His appointment with Rosaria wasn’t until noon, but he meant to get there early. He packed up his belongings, settled his account and was out by nine. He stopped at an ATM for the extra cash he needed then set off south. The skies turned grey and then almost black. It began, suddenly, to pour. Traffic congealed. He passed beneath a series of high bridges from which fell frayed grey ropes of water, twisting and whipping in the wind, unthreading back into raindrops that pattered all around him. Sunlight finally returned, and some warmth. A roar engulfed him as he approached Secondigliano, the cool shadow of a passenger jet on its approach to Napoli International.
The Harley was too juicy a plum to leave on these streets, so he parked it in a private garage then bought himself a hoodie and a pair of ill-fitting jeans from a second-hand shop. He smeared his face and hands with water from a pavement puddle then set off, doing his best to mimic the shambling urgency of a junkie cashed up for their next score. A mechanical digger was tamping down fresh tarmac with the flat of its scoop, filling the air outside the Horseshoe with that fragrant stench. He climbed a thinly grassed embankment, glittery with discarded vials and broken syringes. Two young men were on duty by a barricade of mattresses and broken furniture. They barely gave him a second glance. There was only a short queue at the payment window. He handed over his grubby banknote and received his vial, took it to a boarded-up doorway in the alley between two blocks with a good view of the courtyard. He sat there slumped but watching.
Dealing with Rosaria was one thing. Dealing with her Camorra family was another. Her brother and two of her cousins had once promised to kill him and dump his body in the Bay of Naples if he didn’t propose to Rosaria. Cesco needed to make quite sure they weren’t planning to make good on their threat.
III
Carmen was startled to find Zara waiting in the kitchen with her bag over her shoulder and the Renault’s keys in her hand. ‘Fancy going out for breakfast?’ she asked.
‘Sure. Where to?’
‘There’s a place called Roccagloriosa. It has something you’ll want to see.’
‘What about Dov?’
‘He got back late. He wouldn’t enjoy this anyway. I say we be the ones to leave him stranded for a change.’
Roccagloriosa was thirty minutes’ drive. They spent another twenty searching for the museum which housed the ostensible reason for their visit: a plaque memorialising a campaign by the Roman general Stilicho, adoptive father of Galla Placidia, subject of Carmen’s thesis. She’d read every biography of the man, yet had never heard of this. Most likely, then, a conscription campaign. The Roman army had always been hungry for Italian recruits, but it had been a fate so dreaded that men had cut off their thumbs rather than serve, forcing generals like Stilicho to depend ever more heavily on barbarians. Yet the sheer number of barbarians had provoked a furious nativist backlash that had seen Stilicho himself murdered and the wives and children of his barbarian troops massacred. The bereaved soldiers had flocked to Alaric in the aftermath, giving him both the numbers and the will to sack Rome, where thankfully they’d shown more mercy to the Romans than the Romans had shown them.
From the museum, they headed up to the town’s ruined castle, from which a single glance showed how perfect the plain beneath would be for seeing out a winter: lush, well watered, protected on one side by a ring of high hills, the other by the sea. They took coffee in the piazza, where Zara finally divulged the real reason for their excursion. She and Dov had decided to resurrect their Amalfi plan. They planned to spend tonight in Positano before returning tomorrow in good time for Professor Bianchi. She hoped Carmen didn’t mind. Carmen didn’t. Not one bit. She didn’t believe Zara’s Amalfi story, but nor could she see how they could get up to any serious mischief before tomorrow afternoon. She gave her her blessing, and they returned in good spirits to the cottage where they found Dov up and at the kitchen table, breakfasting on orange juice and a buttered roll. They set off barely twenty minutes later, Carmen walking up the drive to wave them off and to make sure they’d really gone. Then, buoyed up by a glorious sense of release, she headed back inside to make herself some lunch.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I
It began to rain again in Naples, a swirling thin mist that did little more than lay a burnish on the courtyard flagstones, but which was chill enough to draw a handful of junkies into the relatively sheltered area around Cesco. He felt a mix of disgust and pity for these people. There but for the grace of God, as the old piety had it. But it was a platitude he’d never actually believed. He’d taken drugs himself, and had suffered plenty of hard times, but he’d never let himself fall apart like this.
A young man in filthy rags and an unkempt beard unfurled a tattered green sleeping bag then lay upon it with his arms hugged around a scrawny yellow dog. He’d barely settled when Rosaria arrived at the head of her small posse. They stood up their bikes then came swaggering right by them, so close that the dog bared its teeth and growled. One of the posse snarled back for a joke, and feinted to kick it. It lunged for his ankles. He swore and kicked it in its ribs. There was a horrible thud as it went flying. The young man rose in protest only to get set upon by five of them. He lay on the ground covering his face with his forearms as they kicked him. Then they headed in good spirits up a stairwell and out of sight.
The yellow dog limped back to the young man. He clutched his arms around it and stroked it, and then began to sob. The dog licked his face in an effort to bring him comfort, but it did no good. The sobs grew louder and more wretched. Cesco had never witnessed such utter despair in a fellow creature, such bewilderment at what his life had come to.
Cesco had come here early because he’d feared an ambush. He’d seen no hint of one. Yet now he sensed a trap of a different sort. The casual cruelty of these people was the truth of the Camorra. They fed on human misery and degradation, just as the ’Ndrangheta did. Sell him a gun? Of course they would. Seven hundred euros profit for doing shit all. And not a thought for who might get killed as a result. With startling clarity, he realised that There but for the grace of God applied to him after all. Had his grandfather not stood up to the Critellis on his behalf, he’d likely have turned out just like Rosaria and her acolytes. To buy a gun from such people would be to say his sacrifice and the massacre of his family counted for nothing.
Vengeance, yes. But not like this.
He rose to his feet and slowly approached the young man. His dog bared its teeth at him, but half-heartedly. He knelt at a cautious distance. ‘Hey,’ he said. The young man opened his eyes, tearful, bloodshot, defeated. Cesco set down his wad of euros. The young man stared blankly at them and then at him. Almost certainly, he’d waste the lot on drugs and be back here in a week, feeling just as sorry for himself as before, unable to understand how he’d ended up this way. But you never knew. Not for sure.
‘Get out of here,’ he told him. ‘If not for yourself, then for your dog. He deserves better. And you won’t get another chance.’ Then he tugged his hoodie down over his face and shambled back towards the road.
II
Baldassare arrived at the Sicilì cottage at a few minutes after three. He sprang almost exuberantly from his silver BMW, now that the weight of his wife’s and daughter’s abduction had been lifted from his shoulders. Carmen hugged him warmly and asked after them. He assured them they were well then gave her back her passport and phone. Its battery was stone dead so she put it on its charger, then offered him something to drink. He asked for tea, but all she could find in the cupboard was half a packet of mint, which Baldassare thanked her warmly for then set untouched on the floor beside his chair. He sat back and clasped his hands across his stomach and gazed fondly at her, as if waiting for her to speak.
‘It was you who asked to see me,’ she observed.
He nodded several times. ‘You know I read your statement?’
‘That’s what I sent it for.’ She frowned. ‘You’re not mad at me for claiming to be unconscious when t
he Suraces got—’
‘No, no, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing bad. I don’t think.’
‘Then…?’
‘I was worried by your tone in it. You seemed so angry.’
‘Aren’t I allowed to be? After what those bastards did?’
‘You misunderstand. I’m not talking about your anger at them. Of course you’re right to be angry at them. I’m talking about your anger at Cesco.’
‘Oh.’ She felt herself stiffening. ‘He’s every bit as bad as any of them. He lied to me and he betrayed me. He went to the Suraces’ farmhouse to steal a drone that he thought would lead him to Alaric’s tomb. Then he burned the whole place down to cover his tracks.’
‘No.’
‘I assure you, yes. He as good as confessed it.’
‘To going there for the drone, yes. He told me as much himself, and well before you wrote your statement too. It was, as you rightly say, a profound betrayal of you, and one of which I believe he is heartily ashamed. But the burning of the house, that was not him. That was your ’Ndrangheta friends. They realised on their own account about the drone, that there might be photographs on it that could lead us to that awful dungeon. So they burned it down.’
‘Is that what Cesco told you? You can’t believe a word he says.’
‘Maybe not. But that much is true. The accelerant they used, and the mobile phone trigger, were identical to those they used to destroy their own farmhouse. It was them. No question.’
‘Oh.’ Carmen lifted her chin. ‘He still went there to steal.’
‘Yes. Which is how he was there when they turned up. He saw them torch the place. In fact, he was almost caught himself by the flames. He had to jump out of a first-floor window to save himself. It spooked him, as I’m sure you can appreciate. He returned to your apartment with every intention of leaving town. He concocted a story about a deathbed aunt, then went into your room to tell you only to realise that it would mean leaving you exposed to those same people, unaware of the danger you were in. So he chose to stay instead, to look out for you while he tried to find some way to tell you the truth. But those men arrived in their SUV before he could.’
She folded her arms. ‘At which point he drove off without me.’
‘Because he saw them coming. He was trying to lead them away from you. Except you ran out into the road and waved them down.’
‘So it’s my fault now, is it?’
‘I’m just telling you what happened. Would you like me to stop?’
‘No.’
‘They chased him into Cosenza. He took a corner too fast and crashed his van. He fled on foot, bleeding badly from shotgun pellets he’d been hit with. Any ordinary conman would surely have fled Cosenza at that point, yes? They’d have caught the first bus or train out, never to return. You know what Cesco did? He stole a Harley from a gang of German bikers then drove it out to see me. My security team refused to let him in – I had other matters on my mind, as I’m sure you can appreciate – so he gave them a message to pass on. This message severely compromised him, but he gave it anyway because it was the only way he could be certain of my attention. Then he bullied us into our cars and out to that wretched farmhouse, telling me along the way all the shameful details of his life, including everything he’d been up to since finding you with the Suraces. After we arrived, it was he who realised what was truly going on. It was he who found the bunker.’
‘But you said on the news—’
‘I know what I said on the news. I gave him my word.’
‘Your word? Why?’
‘Because those men were ’Ndrangheta. What other reason does he need?’
‘So he’s a coward, then? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘No more a coward than someone who feigns concussion from an accident.’
‘They’d have killed me then and there,’ she said furiously. ‘I had no choice.’
‘And Cesco did?’
‘They cut his friends’ throats in front of him, did they? They vowed to kill him if he ever breathed a word?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Not exactly!’
He picked up his mint tea at last and took a tiny sip, but only to buy himself a little time to think. ‘If I tell you something in the strictest possible confidence, will you swear to me that you’ll never repeat it? Not to anyone. Not ever.’
She waved a hand. ‘Fine. What?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘For this, I need you actually to swear.’
It was his demeanour as much as his words that got to her. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I swear to you I’ll never repeat it.’
‘Thank you. Then do you remember that story I told you that morning in the hospital? About the twin boy and girl taken hostage by the ’Ndrangheta, then murdered and dumped at sea?’
‘Of course. Why?’
He set his teacup and saucer carefully back on the floor. Then he lifted his eyes to hers. ‘It turns out the boy survived.’
III
Sorrento Airport was a modest affair, serving only a handful of charter flights from within the Schengen area as well as those plutocrats fortunate enough to own villas in Capri and along the Amalfi Coast. Zara and Dov parked outside the private jet terminal then presented themselves at the desk. A woman with crimson lipstick the exact same shade as her uniform had them wait for fifteen minutes then escorted them herself to a vast hangar even as a white Learjet taxied into its open mouth.
The front hatch opened. Steps were let down. A uniformed inspector went aboard for all of ninety seconds, and then returned. A burly man in a black suit appeared at the hatchway to beckon them aboard. The way he stood at the top of the steps meant Zara had to turn sideways to pass him without touching. At once, she began to feel uneasy. Then she arrived in the passenger cabin and saw Avram Bernstein sitting by the window in a bank of four white leather seats either side of a polished walnut table, with other men seated behind him and to his side, men with granite faces and eyes like polished black pebbles. ‘What the hell?’ she said.
Avram gestured to the empty seat across the table from him then waited for her to settle. ‘Do you know where your friend Dov was last night?’ he asked.
She glanced at him, sitting alongside her. ‘In Policastro. Briefing you and…’ Then she fell silent, her cheeks burning. ‘Where, then?’
Avram picked up an iPad from the seat beside him, held it out to her. She took it uncertainly. A video clip was cued up. She tapped it to set it playing. The lighting in it was so poor that it took her a few moments to work out what she was looking at: a cavern ceiling that glittered with a galaxy of gemstones of every size and colour. A thrill ran through her; she glanced again at Dov. He smiled and reached across her to close the first clip and set a second playing. This one started with a second or two of dark flowing water before the camera submerged and went blurry. Then a shape emerged from the murk, a white marble plinth with an inscription on its lid, though too obscured by grit and algae for her to read. ‘Dear lord,’ she muttered. She looked around in horror at all the hard-faced men. ‘What the hell have you got planned?’
‘You know exactly what,’ said Avram. ‘We’re going in tonight.’
‘But you can’t. It’s crazy. How could the prime minister even think of…’ She buried her face in her hands, humiliated by her own naivety. ‘He doesn’t even know, does he?’
‘He will soon enough.’
‘You’ll never get away with it. I’ll tell the world.’
‘And destroy your own reputation? I hardly think so.’
‘I won’t destroy anything. I’m no part of this.’
‘No part of it?’ mocked Avram. ‘You and Dov flew into Lamezia on the same flight. You drove up to Cosenza in the same car – a car you hired yourself. You spent a night there together in a hotel room you booked. You introduced him to Carmen Nero as your lover, and you’ve been lying to her ever since, including again this morning, telling her you were off to
gether to the Amalfi coast. Dov has recordings of it all. We’ll release them, if you force us.’
‘You bastards.’ She glared at them both. They only looked amused. ‘It won’t help you,’ she told them. ‘Even if I stay quiet, word will still get out. Carmen and her professor will find this place. They’ll realise what you’ve done.’
Avram’s smile didn’t falter. ‘I most certainly hope so.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll deny it furiously, of course. I’ll be shocked and righteously indignant that anyone could suggest such a thing. I’ll point to our prison mosaic and the chamber beneath it, and insist I found the pieces there. But think about it. What could be better for my reputation back home than credible allegations that I not only financed but also personally led a mission to reclaim the temple treasures from foreign soil? Especially with them powerless to do anything about it. You said it yourself. I’ll be the new Ben-Gurion.’
‘So that’s why you’re here. You want your own Entebbe.’
‘I want our treasures back. That’s all.’
She shook her head. ‘Why even tell me this? What do you want from me?’
‘I want you to come with us,’ said Avram, his tone suddenly both urgent and solicitous. ‘We need you. We’re here as liberators, not thieves. We want the temple treasures, every last one of them. But not one object more. Now look at us! We’re soldiers, not archaeologists or conservators. Would you trust any of us to distinguish Jewish artefacts from Roman? To bring them safely through a kilometre of river cavern?’
‘I don’t care. I won’t be part of it.’
‘As you wish. But know this: we’re going in either way. Any damage we do out of ignorance and ineptitude will be on your head. And there’s more. If tonight goes well, I’ll be prime minister soon. I’ll have full powers of patronage. I give you my most solemn word, Zara, that you can have whatever you want. Anything. Any dig, any museum, any university. I’ll even give you the Ministry of Culture, if you wish. And the budget to go with it.’
The Sacred Spoils Page 27
