The ispettore jotted it all down. ‘Any idea why the Suraces might have been attacked?’ he asked. ‘Or by whom?’
‘I can’t imagine. But then I hardly knew them.’
‘So why invite you?’
‘I don’t have many friends here in Italy,’ she said. ‘I think Giulia was being nice. Oh, and she wanted a piece of equipment brought down for the weekend.’
‘Equipment?’ asked the ispettore.
‘She never told me what it was. But it was in a big black packing case. It must be at the foot of the slope somewhere.’
‘I saw it,’ said Cesco. ‘It was right by the river. There was an overnight bag too, halfway down the slope. Black with yellow stripes.’
‘That’s mine,’ said Carmen.
‘We’ll get it for you,’ promised the ispettore. ‘And you have no idea why they wanted this equipment?’
Carmen again touched fingers to her forehead. ‘Giulia wouldn’t say. Apparently some big-shot Oxford archaeologist was coming to join us. She wanted to tell us both together.’ She frowned at Cesco. ‘Is that you? The big-shot Oxford archaeologist?’
‘Hardly a big-shot. And I’m on sabbatical right now. But otherwise…’
‘Well, she was going to tell us both together. But of course…’ She gestured at the catastrophe that had overtaken them, then closed her eyes once more, rested her head. Cesco gazed curiously at her. If there was one field in which he truly was an expert, it was bullshit. Carmen had just lied, at least once and probably twice. The first was certain: if she’d been unconscious throughout, why ask him earlier if ‘they’ had gone? And her denial of knowing what was in the packing case had hardly been convincing. But greater than his curiosity was his desire to get away, so it was to his immense relief that the ispettore snapped closed his notebook and nodded to the paramedic that it was time to take her patient off to hospital.
III
The astonishment on Avram Bernstein’s face turned almost instantly to scepticism. ‘I thought the Menorah was in Rome. In the Vatican cellars.’
‘No, Minister,’ said Zara.
‘But I distinctly remember a fuss the last time the prime minister went over.’
‘Yes, Minister. Because it sometimes serves Israel’s interests to be angry with the Italians or the Catholics. At such moments, if we have no other justification, we demand the return of the Menorah. They don’t have it, and haven’t for many hundreds of years. We know this for a fact. They know that we know. But making them deny it anyway still puts them on defence.’
Avram grunted in amusement. He loved that side of politics. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But it was in Rome, yes? It’s on that damned arch. So how the hell did it get to Carthage, to be pillaged?’
Zara gave herself a moment, for it was a complicated story. That the temple had been looted and its sacred spoils taken to Rome after the sack of Jerusalem was indisputable, memorialised as it had been on the Arch of Titus. It was almost as certain that they’d been kept for the next three hundred years or so in the Temple of Peace commissioned by Vespasian to showcase Roman triumphs, thanks to the witness accounts of people who’d seen them there, including two different rabbis. Rome itself had languished, however, too far from the heart of its own empire to make an efficient capital. That empire had also gradually divided in two, the eastern part administered from Constantinople, the western part from Milan and then Ravenna. But the Visigoths, Alans, Vandals and other tribes to the north of their borders were placed under increasing pressure from invaders of their own, a terrifying new tribe known as the Huns. They’d fled across the Rhine and the Danube into Roman territory. The Romans had dealt with this influx pragmatically at first, allowing them to settle so long as they fought alongside their own armies. But it had proved hard to assimilate their huge numbers, so they’d come into conflict too – notably with the Visigoths and their king Alaric, who’d fought bravely for them for a while but who then wanted a homeland of their own in return. They’d invaded Italy to put pressure on the emperor, before losing patience and sacking Rome in CE 410, destroying forever that city’s aura of invincibility.
But Zara leaped straight over all this intervening history to land in the 430s instead. ‘There was a Vandal general called Geiseric,’ she said. ‘He made his way from Spain to North Africa, where he seized Carthage and modern Tunisia. It was a major setback for the Romans, for Carthage provided Rome with much of its bread. The emperor was forced to strike a deal under which Geiseric’s son went to live at his court. He got engaged to his daughter while he was there, but she then married someone else instead. Geiseric was furious. He sailed to Italy and plundered Rome of everything he could get his hands on, including our sacred treasures, taking them back to Carthage with him.’
‘From where Justinian seized them back again,’ said Avram, finishing the timeline for her, ‘only to get spooked by this wandering Jew into sending them on down here.’
‘That’s what the mosaic implies, yes.’
He squinted at her. ‘And you think it’s for real?’
‘I think it would be unforgivable not to check. I mean, can you imagine what a hero that person would be, the one who recovers the Menorah? Our new David Ben-Gurion, the nation at his feet.’
Avram smiled. He was no fool, yet nor was he immune to daydreams. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said.
Chapter Six
I
Ricardo Savanelli was enjoying the evening passeggiata, pushing his wife’s wheelchair along Corso Mazzini. Enjoying, to be specific, the chance to study all these people with whom they shared Cosenza. Stately men with Vandyke beards strolling with their hands behind their backs. Doting mothers being stopped every few moments for a cluck. Dog owners feigning deep interest in shop windows while their best friends did their business on the cobbles. Elegant fops with cashmere scarves thrown nonchalantly over their shoulders. Pretty girls with show-pony hair and high-heeled trots.
They were almost at the town hall when Ricardo’s editor called. It was a bittersweet conversation. His semi-retirement had left him at a loose end, so that the summons in itself was welcome. Yet the double murder and the seeming return of the local ’Ndrangheta would have broken his heart if he’d still had one to break. His wife folded her arms when he told her, but she knew what his work meant to him, so he wheeled her back to the car to drive her home, then headed off alone.
The murders had happened barely fifteen minutes away. He tuned to local radio. The on-scene reporter knew nothing, covering ignorance with blather. He fought a yawn. He was tired all the damned time these days, though he almost lived in bed. He reached for one of the energy drinks in the glove compartment to guzzle it as he drove, though his bladder would pay for it later.
There were vehicles parked all the way out onto the road. He pulled up behind a TV van. The slope was such that he ratcheted his handbrake as tight as it would go then left it in first gear too. He pocketed his notepad, pencil, camera and phone, then set off. An ambulance passed by, no siren on but its blue lights flashing. He bowed his head respectfully, just in case, then muttered an oath at the ’Ndrangheta and spat at the ground. A white van emerged from the drive as he reached it, the young goateed man at the wheel shielding his face from the TV cameras as an ispettore gave a preliminary briefing to the media. He could tell from the tone that it was designed to placate rather than inform so he walked on by.
Everyone knew his face. It gave him licence. A grizzled sergeant held his gaze for a full second, and thus the deal was done. For the usual small fee, he’d get copies of preliminary reports and photographs. But he wanted something more.
Giuseppe Macron, the town’s chief coroner, was supervising the loading of a pair of body bags into the back of another ambulance. He raised an eyebrow. Macron nodded and turned his back. Ricardo made the sign of the cross then unzipped the bag just enough to see the face within. A silver-haired man, familiar in that way people are when you’ve shared a town your whole life. He crossed himself again be
fore unzipping the second bag. This one was a punch to his gut. A young woman who’d waited tables at his favourite cafe the past two summers. Her prettiness and boundless good cheer had led him to drink far more coffee than was good for him, and to concoct pathetic fantasies about her finding herself in trouble and turning to the grizzled hack for help.
But not like this. Never like this.
Fifty years ago, Ricardo had been a warrior. He’d sincerely believed he could make a difference. But the Mafia ground one down. Cynicism was the only way to stay sane. Yet looking down at that poor girl, cheated of her life like this, a pulse of that youthful wrath beat again inside him. He felt the need not just to report but to make a difference. And he wouldn’t do that here, on ground trodden bare by others.
He drove on up the road until he came to the next building, a shabby apartment block with parking to its rear. It was hard to see through the frosted-glass front door, but he could hear TVs going inside. He pressed various buzzers until he was finally let in by a fat middle-aged man in a tracksuit so tight that he looked to have been inflated inside it with a foot pump. He tried to turn his TV off with his remote but the battery was failing so he had to do it by hand. His kitchen bin was overflowing with crushed pizza boxes, his sink with dirty plates. He offered Ricardo water then took the last beer for himself, pouring it into a clouded glass. ‘So,’ he said, sitting at the rickety kitchen table. ‘Someone got Vittorio at last, huh?’
‘You knew him?’
The man nodded, closed his eyes and pinched his nose, embarrassed by the story he was about to tell. ‘I came here two years back. A single screw-up these days, it’s like thirty years of marriage mean nothing. Anyway. The doorbell goes. It’s Vittorio, with a bottle of wine, welcoming me to the neighbourhood. We shared his bottle then one of mine. We commiserated about our marriages. His had gone wrong too. His wife had lost faith in him. That’s how he put it. He had a dream, and she’d lost faith in it. I asked him what dream. He told me he was about to find the lost tomb of Alaric the Great and the billion euros worth of treasure inside. And he was this close. He couldn’t tell me the details, obviously, but he and his daughter had it for sure now. Only he needed to buy the land, and he didn’t quite have enough.’
Ricardo fought down a smile. ‘How much?’
The man flushed. ‘You never met the guy. He seemed so certain. And he showed me all the artefacts he’d found. His house is a fucking shrine.’
‘A shrine?’
‘Okay, fine, he has a room in it like a museum. Though I swear it was religious with him. Apparently some fortune teller had promised his great-great-grandfather or something that a Surace would one day find Alaric, so his family had been looking ever since, and finally they had it. I asked him how he could be sure. He made me vow silence on my children. Then he showed me this money belt he wore beneath his shirt, in which he kept his special treasures.’
‘Special treasures?’
‘A gold coin dating to the right era. A pair of Visigothic brooches. A signet ring. Things like that. All found on this one small plot of land he wanted to buy. So, we made a deal. A thousand euros for a quarter share. We even signed a contract. Then the guy upstairs saw Vittorio leaving here one day, came down to warn me. Apparently, Vittorio had tapped him up two years before, as he’d tapped up pretty much everyone round here. They all of them had contracts and part shares. And those coins and brooches he’d apparently just found – the bastard had been showing them off for years.’
Ricardo grunted. Pull a trick like that on the ’Ndrangheta, you might as well climb into your own coffin and wait for them to hammer down the lid. ‘Did you challenge him?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I demanded he give me his gold coin. But the guy was impossible. He’d show you something new and turn your head again. And your grip on it would loosen a little more.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ll never see my money again, will I?’
‘Think of it as a life lesson.’
‘Look at me. Don’t you think I’ve had enough life lessons?’
‘Can I quote you on this? You’ll be in the paper. Maybe even a photograph.’
‘No photograph. And no mention of the money. I’m behind on my payments, you see. My wife would fillet me.’
Ricardo nodded and closed his notebook. ‘Your upstairs neighbour. The one who warned you. Which apartment?’
‘Nine.’
He thanked him and went up. There was no one home. His knee was playing up badly by now, so he went to the car to wait. For years there’d been rumours about jewellery and other valuables going missing from the coroner’s office under Giuseppe Macron’s watch. He scrolled through his contacts for his number then placed the call, catching him as he was locking up after logging the bodies in, off home before his dinner got cold.
‘I need a favour,’ said Ricardo.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve spoken to three different sets of the Suraces’ neighbours now,’ he told him. ‘All three tell me the same thing. That Vittorio always wore a money belt.’
There was a pause. ‘A money belt. Is that right?’
‘That’s what all three tell me. They’ve given me a list of its contents too, including a gold coin, a pair of Gothic brooches and a signet ring. So now I’m wondering, what if this is connected to the murders somehow? What if they’re even the motive? I mean, think about it. If any of those or the other pieces they told me about are missing, then whoever has them must be the murderer, right? What do you think?’
More silence at the other end. Ricardo could almost hear the anger. ‘Let me go see,’ Macron said finally. ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘A call would be great,’ said Ricardo, opening his car door, the better to flex his knee. ‘But a photograph would be better.’
II
They broke out the beers, the shots, the pills, the lines of coke. They closed the shutters, turned down the lights and pushed the furniture back against the walls before blasting out a series of their favourite tunes to sing along to, leaping around the room yelling violence against the Jews and all the other scum while doing stiff-armed salutes. None of it made Dieter feel any better. No matter how many stiff-armed salutes they did, nothing ever seemed to change. Besides, dancing with other men was what faggots did, and the only woman here was strapped to a chair in the corner of the room with its mascara running, snot coming out of its nose and tape over its mouth. And every time he caught its eye it reminded him of how on the boat it had pressed its leg against the leg of Cesco Fucking Rossi PhD and the rage would flare again like oil squirted on a bonfire. He strode across to the music system and turned it off. They all stopped dancing and started looking foolish instead. Oddo was about to say something but then he saw his face and shut up. ‘Do something useful,’ he snarled. ‘Find that fucker for me.’
‘We looked,’ said Knöchel. ‘He’s nowhere.’
‘He drove me into a wall,’ said Dieter. ‘He fucked my fucking Harley.’
‘It’ll be repaired by tomorrow lunch,’ said Oddo. ‘We can pick it up—’
‘I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. No one does that to the Hammerskins. No one.’
‘Yes, boss.’
They broke out their laptops and their phones to pursue their futile search. Knöchel put on the TV for the local news, in case the afternoon’s events had been picked up. Then Dieter himself went over to Anna, strapped wrist and ankle to a high-backed dining-room chair. ‘One last chance,’ he said. ‘Where the fuck is he? I know you fucking know. Don’t you dare tell me again that you don’t. Don’t you fucking dare.’ But it only turned its head away from him and sobbed like a two-year-old. Fuck, it was ugly when it cried. He couldn’t believe he’d put his prick in it. Rage built in him like a pyre. It blazed so fiercely that, if once he gave himself up to it, Anna would be dead before he stopped. And landing himself with a body here would be madness. Disposal was hard enough back home.
People tended to judge Dieter by his tattoos and b
iker gear. He liked it that way. It made them underestimate him. But he was a man of intelligence as well as violence. He’d taken the Stuttgart Hammerskins from a whites-only social club to the top player in the city’s underworld. Their primary source of income was cocaine imported from Colombia and Brazil via the container terminal of Gioia Tauro just a short drive north of here. It had been easy money until their ’Ndrangheta suppliers had been taken down in a huge bust a year back. They’d been scrambling ever since, but now they needed a proper replacement. That was why he’d come here with his crew, to put new arrangements in place. The Alaric shipwreck nearby had been a happy coincidence, giving them a convenient excuse for the trip and a way to kill time between meetings. But now those meetings would have to wait. Because reputation came first. If people thought they could fuck with him and live, he was done. Yet how the hell was he to get even with Rossi if he couldn’t even find him?
‘Shit,’ muttered Knöchel.
Dieter glanced around. The news was on TV, some prick in uniform wailing about a father and daughter who’d just been offed in the town of Cosenza. ‘So the swarthies are topping each other,’ he scowled. ‘Why should we care?’
‘No,’ said Knöchel. He picked up the remote, rewound the TV a minute, then set it playing. ‘Watch,’ he said. ‘Watch in the background.’
Curious, Dieter wandered over. An ambulance bumped by, siren off but its blue lights flashing. Then a white van with a Hawaiian dancing girl on its dashboard and an A.C. Milan banner on its side, its driver hiding his face from the cameras. Only it jolted over a pothole at that moment, briefly jarring away his forearm. Knöchel froze the picture. They gathered close to look. Dieter stared at the screen in disbelief. The bastard had trimmed his beard and freed his ponytail. But there was no doubt, no doubt at all.
It was Cesco Fucking Rossi PhD.
The Sacred Spoils Page 7
