The Sacred Spoils

by The Sacred Spoils (retail) (epub)

  That smile again, amused by her brazenness. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Zara took out her phone, brought up her photograph of the map mosaic, held it out. Avram could be touchy about the limits of his knowledge, so she said: ‘The inscription will be impossible for you to read on this small screen, so please allow me to translate. It says: “God save your most pious servant Flavius Justinian, lover of Jesus, giver of this token of your glory.”’

  ‘And that should mean something to me?’

  ‘Flavius Justinian is Justinian the Great, the Byzantine emperor who as you know built countless great churches across the ancient world. Including, it would seem, this one.’

  ‘And my opportunity?’

  ‘Justinian’s great ambition was to restore the Roman Empire to its former glory, ruled not from Rome or Ravenna but from Constantinople. He had a problem, however. The Vandals had seized Carthage and were throwing their weight around. So Justinian sent his top general Belisarius to put them in their place. Belisarius destroyed their fleet, seized numerous captives and brought vast quantities of booty back to Constantinople, which was then paraded through the streets. Justinian’s court historian Procopius describes it in his History of the Wars.’

  Avram checked his watch. ‘My wife and I really need to leave in the next five minutes,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look good for a man in my position, being late.’

  ‘As Procopius describes it, an unnamed Jew warned the emperor that certain treasures on parade were cursed to bring about the downfall of whichever city held them, as they’d already brought down Rome and Carthage before them. Justinian was so spooked by this that he ordered them returned to their original home.’

  ‘And?’ asked Avram, despite himself. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Here, Minister. Jerusalem. Specifically, to a house of God in the vicinity. Because these treasures were sacred treasures. More precisely, they were the sacred treasures. The ones the Romans pillaged from the Second Temple during their sack of Jerusalem. The table of shewbread, the silver trumpets.’ She pointed to the wall behind him. ‘And that.’

  Avram stared at Zara, then turned slowly in his chair to look at the flag of Israel hanging on his wall and the seven-branched candelabra depicted at its heart, most potent symbol of their nation. He turned back to her with an incredulous expression. ‘Are you telling me I might have the fucking Menorah buried beneath my prison?’

  ‘Yes, Minister. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

  Chapter Five

  A hilltop villa near Cosenza

  I

  Magistrate Baldassare Mancuso was scrawling notes on the margins of a report when word arrived that his old law college friend had arrived with his daughter. He hurried to the front door to greet them, only to discover that their car was still being searched outside the main gates. He could hardly complain. He’d instituted the security protocols himself in response to the many death threats he’d received. Besides, he’d been at his desk since six that morning, so it was good to have a moment or two outside, with these delicious twilight scents filling his nostrils. His predecessor at this villa had planted exotic aromatics everywhere. Baldassare had little else good to say about the man, but he was grateful for that.

  The gates squeaked open. They needed a good oiling. A sleek silver Mercedes drove through, wending its way up the spotlit drive to stop outside the front door. Mario and his teenage daughter got out, each looking a little unnerved, perhaps by the thoroughness of the search they’d just experienced, or by the helicopter on its pad, or by the bodyguards currently flanking Baldassare, sub-machine guns held at the ready – though he himself barely even noticed them any more.

  He put on his most cheerful smile to set them at their ease as he hurried down the steps. He hugged Mario welcome, then shook the hand of his daughter Bea in both of his. He hadn’t seen her for twelve whole years, he told her. She’d been in a pushchair back then. A beautiful child she’d been, though not half so beautiful as now. She blushed and twisted gravel with her foot, trying her best not to smile because of the silver braces in her teeth. It tugged his heart to see it, but he hid it with boisterousness as he led them inside and through to the kitchen. He offered drinks rather apologetically. The villa was not set up for entertaining. They made do with mineral water poured over ice and squeezed lemon, then settled companionably around the kitchen table. He raised an eyebrow at Mario, inviting him to explain. But there was no explanation, it turned out. He and his daughter had simply been on their way down from Verona to Sicily to meet up with his wife and spend a few days with her family. He’d seen his old friend on the news last night, and mentioned it to Bea, along with the fact they’d be driving by his door. And she’d pleaded with him to drop in, because Baldassare surely knew better than anyone that Italy’s anti-Mafia magistrates were the nation’s new rock stars.

  Baldassare roared with laughter. He was short and fat and no one’s idea of male beauty, so the idea of himself as a rock star was immensely amusing. But the way Bea blushed made him think it might even be the truth. ‘I’m so glad you did,’ he told them both, with a sincerity that surprised him. ‘Truly. I see so few friendly faces these days. But, as I said on the phone, I don’t have long. You wouldn’t believe how much work I still have to do. Besides, Alessandra and Bettina will be calling shortly.’

  ‘Are they not here?’

  Baldassare shook his head. ‘We decided it was prudent for them to stay away until this dreadful business is over. So these nightly calls are our only chance to talk. They keep me sane. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Mario. ‘No need to explain. I knew when I called you’d be crazy busy. Sunday, isn’t it? The big announcement. Or might it be postponed again?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Baldassare. ‘But no. We’re out of time.’ Almost one year before, an operation he’d personally directed had resulted in the seizure of a vast consignment of cocaine outside the container terminal of Gioia Tauro, as well as the arrests of the notorious Critelli brothers, their top lieutenants and dozens of foot soldiers in the Cosenza Mafia. He’d been working on the prosecution case ever since. ‘It’s lay charges or let them walk.’

  ‘And? No hint for an old friend?’

  He spread his hands. ‘What makes you think I’ve even decided yet?’

  Mario laughed and turned to Bea. ‘He was like this at college too. Always looking absurdly deeply into problems. Examining them from every possible angle. I said back then that he’d end up a judge. Didn’t I tell you that, Baldo?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you did.’

  ‘But a hero too. That I never saw.’

  A weight pressed suddenly upon his shoulders. Admiration was a terrible burden. ‘I’m no hero,’ he said flatly. He was about to add more to this, to explain the twists and turns of life that had brought him to this spot. But he feared if once he started, he might never stop. So he drained his drink instead and checked his watch.

  ‘We should be getting on,’ said Mario, taking the hint. ‘We still have a long drive ahead. I only wanted to see you and wish you well. But we’ll be coming back this way in ten days’ time. My wife will be with us then. I know she’d love to see you again. Of all our college friends, you were the only one she ever truly cared for. Perhaps we could meet up then, with the big day past? Go to a nice restaurant together, drink a bit too much red wine. Like the old days.’

  Baldassare smiled but shook his head. ‘I don’t really go out any more.’

  ‘Come on, old friend. You mustn’t let yourself become a hermit.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘It’s that, whenever I’m at a restaurant, I put everyone else there at risk. The staff, the other customers, my bodyguards, the people I’m eating with. It rather takes away the fun.’

  Mario blinked. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘How stupid of me.’

  ‘Not at all. It was a kind thought. But it’s how my life is now.’

  A few moments of awkward silence foll
owed. Mario pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, then. You must give my love to Alessandra and Bettina. It must be so hard for you, not having them around.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Baldassare. ‘But this is a war we’re fighting. And war means sacrifice.’ He hesitated, wondering whether to go on. But he’d promised himself he would, and the opening was too good to miss. ‘For me, that means long hours and no more nights out. For my wife and daughter, it means hiding themselves abroad. But we never forget that others contribute too. Taxpayers like your good self, for example. It’s astonishing how much investigations like these cost. The suspects we have in prison awaiting charges. The others we are watching. A hundred police officers, lawyers and others conducting interviews, searching properties, tracking funds, preparing evidence. If it goes to trial, it will be by far the largest in Calabrian history. We’re looking at having to build a special courtroom for it. All put together, it is insanely expensive. But such is the price we pay for civilisation and the rule of law. And so a bargain for us taxpayers in the long run, wouldn’t you say? Old friend.’

  Mario blanched. As a lawyer himself, he knew the investigative powers of an anti-Mafia magistrate like Baldassare. And, too late, he realised that no one would be allowed inside this villa at so sensitive a moment without a thorough vetting. Because in Italy, anyone at all could be Mafia – even an old law college friend dropping by with his charming teenage daughter. ‘I don’t follow,’ he said weakly. ‘What are you…?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re absolutely right. It’s a terrible thing for a man to be deprived of his family for long stretches of time. Too often, we don’t realise our blessings until it’s too late.’ He walked them both back to the front door. He put a hand on Bea’s shoulder then clasped Mario’s hand warmly between his to bid him farewell, meeting his gaze for long enough to assure him he still had time to settle his taxes properly, if he so chose. Then he waved them off down the drive. He watched until the gates had closed once more behind them, sealing him safely back in his cocoon. He checked his watch again. Five more minutes.

  The sacrifices one made.

  He breathed in deeply of the fragrant dusk to fortify himself. Then, with a heavy heart, he headed back inside.

  II

  The first ambulance arrived ten minutes after Cesco’s call, parking tight behind his van to leave space for those that followed. He waved the paramedics down the slope. It was dark enough by now for them to need electric lamps. A sturdy, middle-aged woman of obvious competence knelt beside the fair-haired woman and checked her vitals while Cesco described how he’d found her and what he’d done.

  A second ambulance arrived, then the police cars, parking in a line all the way back to the road. Ghostly figures in forensic whites shooed him further and further back as they sealed off the scene with tape, set up lamps, scoured the ground for evidence. No one seemed interested in him, so he made his way back up the slope, only to discover that his van was trapped between the ambulance behind and a taped off section of track where the police were collecting shards of broken glass.

  The media now arrived, setting up their lighting and cameras. That was the last thing he needed, so he climbed into his van and sat there in the darkness. He turned his phone back on to check his most recent messages. He took down his Scilla website, mothballed his social media accounts and generally wiped his existence from the internet, save only for a handful of references to his life at Oxford University that he’d seeded here and there over the preceding months. A rap came on his passenger-side window. He looked up to see an ispettore of the Polizia di Stato standing there. Cesco leaned over to roll his window down. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you the guy who found this?’ asked the ispettore.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Cesco. He got out and went around. Experience had taught him that police were highly sensitive to evasiveness but easily lulled by eagerness. ‘Those poor bastards,’ he said. ‘Murdered in cold blood like that. You see it on the news, but it’s not the same, is it? Not when you know them.’

  ‘You knew them?’

  ‘The dead woman, yes. Giulia Surace. She lived here with her father Vittorio.’ The ispettore took out a notebook and pencil to jot this down. ‘I expect that was him down there with her,’ continued Cesco, when he looked back up. ‘Though I can’t say for sure, I never met the man. The second woman I have no idea about at all. Except that she spoke English.’

  ‘You talked with her?’

  ‘A few words only. They’d taped her mouth and her nose was blocked with blood. She was struggling to breathe, so I ripped the tape off. I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It woke her. She asked me if they were gone. I told her yes. She asked me to stay. I assured her that I would. She went back to sleep again. That’s when I called you guys. Oh, and she had tape around her wrists and ankles too, so I took that off too, to make her comfortable. Then I came up here, so as not to get in your way. That’s all.’

  The ispettore nodded. ‘And why are you here at all?’

  ‘Giulia invited me. For the weekend. I have her messages on my phone, if you’d like to see? Or I can forward them, if you give me a number.’

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Antonio Rossi. At your service, sir.’ He took out and handed him his ID. ‘I’m an archaeologist by trade. On sabbatical from Oxford to write a book. A history of shipping in the Messina Straits. It sounds dull, I know, but actually it’s fascinating. The way Calabria and Sicily have—’

  ‘And you live where?’

  ‘Wherever my research takes me. Recently, that’s been in and around Reggio di Calabria.’

  ‘That’s where you came from today?’

  ‘No. I was in Gioia Tauro.’ He took out his wallet to show his receipts for petrol and clothes, their time and date stamps.

  ‘And how did you know Ms Surace?’

  ‘We dived together last year.’ This was true enough. She’d tagged along on one of his Alaric trips. ‘We hit it off. You know how it is. We spent the night together and promised to stay in touch. But we never did. Not until her invitation.’

  ‘Any reason someone might want to hurt her or her father?’

  ‘We didn’t really talk about ourselves. Though…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Those coins over his eyes. That’s ’Ndrangheta, isn’t it? An unpaid debt? Because she was broke, I know that much. On our night together, not only did I pay for everything, she tried to tap me for a loan too.’ He gave a dry smile. ‘Tapping up an academic on sabbatical is true desperation.’

  The ispettore smiled politely as he jotted it down. ‘Anything else?’

  Cesco feigned a frown then shook his head. ‘Give me your number,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll contact you if I remember anything of interest. I’ll forward copies of those texts and receipts too, if that would help?’

  The ispettore handed him a card. Cesco put it in his wallet. ‘You have cards too,’ observed the ispettore. ‘Perhaps I might take one.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cesco.

  The ispettore glanced at it. ‘This says Francesco Rossi PhD. Didn’t you tell me Antonio?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I did.’ He got his identity card back out to show him. ‘Antonio Vincenzo Francesco Rossi. But my grandfather was Antonio and my father was Vincenzo, so I was left with Francesco. Cesco, actually. Except in official situations, that is, such as when I’m talking to the police.’ The ispettore stared at him for several moments, his antenna finally on alert. Cesco cursed himself inside, not least because he knew his fingerprints would still be on file with the Italian police from his old arrests. But he found a bland smile even so, and put his wallet away. ‘Look, officer, between you and me, this was ’Ndrangheta, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet. Not for sure.’

  ‘But that’s how it appears, right? Only, is there any way you can keep me out of this? Call me a coward if you like, but the thought of those monsters knowing my name…’ But
the ispettore had stopped listening. He was gazing instead at the young American woman who’d just arrived on top of the embankment on a stretcher, the female paramedic walking alongside her. She looked to be awake again, if groggy. The ispettore excused himself and went across. He said something to her. She shook her head. He turned to Cesco. ‘You speak English, yes?’ he called out. Cesco nodded and went across, silently bemoaning his bad luck. They climbed into the ambulance together, sat on a bench seat as the woman was strapped in and the paramedic swabbed blood from her face.

  ‘Doesn’t she belong in hospital?’ asked Cesco.

  ‘Early leads are valuable leads,’ replied the ispettore piously. He turned to her. ‘This gentleman is Cesco Rossi,’ he said in Italian. ‘The one who called us in.’

  Cesco translated for her. There was no hint of recognition in her eyes, but she found a fragile smile. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he assured her. ‘And you’re okay with answering questions, are you? Only I can have them take you straight to hospital if you—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I just wish I knew anything that could help.’

  ‘Tell us what you can.’

  She nodded. ‘My name is Carmen Nero. I’m American. From Massachusetts. I’m in Rome for my PhD. It’s on a woman called Galla Placidia.’ She spoke in considerate short sentences, allowing Cesco to translate and the ispettore to make his notes. ‘Giulia called me last night. Giulia Surace. She asked me down for the weekend. I came by train. She and her father Vittorio met me at the station. We were on our way back to their house when… I don’t know. Something must have happened.’ She touched her temple. ‘But honestly I don’t remember anything more. Not until I woke just a few minutes ago.’