‘How so?’
‘Because, Minister,’ she said, ‘there’s a chance – a very outside chance, but still – that the true Menorah is on the verge of being discovered for real.’
Chapter Thirteen
I
They gorged themselves on scoglio and then on the raspberry cheesecake Cesco had bought in the local market. They rinsed their plates then loaded them into the dishwasher. Carmen went to sit on the sofa, where she played distractedly with his laptop. He emptied the dregs of red into their glasses then brought them over and sat beside her. She set the laptop across both their legs to give him a better view. Already she’d grown accustomed to his new shaven-headed look. In truth, and to her surprise, she’d come to like it. A hint of danger might be intimidating in a stranger, but it was reassuring in a friend.
Their thighs kept touching by accident. Each time, one or other of them would shift away again. Yet then they’d touch once more. And even when they weren’t quite touching, she found herself absurdly aware of him, his warmth and physicality and nearness. She had to force herself to concentrate on the screen. There was something surreal about these landscapes viewed from above. Impressionistic. Orchards and groves stippled like Seurat. Ploughed fields with that characteristic Van Gogh swirl. Footpaths and animal tracks cut scars in the meadows, fields and scrub. Elsewhere, peculiar shadows might have been anything from clouds to chemical spills, mounds to dips.
She zoomed in on the Suraces’ farmhouse. It gave her a twinge to see it from above, with its sunken roof and the sky-blue pickup parked outside, the tattered polythene greenhouses slinking like grey caterpillars down towards the river. There the neat rows of vines, the budding olives and citrus trees. There the oxbow in the river and the embankment down which they’d tumbled, though the satellite image gave little sense of its steepness. And there the gap between the trees out of which the truck had come. She stiffened slightly at the memory of the impact. Cesco must have sensed her bracing, for he put a hand on her shoulder. She started at the contact, and he raised his palm in apology, even though it hadn’t been that kind of start.
He knocked back his wine, got to his feet. ‘Limoncello?’ he asked.
‘Love one,’ she said. She watched him pad to the kitchen, his leanness and grace of movement. Then she shook her head at herself and frowned hard at the screen. She zoomed out again to follow the Busento downstream. There was the high bridge they’d crossed. There the roadworks hill with the sharp turn at its foot over the little humpback into Cosenza. The road grew wider now, easier to follow. She dragged her way through screen after screen until she arrived at the junction with the Crati a short distance from where she sat. That must be the church next door, which made that terracotta roof their own, and those spots of colour the tubs of bright spring flowers on their balcony.
Cesco returned with the shot glasses. He sat back down beside her and glanced at the screen. ‘Want me to go outside and wave?’ he asked.
‘You’re fine right where you are,’ she assured him. But her mind was elsewhere. Bright spring flowers. Bright spring flowers. She sensed he was about to say something flippant so she held up a finger to ask for silence. She’d seen something important, she was sure of it. Seen it and missed it. But what? Screen by screen, she retraced her way along the river, over the humpback bridge then up the hill. And there it was. The roadworks. A rush of pure knowledge, headier than any drug, thrilled straight through her. ‘You know that thing we were speculating about?’ she said, zooming in. ‘The thing that brought Giulia down here, despite her exams. I think this must be it.’
Cesco frowned in puzzlement. ‘You think they dug up something under the road?’
‘No. Not that.’ Google Maps provided only limited data on their photographs. Google Earth, she knew, offered far more. She opened it now, zoomed in on the same terrain. ‘You’re an archaeologist. You’ll know far better than me how brilliant aerial photography is at finding sites, right? But it’s expensive too. Way too expensive for the Suraces. So what would you have done, if you were them?’
Cesco let out a breath. ‘Google Earth,’ he said.
‘Google Earth,’ agreed Carmen. ‘The resolution isn’t great, but it’s better than nothing. Old footpaths, animal tracks, collapsed walls, burial mounds, you can see them all. And new features get exposed by every snow and flood, by every plough and harvest. The trouble is, Google don’t release new photographs very often. In places like this, maybe once every five years.’
‘The roadworks,’ murmured Cesco.
‘Exactly,’ said Carmen. ‘They wouldn’t be shown here unless these photographs were absolutely brand new. And here’s the thing – you can have Google send you an alert whenever they publish new photographs of a particular area.’
‘And?’ he asked. ‘When?’
She pointed to the date at the bottom of the screen. ‘Last Tuesday,’ she said.
II
Avram Bernstein climbed the ladder out of the catacombs then strode over to his car. Vanna, his photographer, made to climb in the back with him but he wagged a finger at her and pointed her up front. She scowled at him. Sleep with a woman once, they thought they had rights. He buzzed up the partition and took out his phone to search for the story in the Calabrian newspaper that Zara had told him of, proclaiming Alaric’s tomb on the verge of discovery. He found it quickly enough, then corroborated the rest of her account too. Not that he’d doubted her. Honesty was at once Zara’s finest virtue and greatest flaw.
And you’d be wise to remember that I have voicemails.
He brooded the whole drive home. To make a find like this so soon before the most important election of his lifetime, yet not to be able to use it… For a man of his skills and ambition, it was unthinkable. There had to be a way. The only question was how. His most obvious routes were blocked. If he announced the discovery, or let it leak, Zara would go public with her debunking. And he couldn’t retaliate without risking her release of his idiot son’s voicemails, even though she’d vowed to take them to her grave.
Rivkah greeted his return with a warm smile and an iced whisky. He beckoned her to join him in his office, which he had swept daily for listening devices. Even so, he had her sit beside him on the sofa, the better to confer in low voices.
Friends, enemies and savvy political reporters alike all agreed that Avram was a driven man, and that what drove him was his fierce will to power. They were right about the first part, wrong about the second. The fierce will to power was Rivkah’s, not his own. The youngest daughter of a nationalist politician who’d fallen just short of top office, she’d set out to go one better. Not being a natural herself, she’d cast around for a man to do it for her. Avram had been her choice. As for him, his own hunger had always been very different. He never talked about it any more, for it was shameful in a man his age, but what he’d always craved was glory – that transcendent moment in which a man became a legend. As a teenager, he’d dreamed of Olympic triumph, but no amount of training had been able to transmute his particular base metal into gold. Then it had come time to serve. For Avram, only Israel’s elite commando unit the Sayeret Matkal would do. His timing had been ideal. A group of Palestinian terrorists had hijacked an Air France flight out of Tel Aviv, diverting it to Uganda’s Entebbe Airport. The Gentiles had been released, the Jews retained. A daring hostage rescue had been carried out, one of the great triumphs of Israeli military history. It should have been his moment, except that he’d been benched at the last moment for showing excessive zeal. Excessive zeal! He’d had to cheer the returning heroes instead, his heart roiled by such envy and bitterness that he’d had to leave the army shortly afterwards. At a loose end, he’d hung around the fringes of far-right groups. That was where Rivkah had spotted him, and groomed him, and married him. She’d pushed him into politics and had guided him ever since. She was, by far, his most trusted adviser.
He told her of his evening: the necropolis and the bricked-up chamber; the thrill of fin
ding the trumpets and the Menorah, only for Zara to dash his hopes by proving it a replica. By the time he was finished, he’d been sipping melted ice for ten minutes. Rivkah took his glass through to the kitchen and returned with it refreshed. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
‘I just did,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’
He nodded. His mouth watered at the memory. Seeing it for the first time, believing it the real thing. The gold of it, the way it gleamed. ‘It was like the face of God,’ he said.
‘Let Israel know that feeling,’ she said. ‘They’ll acclaim you their new David.’
‘Then tear me limb from limb when they learn the truth.’
‘How will they find out? When you’re prime minister, you’ll put it behind glass so that no one can ever touch it again.’
‘They’ll find out because Zara will tell them. And I can’t stop her or she’ll release those damned voicemails.’
‘She gave us her word she wouldn’t.’
‘I know. But there it is. We can’t risk it.’
‘What about that man we used before?’
‘What man?’
‘That man from that company you used. What was their name again? Gordian Sword?’
He squinted at her. ‘Zara is family.’
‘Zara was family. Then she turned our son into an alcoholic and ran away when he needed her most.’
He gave her the long gaze, hoping to shame her into backing down. But it was he who looked away. ‘There is one possibility,’ he sighed. ‘I was mulling it over on the drive home. Just a thought experiment, you understand.’ He explained what Zara had told him about Alaric’s tomb, how it too might be rediscovered, what might be inside. The implications for their government and their nation if it was, and how they might be able to use it to their advantage, one way or the other.
Rivkah’s eyes glinted with a febrile joy when he was done. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Make the call.’
III
There was such frank admiration in Cesco’s gaze that it left Carmen momentarily undone. She felt fourteen again, sitting on a swing chair on the porch of a friend’s house with her first crush, a lanky, cocky athlete called Jason Foster, who’d worn the coolest beard she’d ever seen, as though he’d dipped his chin into a saucer of black ink. She felt so agitated suddenly that she set the laptop aside and jumped to her feet and went over to the kitchen area as though there was something there she wanted, even though there wasn’t. But she grabbed the limoncello bottle as cover and brought it over to splash into both their glasses for a toast. ‘To our partnership,’ she said. ‘To the Rossi Nero.’
He laughed and clinked her glass with his. ‘To the Rossi Nero.’
The alcohol burned pleasurably in her throat and chest as she knocked it back. Doing her doctorate, she’d forgotten what a joy it was to work on a shared project alongside someone you valued and liked and wanted to do well for, and who valued and liked and wanted to do well for you in return. In truth, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d liked someone this much. Their eyes met again, and this time she didn’t look away, but rather met and held his gaze, allowing him see into her even as she saw into him, letting it go on and on, far longer than was prudent, savouring every delicious moment of it, as though a compact of some kind was being forged right there and then between them, as though futures were being settled. It was Cesco who finally broke the connection, looking away in mild confusion. He covered for it by picking up the laptop again, turning his attention back to it. ‘There’s something we’re still missing,’ he said.
She sat beside him. ‘Yes?’
‘Tell me if this is how you see it: Google publishes new photographs. They alert Giulia or her father, who study them and perhaps compare them to the previous versions. They spot something that gets them excited. Giulia catches the first train down, despite her exams. Agreed?’
‘Yes? Why?’
‘Because, if they needed the GPR, why not bring it with her? Why wait three days and then call you?’
‘Oh,’ said Carmen. She thought for several seconds, then saw a possible explanation. ‘Giulia’s professor is Matteo Bianchi. You know him, I assume?’
‘I know of him, sure. But we’ve never met.’
‘He brought the GPR to the station for me. He was in a filthy mood. He gave me a message to pass on to Giulia. That he wanted all his equipment back by Sunday night, or else.’
‘I don’t…’
‘Not just the GPR. All of it.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You think she borrowed something else?’
‘It would explain it, wouldn’t it? She rushed down with this other piece of equipment, only to realise later that she needed the GPR as well, which is why she called me.’
‘Do you know him well enough to ask?’
She nodded and fetched her phone. She sat back down beside Cesco then put it on loudspeaker so that he could listen in. Bianchi answered almost instantly, but distractedly, surrounded by the shrieks of raucous children. ‘It’s me, Professor. Carmen Nero.’
‘Ah! Yes.’ Instantly, his tone became sombre. A door was closed; silence fell. ‘What a terrible, terrible thing! Poor Giulia, I can’t believe it! So sweet, so young. Are you okay yourself?’
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘But look: I want to do what I can while I’m still down here. Only you asked me to tell Giulia that you wanted all your equipment back. So I was wondering, did she borrow something else?’
‘Our new drone,’ he told her. ‘We only bought it last month. Its camera has a special infrared filter that we need for our Lake Albano survey.’
‘Your drone,’ she said. ‘Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Thank you. And take care of yourself.’
‘You too.’
‘His drone?’ frowned Cesco once she’d hung up.
‘For taking better photographs,’ she explained.
‘Thanks,’ said Cesco drily. ‘What I mean is, why would the Suraces need better photographs? If we’re right, they’d already found the site in question. So why not just go over there with a metal detector and a spade?’
Carmen frowned at him. ‘You’re missing the point, aren’t you?’
‘Am I? Explain.’
‘Giulia brought down a camera drone. It can surely only have been to photograph this new site, yes? So all we have to do is get hold of it and the pictures on it will tell us exactly where to look.’
Chapter Fourteen
I
Cesco jumped to his feet and began pacing around the sofa, too excited to stay still. ‘Good Christ!’ he said. ‘You’ve cracked it. You’ve found us Alaric.’
‘Hardly,’ smiled Carmen. ‘I may have helped us find whatever the Suraces were on to. But that could be anything. And we still need to get hold of the drone, which means calling the police.’ She rummaged through her purse for the ispettore’s card then held it out to him.
Cesco took it uncertainly. ‘You want me to call him? Now?’
‘You know what my Italian’s like.’
He checked his watch. ‘It’s a bit late, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘He’s sure to realise something’s up. Maybe he’ll even study the photos for himself. Call me selfish if you like, but we’ve earned this. You’ve earned this. Our plaque is going to have your name in pride of place, not that of some damned ispettore.’
‘Then…?’
‘I’ll call him first thing in the morning. It won’t seem so odd then.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
He checked his watch again, hid a yawn behind his hand. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said. ‘It’s been one hell of a day. I barely slept last night. You don’t mind if I crash, do you?’
‘Of course not. And thank you so much for dinner. It was delicious.’
‘A pleasure. Good night, then.’
He brushed his teeth, retired to his room. Then he turned off his light, sat on his bed and l
istened. To his frustration, Carmen didn’t follow his lead but stayed up to watch a movie on her laptop. In the darkness, he wrestled with his conscience. Was he supposed to let this opportunity slip just because he happened to like her and feel a certain responsibility towards her? Longing gazes were all very well, but they had no future together. She’d drop him in a heartbeat when she found out the truth about him, which she was sure to do soon enough.
It was almost midnight before she finally turned in. He gave it another half-hour then pulled on his darkest clothes and crept silently through to the kitchen. He assembled a makeshift toolkit, including a torch, a knife, a hammer and a screwdriver. Then he slipped out of the apartment and down to his van. Traffic was light, though twice he saw police cars. The murders had stirred the city up. A cyclist wobbled drunkenly up a steep hill. A dog barked from behind a wall, setting off a chorus. He dawdled past the Suraces’ place. No lights on, nor any other sign of life. There was a farm track a little way beyond their drive. He bumped down it until he was out of sight of the road, then got out.
The moon was fat and bright. It helped him hike across the fields and through an orchard. The light breeze made the trees whisper. There was a flap of wings, a hoot of owl. Somehow it all sounded like reproach. But he made a stone of his heart and ignored it. This was who he was. To deny it would be to make a mockery of his life. He neared the house, crouched to watch. Ribbons of florescent yellow police tape rippled and fluttered in the breeze. Five minutes passed. He went in. The front door was sealed with tape and bore a printed notice in a plastic sleeve that this was a crime scene and not to be disturbed. The ground-floor windows were locked and sealed, but one on the first floor was fractionally ajar. He looked for a ladder, but found instead a lean-to against the side of the house with a pile of logs beneath a tarpaulin, and a cellar hatch. It was padlocked but the wood was so rotten that he simply wrenched it out. The hinges squeaked as he lifted it by its handle. He spat on them and went again. The space beneath was black as ink, and smelled pungently of damp. He shone down his torch to get a sense of the drop then lowered himself into it. Creatures scratched and scurried. Cobwebs caught in his face. He turned his torch on again. The space was small and low, with logs against one wall, an empty wine rack and stained cardboard boxes filled with old linen. A flight of worn brick steps led up into the house. The connecting door was closed but unlocked. He slipped through. He used his torch sparingly as he went from room to room. He found nothing. He went upstairs. A passing car swept yellow light against the wall. There were three bedrooms: Vittorio’s, Giulia’s and a spare, its bed made up and with a bowl of flowers and a jug of water on the table, ready for Carmen’s arrival. He checked beneath each of the beds, in the hanging cupboards and the chests of drawers. Still nothing.
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