children who can’t tell the difference between an Etruscan pot and one made by your Navajos. Those patrons, my friend, are also very happy, now able to admire a professionally restored burial urn. Look at the wonderful restoration Malandro did on this piece. Why it’s almost like new.” Malandro bent to an abbreviated bow.
“What about serious scholars?” asked Rick. “They must come from all ove
r Italy to see this collection.”
Zerbino walked from the shelves to where Rick stood in the middle of the room. “Not just from Italy, my friend, but from around the world. Another advantage of my position, Riccardo, is that I control which pieces are available for close professional observation. With so many urns it is not a problem. And even scholars are usually drawn only to the most famous pieces in our collection. I’m afraid I can’t let you select one of those for your buyers. You must forgive me.” Zerbino was pleased at the little joke.
Rick’s mind was churning, but he kept himself on the business at hand. “Arnolfo, you have convinced me of authenticity. The only other major issue to discuss, before I call my people in New Mexico, is price.”
Rick watched the expression on Zerbino’s face go from the wide smile to a worried frown. What could this be about? he wondered. Surely the man was expecting the question, was he changing hats from the friendly salesman into that of the tough negotiator? Then Rick understood. Zerbino was not frowning at him, but rather a something directly behind him. Or someone. As he began to turn to see what it was, Rick heard a new and unfamiliar voice from the back of the room.
“Dr. Zerbino, I regret to inform you that the American is working for the police.”
The man standing at the doorway was dressed in a well-cut dark suit, light blue shirt and simple striped tie. He did not strike Rick as the kind of man who would be involved in a criminal activity, but then neither had Zerbino on first meeting. It was not the dress and demeanor of the man that concerned Rick, it was the large pistol which he held up stiffly in his two hands, giving the clear impression that he knew how to use it. And had likely used it before.
The curator spoke first. “I don’t understand,” he stammered, while removing the large white handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his bald head. Zerbino was clearly as bewildered as he was angry. The smiles and laughs were gone. He glared into Rick’s face and took short breaths to contain his indignation.
The man with the gun spoke again. His words were cold and deliberate.
“Just what I said, Dr. Zerbino, he has been hired by the art police in Rome to flush out traffickers of Etruscan artifacts. And it appears he has been successful.” Hints of delight appeared in the man’s eyes.
Rick, Malandro, and Zerbino stared at the gun. Rick could only guess what part in the gang the man played, but what was clear was that the police had been infiltrated. Unless the leak had come all the way from Rome. Could someone in the ministry be involved, feeding information to the very criminals Beppo was trying to catch? His adventure had suddenly turned dangerous, and now there was no policeman following him to step in and save his skin. Ironically Conti had probably called off the tail right when he really needed one. Whoever this guy was, he had now exposed the undercover work to the very person the ministry was trying to trap. Worse yet, Rick was now in the trap himself. Zerbino’s voice cut through Rick’s thoughts.
“Who are you?” The curator’s weak voice almost cracked.
What the…? But it took Rick only a few seconds to understand the meaning of Zerbino’s question, and when he did he took a deep, relieved breath. Perhaps his relief was a defense mechanism to deal with the situation and he was really frightened. He would leave the self-analysis to another time, alone with his uncle and a bottle of wine. At this point, all that was coming to mind was that he owed his skin to Conti. And this guy, whoever he was, might just be invited to a four course dinner, even at the place with the high prices and small portions.
“My name is LoGuercio. Detective LoGuercio. You’ll forgive me for not showing you my identification card, but my hands are otherwise occupied.” The policeman moved the barrel of his gun slightly, and Rick was now relieved to see that it had in fact been pointed at the space between Zerbino and Malandro, and not at him. “Signor Montoya, come over here please. You two, raise your hands, if you would. I doubt if you are armed, but I must be cautious.”
Zerbino and Malandro stood together stiffly and did as they were told. Rick moved carefully away from them and approached LoGuercio, who now slowly took his left hand off the pistol and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Still keeping his eyes on the two men, and the gun pointed directly at them, he pressed one of the buttons with his free thumb and put the phone to his ear.
“Commissario Conti?”
Chapter Ten
Suddenly their ear drums split open. It was as if they were standing in the middle of a siren factory on testing day. The harsh sound of the alarms caromed off the museum’s cement walls, trying to blast out the doorways, but met by more of the same howling coming from the other rooms. Flashing lights added to the atmosphere of a prison escape. The noise and flashes came from small fixtures that Rick had not noticed, wedged high in the corners of each room. Fortunately, LoGuercio did not drop his pistol, but when his eyes instinctively darted around the room Malandro bolted for the door and was out before the policeman could recover. Zerbino remained frozen in place.
“Turn off the phone!” Rick shouted. LoGuercio stared at him and then understood, mashing the buttons. As suddenly as they started, the sounds stopped.
“I don’t think he’ll get very far, Signor Montoya, I have men around the outside of the building. And Commissario Conti should be on his way.”
As if on cue, Conti strode into the room, out of breath, with two uniformed policeman in tow. The man’s usually rumpled suit was slightly stained on the knees with dirt. No doubt the steep path down to the cave, Rick thought.
Conti surveyed the scene. “Who is the man we just stopped trying to run out of here? He looked vaguely familiar.”
“Malandro, Commissario,” answered Rick, “He’s the foreman at Landi’s workshop.”
“Of course. He looks almost presentable. Is Landi mixed up in this? If so, it’s even more complicated than I thought.” He saw that Rick was about to answer and raised a hand to stop him. He was in charge now. “And what was all that noise?” He looked at Zerbino, who had lowered his arms to his sides, and smiled. “Your alarm system? Don’t tell me, Dr. Zerbino, that someone was trying to steal your precious Etruscan urns. I hope you were able to stop them, it would truly be a shame to lose even a single one of them.”
Though it was intended for Zerbino, the sarcasm was not lost on Rick. So Conti knew about Zerbino’s scheme; something he saw at the cave tipped him off. Then he understood. Of course, the work on the copies, that was what was going on in the other room of the cave, the part he wasn’t allowed to see yesterday. The conversation now between Conti and Zerbino should prove interesting. LoGuercio, it appeared, had the same feeling of anticipation. He was looking at his boss as he lifted the tail of his jacket to holster the pistol behind his back.
“Welcome to my museum, Commissario, but I would have preferred that your visit had been under different circumstances.” Zerbino held out his hands, palms up, and then clasped them together over his chest. He seemed smaller than he had been before LoGuercio had appeared, as if the air had gone out of him. “I suppose it would be futile to deny what has been going on, since I just finished explaining it all to your intrepid undercover man here. The temptation of riches and so many urns. Who would miss a few of them? And the collectors have such a deep appreciation of their beauty.”
“Every piece is a precious part of the patrimony of Italy,” said Rick. Since he was working for the Ministry of Culture, he felt an obligation to stand up for their mission.
“The patrimony of Italy?” Zerbino returned to his professorial manner in responding to Rick, regaining a few inches of height. “And what is Italy, my dear Signor Montoya? A recent invention of the latest inhabitants of this peninsula, nothing more. This idea that the past belongs on an altar to be worshipped is something unknown to the Etruscans, the Romans, and others who roamed these lands over the centuries. Why should anything of value be locked behind glass rather than sold to the highest bi
dder? So you see, Commissario, I am merely following the ancient tradition.”
Conti shook his head slowly. “I’ve heard many justifications for crime,” said Conti, “but that one has to be the most bizarre. It’s brilliant people like you, dottore, who give crime a bad name.” He smiled at his own humor. “But I will leave the theft of artifacts to the art police, who are on their way from Rome. My interest right now is in other crime.”
“Then I suppose I will be handed over to your colleagues from Rome?” asked Zerbino.
“I wouldn’t exactly call them colleagues. And you may be staying with us. Murder is considered a more serious crime and will take precedence over trafficking in artifacts.”
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