The passage ended in what presumably had once been a fourth bedroom, but which had been converted into the museum room mentioned in the local paper. He closed the blinds before using his torch. There was a pair of exhibit cases in the middle, while the left-hand wall had been given over to photographs, maps and ancient texts. But it was the right-hand wall that drew him. All the Google Earth satellite photos of the area had been printed out, cropped and assembled like a gigantic jigsaw that ran from one end to the other, a complete overview of the Busento valley from its source a couple of kilometres west of here to its confluence with the Crati in Cosenza. Dozens of coloured pins were stuck into it, each linked by a cotton thread to a photograph of some piece of pottery, coin or other artefact, along with a short note about its discovery, an attributed date and its presumed Visigothic connection. The pick of these were on display in the exhibit cases. Others were in the drawers beneath. But there was nothing to compare to the objects in Vittorio’s money belt.
The built-in wardrobe had no fitted locks on it, but steel brackets had been screwed into either door then secured by a chain and padlock. The chain was loose enough that he could pull the doors open a little way and shine his torch inside. He saw a metal detector, a pickaxe, a shovel and other heavy tools. And there was a black plastic case on the top shelf, with stickers proclaiming it the property of the Department of Archaeology at the University of Sapienza.
The drone. At last.
To force the lock would make his presence here obvious. He searched for a key instead. When that failed, he studied the brackets of the padlock latch. They’d both been painted over at some point. He scraped the paint away with the tip of his screwdriver, then undid the screws one by one. They were so stiff that his palm quickly grew red and sore. He was still working on them when he heard a noise outside. He turned off his torch and went to the window. A dark SUV was freewheeling down the drive, its headlights and engine off, moonlight reflecting in a yellow band from its windscreen. It jolted over a pothole and its suspension squeaked. Then it rolled to a stop outside the front door. Its doors opened and three men got out, wearing black gloves and balaclavas. They popped the boot and took out a pair of five-litre plastic containers each before vanishing from view. A moment later, he heard a splintering noise and then they were inside.
The ’Ndrangheta. It had to be. Almost certainly the same men who’d slit the throats of Giulia and her father. If they found him here, he could expect exactly the same treatment. Terrified, he looked around for somewhere to hide. But there was nowhere. He tiptoed back to the spare bedroom. He could hear voices below, but not what they were saying. A stair creaked. He closed the door and turned on his torch, smothering its bulb with his left hand, allowing himself only a peachy glow from between his fingers. The bedroom was awkwardly shaped, with a protruding chimney breast and a pair of slit windows on either side. The dressing table and the bed were both too high to hide beneath. The duvet was too thin. His only chance was the fitted wardrobe. He slid open its left-hand door. A few old shirts and jackets were hanging from its rack. There were winter boots on the floor and suitcases on the upper shelf. He grabbed the largest of them then climbed in, slid closed the door, huddled down behind it.
Half a minute passed. The bedroom door opened. He heard a glugging sound. The cupboard door abruptly opened. A pungent liquid was splashed all over the clothes hanging on the rack so that it dripped down onto his scalp and nape. It stank like kerosene. Footsteps hurried off. Silence fell. He could hear a pounding noise, only to realise it was just his heart. There was a shout. An engine started then quickly faded. He gave it another minute, then set aside the suitcase and emerged warily from the wardrobe. Puddles of kerosene on the floor soaked through his shoes to chill his soles. He reached the door, looked out. The first three bars of the famous old hit ‘Ancora tu’ played on a mobile phone. Then they played again, followed by a popping noise and a whoomp, as though the central heating was coming on.
Except there was no central heating.
That was when an orange fireball exploded up the stairs.
II
It seemed to Zara that she’d only just laid her head upon her pillow when her phone began to ring. She’d been up late with Kaufman devising a plan to secure the prison mosaics and the chambers beneath, while still satisfying Avram and the governor too, so she assumed she’d simply overslept. But then she noticed the pitch blackness outside and checked her bedside clock and realised it was still the small hours. Her phone rang again. She grabbed it if only to shut it up. ‘Do you know what fucking time it is?’ she shouted.
‘And to think you always boasted of being an early riser,’ said Avram.
‘Minister?’ She sat up. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Not exactly. But we need to talk. I’m on my way over. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ Then he hung up.
She pushed herself up onto an elbow, scowled herself awake. Her eyes were so gluey she had to squint at the bathroom mirror. She was still dressing when her buzzer sounded, so she grabbed one of Isaac’s old jerseys that hung down to her knees and went to let him in.
‘Apologies,’ he said, in the manner of important people who don’t mean it.
‘Forget it.’ She hid her yawn behind her hand. ‘Coffee?’
‘Do you have any of that apple juice you used to bring us?’
‘Of course, Minister.’
‘And stop calling me Minister. We used to be friends, you and I. You were the only one who ever dared mock me to my face. I used to hate it. Now I miss it.’
‘I miss it too,’ she admitted, pouring juice into a pair of tall glasses.
‘Then let’s start again. At least when it’s just the two of us. Okay?’
‘Okay, Avram. I’d like that.’
‘Good. Good.’ He sat at her table and rolled his glass back and forth between his palms. ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘I have a request to make.’
‘A request?’
He nodded briskly. ‘What I am about to propose is highly confidential. Whether you agree to it or not, I need your word that you won’t repeat it. If you do, the prime minister and I will both flatly deny it.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘The prime minister?’
‘Yes. Well?’
‘Fine. You have my word.’
‘Thank you. Then I can tell you that, after my return home last night, I made some phone calls, including to the prime minister. I told him of the replica Menorah we’d discovered beneath the prison, and also that there was an outside possibility that the real thing might be discovered in southern Italy. His ears pricked up at that. He is of the view, as I am, that we need to monitor developments there very closely. If nothing is found, as seems most likely, then so be it. But if this tomb is discovered, and the temple treasures are inside, we must be ready to act fast. Because there’s one other thing on which we also agree. Those treasures are our treasures. They were stolen from us by the Romans. A long time ago, yes, but still. They belong to the Jewish people here in Israel, not for the Italians to put on display in some provincial museum. That would be an intolerable insult to our nation and our faith. You would agree with that, I trust?’
She eyed him cautiously. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing dramatic,’ Avram assured her. ‘It’s a question of setting the frame, that’s all. Imagine what will happen if the Italians announce that Alaric’s tomb has been discovered. Public opinion in Italy and around the world will quickly settle on the idea that it and its contents – whatever they might be – are an internal matter for the Italians to deal with. Now consider a different scenario, in which news breaks that the Menorah and other temple treasures have been discovered. The exact same public will see the exact same story very differently. They’ll think it right and fitting that we Israelis have, at the very least, a seat at the table. And framing is exceedingly hard to shift once it’s been established. People hate to change their minds. So it would be greatly in our int
erest for it to be the latter rather than the former.’
‘Then yes,’ said Zara. ‘I agree absolutely.’
‘Excellent. Excellent. Which brings me to my request. We will, of course, monitor events there closely through the normal channels. But the prime minister and I both agree that we also need someone on the ground. Ideally, someone not formally associated with our government, to avoid any risk of embarrassment. Someone we can trust absolutely, and who has the right contacts and historical knowledge. Someone already aware of what’s going on, and what’s at stake, so that we don’t have to widen any further the circle of knowledge.’
Zara frowned at him, not quite sure she was following him correctly. ‘You want me to go to Italy?’
‘Who better?’ He took a fat white envelope from his jacket pocket and set it on the table, its flap springing open far enough for her to see the wad of high-denomination euro banknotes inside. ‘You’re a well-established archaeologist and an expert in late antiquity, so you have a legitimate interest in Alaric. You speak passable Italian, as I recall. You’re even friends with this American woman Carmen Nero, which gives you a route to the heart of things.’
‘We’re not friends. She’s a member of a discussion group I help moderate, that’s all.’
‘That will be good enough for this, I assure you.’
‘Good enough for what?’
‘Go to Cosenza. Send her a message through your group or bump into her on the street. I’m sure I can leave the detail up to you. You probably wouldn’t fly over just for this, so I’d suggest telling her that you were in Italy already. At a conference, maybe, or a friend’s wedding. You saw the story about Alaric and had to check it out for yourself. You’re a highly respected figure in her world; she’ll believe whatever you say. Then use her to find out what’s going on. Get as close to the search as you can without drawing undue attention to yourself. Let us know if anything turns up. That’s all. It will almost certainly blow over in a day or two, and you can return home. But it would be unforgivable for us not to take such modest steps as these, in case it doesn’t.’
She stared at him, unnerved, though not quite sure why. ‘Let you know how, exactly?’
‘You can’t be seen to be there on our behalf. For all our sakes, this has to appear a purely private trip. But obviously we’ll need to be kept abreast too, in case we need to respond, so we’ll be sending over one of our best men to act as liaison. His name is Dov. He has great cover and plenty of experience. He’ll be completely invisible, except to you. He’ll take care of all the communications side of things, without exposing you to the slightest risk. And he’ll be on hand should you need any other kind of support.’
‘What is he? Mossad?’
‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. You don’t have clearance. But he’ll make contact with you when you arrive in Cosenza tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Of course. Why else do you think I’d disturb you at this obscene hour? Sunday flights are thin, but there are still seats available on one to Rome early this afternoon, with a connection down to Lamezia Terme. That’s a ninety-minute drive from Cosenza, so you’ll need to hire a car. And book a hotel room, of course. I’d do it for you, except for the paper trail.’ He gestured at the envelope. ‘But that will cover it easily, along with any other expenses you might incur.’
‘And my classes? My tutorials?’
‘I’m sure your university has dealt with unexpected absences before. Or do none of you ever fall ill?’
‘And if I won’t go?’
Avram gave her a disappointed look. ‘Your nation is asking you for your help, Zara,’ he said. ‘Are you really going to tell her no?’
III
Cesco slammed shut the bedroom door a fraction of a moment before the fireball reached him. He counted to five then opened it again, hoping the first eruption would have died down enough for him to make it to the museum room and the drone. Not a chance. Clouds of acrid smoke came billowing in, scorching tears from his eyes and sending him into a coughing fit. The puddles on the bedroom floor ignited in flaming pools. He put up his forearms to protect his face, but his shirt had been spattered with the kerosene and now caught fire so that he had to strip it off and throw it away as he stumbled blindly for the left-hand slit window. He tried to open it but it had been painted shut years before. He smashed the glass with his elbow. Fresh air rushed in, adding oxygen to the mix. A great ball of flame billowed past him and took off into the night sky like a hot air balloon. He began clearing the frame of shards, thinking he might squeeze through. But he knew in his heart that the slit would still be too narrow for him, that he’d get caught between its glassy teeth then held there captive for the flames. He checked the second window, but it was, if anything, even narrower. The blaze was growing ever fiercer. The smoke was blinding. He couldn’t stop hacking and coughing. He could feel it poisoning his system too, clouding up his head.
He ducked down to where the air was clearer to help himself think. There was a vase of flowers and a jug of water on the bedside table. He tipped them both over the duvet then wrapped it around himself like a protective cloak. He crawled across the floor to the door, opened it once more. It was an inferno outside, the floor and walls on fire, spewing out clouds of thick black smoke. There was no way down the stairs. He tried to recall which of the other bedrooms offered the best hope of escape. He rose to a crouch, still huddled beneath the duvet, then stumbled across the passage to Giulia’s room, feeling blindly for her door, barging it with his shoulder then falling on through, his eyes now almost completely useless, coughing incessantly, a thickening fog inside his head, weights in all his limbs. Half of him just wanted to lie down, but the other half kept fighting. He forced his left eye open to a squint, glimpsed the window. That was what he needed. A window. He staggered towards it, still clutching the duvet tight. He crashed into it. It didn’t yield. He stepped back and butted the pane with his head. The glass shattered and fell out. Instantly, flames grew wild around him, like jailers rushing to prevent an escape. He twisted around and hurled himself out. The remaining shards of glass snagged the duvet’s cotton cover and held it back. He hung on to it for a moment, but then his own weight and momentum ripped it from his grasp. He hit the ground hard, turning his ankle as he fell, spilling onto his arm and shoulder, giving his head a crack. He lay there dazed for several seconds, until roused by his own fierce coughing. He felt the scorch of flame still on his skin and scrambled away on hands and knees. His eyes cleared. The house was going up like a funeral pyre. Someone was certain to see it soon. They’d see it and alert the emergency services. He needed to get out of here right now.
He pushed himself to his feet, hobbled gingerly across the fields. His shoes were wet with water and kerosene, making them squelch with every step. He reached his van, drove up to the road. He turned away from Cosenza to avoid the fire engines and the police. It began to grow light away to the east. Traffic picked up too. He felt absurdly conspicuous without a shirt. But somehow he made it safely home. He parked directly outside, hurried upstairs and let himself in, leaning against the apartment door in relief.
The ’Ndrangheta. The fucking ’Ndrangheta.
Screw Alaric. He was out of here.
He washed his face and hands, put on clean clothes, packed, went through to the kitchen. He found a sheet of paper and wrote Carmen a short note, inventing a Sicilian great-aunt who’d just suffered a terrible stroke and wasn’t expected to see out the day. The apartment was paid for until Wednesday, he assured her; he’d get back in touch as soon as he heard more. He left his keys on the table, shouldered his bag and went to the front door.
Then he stopped.
A note wasn’t enough. Cesco Rossi PhD would never leave Carmen without saying goodbye, however early it might be. He put his ear to her door. He could hear her soft, slow breathing. He knocked then went on in. He stood by her bedside and looked down. She was lying on her back with her face turned to the side
, protecting her bandaged temple. ‘Hey,’ he said. She didn’t stir. The little light that made it through the curtains gave her face the same grey pallor as when he’d first seen her, lying unconscious at the foot of the embankment. The way she’d opened her eyes when he’d ripped the tape off her mouth.
‘Are they gone?’ she’d asked.
‘They’re gone,’ he’d assured her. ‘You’re safe now.’
Cesco hadn’t chosen his life. It had been forced on him by circumstance. He hadn’t complained about this, but rather had adapted himself to it. Yet there were times when the cost of being an outlaw became clear. When you always had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, you never let yourself make any true friends; and you most certainly never risked falling in love. Otherwise, the pain of leaving became too much. He didn’t know why those men tonight had burned down the farmhouse. But it was clear that the threat they posed hadn’t died with the Suraces. To leave Carmen oblivious, with no one to look out for her… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
Yet nor could he tell her the truth.
He went back out, quietly closed her bedroom door. He tore his note into tiny pieces that he tossed into the bin. He returned to his bedroom, unpacked his bag and climbed into his bed. Then he closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, not entirely sure what was happening to him.
The Sacred Spoils Page 14
