by Roy Lewis
McMurtaghy leaned forward in his chair. ‘So who did he sell it to?’
Cooper grunted. He shook his head. ‘It didn’t quite work that way. It wasn’t just dollars and papers he needed; there was transport, people to accommodate, embassies to use … but he had a contact.’
‘An American officer?’
‘No. A diplomat. An Englishman.’ There was an edge of bitterness in Cooper’s tone as he almost spat out the words.
McMurtaghy leaned back, let his glance wander over the manicured lawns in front of him. The sun was dropping slowly behind the trees; the shadows were lengthening. ‘Who was this guy?’
Cooper shrugged. ‘I never knew. Never actually met him.’
‘What arrangements were made, then?’
‘The Englishman was going to arrange everything. At a price, of course. And my father was able to pay the price: the artefacts he had taken from the Moscow flight. The Englishman had contacts, could provide the escape route with papers, cash, protection, the whole nine yards. All I heard from my father was that he was a diplomat, but also a businessman with his fingers in a hell of a lot of pies. Later, I guessed that he was also a spy—’
‘Though you never met him….’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t try to find out his identity, and his location, once I was settled in the States,’ Cooper remarked drily.
‘And you succeeded.’
Cooper licked dry, shrunken lips. ‘You got to realize, McMurtaghy, I had to make my way in New York when I finally got there. And the quickest way to get to the top was by way of the rackets. But you know all about that. You been hounding me for years. But once I was in the money, I started asking questions, making contacts with other immigrants, guys with families back in the USSR, people who had worked like my father, with the Trophy Brigades. Yeah, in the end I succeeded. But you got to realize why I bothered.’
‘Betrayal?’ McMurtaghy guessed.
‘You got it in one,’ Cooper snapped harshly. ‘I was the lucky one, the only one in fact to get out. My father was a careful man. He made arrangements with the Englishman, agreed payment, but wanted proof that the Englishman could deliver. So I was sent out first. I got as far as Vienna. That was when hell broke loose back in Moscow.’ He hesitated, then when he continued his voice was almost dreamy. ‘You see, the stuff that my father was due to give to the Englishman was only part of the hoard my father had acquired. And the Englishman was greedy. We needn’t go into details, in fact I don’t even know them all, but I can tell you that the secret police stormed my father’s house, my mother and brother were killed in the fracas that followed, and a week later my father was hanged.’
‘I understood your brother had made it to Vienna.’
‘No, that was me. I was the only one to get out. And I moved on quickly, took a new identity, made my way in the world.’
‘But the hoard Major Kopas had acquired…?’
‘Most of it had disappeared. Naturally. The Englishman sold my family down the river, and got his hands on all he wanted. He’d have bribed the security people as well, no doubt. Of course, there was then also the small matter of me, Georj Kopas. I got out of Vienna hours before the Englishman’s hitmen came for me. He wanted to cover all traces. But I was gone, I made it to Switzerland. And, I suppose, blessed as I am with a certain native cunning, I finally made it to the States. But without a dollar to my name.’
‘Whereas the Englishman—’
‘Got away with murder. And loot.’
‘He wasn’t caught in Moscow, by the authorities?’ McMurtaghy enquired.
Cooper shrugged indifferently. ‘It would just be a matter of paying the right people. And he had diplomatic protection. Not long after my father was executed, the Englishman got out. Disappeared.’
‘Back to England?’
Cooper looked about him towards the shadowed trees. He shivered. ‘Getting cooler, I think. Can you wheel me back indoors?’
McMurtaghy nodded, rose, walked behind Cooper’s wheelchair and guided him back through the sliding doors to the sitting-room. Cooper pointed a bony finger to a cupboard at the other side of the room. ‘Got some medicine there.’
McMurtaghy walked across to the cupboard, opened it and then looked back at the old man. ‘Whisky, you mean?’
‘What better medicine at my age and in my condition?’
McMurtaghy poured a generous glass and took it across to the old mobster. Cooper took it, sipped, and noted that his interrogator had taken nothing for himself. ‘On duty, hey?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You always were a tight-assed bastard, McMurtaghy.’
‘We were talking about the Englishman. You were saying you finally discovered his identity.’
‘Only years later. When he had long slipped the leash. And, of course, changed his name.’
‘But didn’t return to England?’
‘I’m not too certain about that, but my guess is he will have sneaked back in eventually. Meanwhile, he had the loot; he didn’t want to get caught up in recriminations so he changed his name and went to live under the umbrella of a right wing regime which wouldn’t ask too many questions.’
‘South America?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘Franco’s Spain.’
‘How long ago did he run?’
‘He was certainly in Madrid by 1948.’ Cooper sipped his whisky and made a sigh of contentment. ‘Where he set up business. Textiles I believe. Did well. Didn’t need to sell the stuff he’d stolen from my father. The odd piece here and there, maybe. But he was successful in Spain.’
‘You discovered his real identity.’
‘Took me twenty years to finally root it out. Put out a lot of feelers; talked to a lot of immigrants; paid off a lot of informers. Yeah, I got his name, in the end. He was called Stoneleigh. And it was another ten years before I found out what his assumed name was in Spain.’ Cooper shuffled angrily in his chair. ‘If I could have done something about it, I would have acted then, but it didn’t work out that way. I had a life to live. The years went by. So, he cheated me, in a sense. The man I wanted got too old. Turned up his toes before I could ever reach him. Beyond my grab, by the time I would have been able to do anything about it. Take revenge, if you know what I mean.’
McMurtaghy prowled around the room on soft feet. Something was puzzling him. ‘You seem … reconciled now. As though it’s all over.’ He stopped in front of the old man. ‘But from what I know about you, George, you were always a vengeful bastard.’
‘Haven’t changed, either,’ Cooper remarked carelessly, and held up his glass to the light, admiring the colour. ‘But I couldn’t get to Stoneleigh in time. He left Spain before I could get to him, the trail went cold, and then I guessed he would have snuffed it: he was an old man, by the time I got what information I had, probably a rich one too. But by then, I was in jail.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose I could have put out a contract on him while I was still in a cell, if I could have followed the trail to the end. But that would have been … impersonal. And then, well, the cancer came….’
‘But if this man Stoneleigh was dead, you were too late anyway.’
‘He had family,’ Cooper murmured grimly.
McMurtaghy stiffened. The silence grew around them, heavily. Cooper finished his glass, silently handed it to McMurtaghy and gestured towards the drinks cupboard. McMurtaghy poured him a second drink. ‘The nurses know about this medicine of yours?’
‘I’m paying a hell of a lot for my accommodation. You reckon they’re going to argue with a dying man?’
McMurtaghy stood in front of him, watching him carefully. ‘You say you found out Stoneleigh’s assumed name in Spain.’
‘That’s right,’ Cooper nodded and took the glass from the ex-FBI man. ‘He changed his name, called himself Pedro Zamora. Seems he had a facility for languages. Could pass himself off easily as a Spaniard.’
‘And you say he had family,’ McMurtaghy said quietly.
Cooper nodded and stared into his glass as though the whisky was demonstrating long sought answers to him. ‘You refused to drink with me. Matter of principle, is that it? People can get hung up on principles. Me, I got principles, believe it or not. The Bible talks about an eye for an eye, don’t it? It’s kind of the way I see things too. My father had family. Stoneleigh, or Zamora as he later called himself, he wasted my family. And then had family himself, in Spain. But he had murdered my mother, father and brother. You made mention of the statuette of Artemis: I’ve always been more interested in a different goddess. Nemesis. Goddess of revenge.’ He grimaced, a bitter smile touching his lips. ‘I been nursing revenge for half a century.’
‘If the man’s dead—’
‘That can’t signify, don’t you see? I told you. He made me suffer. Killed my family. So why should his family escape? But I’m a reasonable man. One death will do. It means I can end my days in some sort of peace.’
There was a short silence. ‘That’s what you meant earlier about tying up some loose ends,’ McMurtaghy said at last.
Cooper made no reply, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. McMurtaghy waited, but when Cooper said no more he began to make his way towards the door. There, he paused. ‘So that’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Do you know if the Zamora family retained the Artemis statuette?’
Cooper shrugged. ‘Possibly. And if it’s shown up now after all this time maybe Tony Zamora was putting it on the market. I wouldn’t know. Can’t say I care much either way.’
‘Tony Zamora. He’s the Englishman’s son? So maybe I need to talk to him as soon as possible.’
The glint in the old mobster’s eyes now seemed almost triumphant. ‘I think, Mr McMurtaghy, you might find it’s a little late to be knocking at that door, now.’
And McMurtaghy saw the man’s glance drift, triumphantly, to the calendar on the wall.
Chapter Four
1
THERE WAS CLEARLY a certain reluctance on the part of Gabriel Nunza, the director of the Abrogazzi Museum, to agree to an interview. Arnold sat in Carmela’s office while she argued over the telephone with the deputy director, who had obviously been instructed to keep the ISAC members at arm’s length, but as her persuasive charms moved from polite reasonableness to veiled threats and finally to a sharp challenge and a promise to involve senior government officials, she was finally put through to Nunza.
On the speakerphone he sounded somewhat rattled; his breathing was constrained, his tone nervous. ‘I am not sure there is any way in which I can help you, signorina.’
‘A face-to-face meeting will clarify things,’ she insisted.
‘I am a very busy man—’
‘And I was given your name as an information source by someone whom you no doubt have had dealings with.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Peter Steiner,’ Carmela snapped. ‘Who has recently been murdered.’
There was a short silence, overtaken by what sounded like whispering in the background.
‘This afternoon would be convenient for me and my colleague,’ Carmela pressed. She glanced at Arnold, rolled her eyes and mouthed an Italian obscenity. Then she redirected her attention to the phone once more. Nunza was speaking.
‘I … I had heard of the unfortunate demise of the man you mention. He was of course known to me – we met at conferences of museum directors, but his activities, for which he was sent to prison, I have to say had nothing to do with me and I cannot see what—’
‘He gave us your name, Nunza. Stop prevaricating. It’s easier just to see us. We need to know the extent of your involvement, and if your information is useful to us … and involves no criminal activity on your part … there is no reason why we should drag you further into our investigations.’
‘But I know nothing of the death of Peter Steiner, I assure you!’ Nunza bleated in dismay.
‘I am prepared to accept that, right now. But only if we can talk to you about other matters. If you still refuse to co-operate, then clearly we need to widen our investigation, and ally it to the death of Steiner. But this way, agreeing to see us, my colleague Mr Landon and me, it can smooth things perhaps, make sure investigations are contained, so to speak….’
Arnold caught the sound of more hurried whispering. After a short delay Gabriel Nunza could be heard clearing his throat nervously. ‘I … I see your point, Signorina Cacciatore. This afternoon, you say. I … I can agree to see you at perhaps three o’clock.’
‘That will be fine. We shall present ourselves at your office at that hour.’
The museum building was smaller than Arnold had guessed. It was clear that it owed its existence to private funding: it was housed in a somewhat dilapidated palazzo with a small parking area outside the main doors. An elderly guard in a faded uniform welcomed them in the entrance hallway and led them up the curving staircase to the first floor. The direction signs pointed the way to areas that held sculptures, modern paintings and medieval artefacts. The walls were bare apart from a few faded tapestries; the tiled floors were ill maintained. ‘It’s all a bit low key,’ Arnold muttered to Carmela.
She nodded as they followed the guard down the corridor. ‘It is privately supported, but receives little by way of government funds. The museum was established by a family in the nineteenth century, the Carvatii. Their money ran out in the twentieth. It has managed to stagger on with occasional bequests and has some interesting pieces but it is not regarded as a significant collection. Nunza himself is a well-respected academic historian, nevertheless. But it will be interesting to discover just what sort of connection lay between Steiner and Nunza. If any, of course.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘We must not jump to conclusions before evidence is presented to us.’
The guard tapped on a broad oak door, opened it and stepped aside, gesturing to them to enter. The room was narrow, with a tall window overlooking the back garden of the palazzo. There were several filing cabinets, bookcases lining the walls, an ornate if somewhat battered rosewood desk clear of paper and adorned only with an antique telephone receiver. The man who stood up to welcome them, reluctantly, was perhaps sixty years of age, bald apart from grey tufts of hair springing above his ears and soberly suited. He wore thick-rimmed spectacles, a grey moustache and an air of general unhappiness. He bowed his head as they came forward but did not offer his hand. Surprisingly, he directed his attention immediately to Arnold. ‘You will be Mr Landon.’
‘That’s right.’
There was a short silence, then Nunza’s glance slipped past Arnold to the chair placed just out of Arnold’s peripheral vision. ‘I believe you are acquainted with my friend and adviser.’
Arnold and Carmela turned. There was a man seated there. He rose, inclined his head to Carmela and then held Arnold’s glance. ‘Hello, Landon.’
The surprise left Arnold speechless for several seconds. He stared in astonishment at the man who had been appointed as his deputy, and who was supposed to be filling in for him while he was seconded to Carmela’s group. ‘Spedding! What the hell are you doing here? I saw Karen Stannard earlier this week and she’s spitting blood in your direction! Why are you here?’
Karl Spedding held up a hand. ‘Please, please … Don’t get too excited. I’ve just taken a few days’ leave of absence. To assist an old friend … Mr Nunza.’
Carmela was equally surprised, but also suspicious. Her dark eyes glittered as she glanced from one man to the other. ‘What kind of assistance is called for here? This is to be an informal meeting: we want to ask a few questions, why does it demand someone to travel from England to be present at your side?’
‘It’s not quite like that,’ Spedding assured her. He glanced towards Nunza. ‘My friend, and former colleague, had phoned me, asked for advice, and after we talked things through I thought it best to come personally to lend what assistance I can. We had, of course, been expecting a visit at some time, but it has arisen rather more quickly
than we had anticipated. Steiner’s death, of course….’
Arnold frowned, still dissatisfied. ‘I don’t understand. You say we. Just what connection do you have with this museum?’
Spedding did not appear to be nervous. He spread his hands deprecatingly. ‘With the museum, nothing. But Gabriel and I, we are old friends. I owe him a debt. It seemed to me to be appropriate that I should help him in his present difficulties.’
‘A debt?’ Arnold wondered.
Karl Spedding gave him a level glance. ‘You will recall, when we first met and I was interviewed, I gave you a full account of the reasons why I left my post as a museum director at the Pradak to join you in Northumberland. I explained to you the … difficulties I had with the authorities who employed me, and the steps that I found necessary to overcome the hostility I encountered.’ His glance slipped towards the silent Gabriel Nunza. ‘Gabriel was a non-executive member of the board and one of the few people who supported me in those days. He helped me, advised me, supported me. He assisted me, encouraged me in the maintenance of my position, and self-respect, in that difficult period. I had much to be grateful for. He stuck his neck out for me. So, now …’ He glanced around. ‘Perhaps we should sit down?’
Nunza waited until Arnold, Spedding and Carmela had all taken seats, then, stiffly, he lowered himself into the swivel chair behind the desk. Carmela half turned her back on Spedding, and fixed the museum director with a stern gaze. ‘So you feel you need support before you speak to us? That would suggest you have been in difficulties. Perhaps this would have something to do with the activities you have been involved in. The cordata, perhaps?’
