‘I told you. I don’t care.’
‘But you do care, you see. I was with you when we broke into that chamber. I saw your face when we found that other menorah. The way your hands trembled as you reached out for it, the depth of your dismay when you realised it was fake. Nothing thrills you like discovery. Admit it to yourself. Embrace it. Come with us tonight and you’ll be first inside the tomb. The first person in sixteen hundred years to see Alaric and all his grave goods. The first to see the true Menorah, to touch it, to hold it. You, Zara Gold, will be the one to bring the emblem of our nation safely home again after its too-long wandering.’
‘This is madness,’ she said, clutching her face between her hands. ‘This is absolute madness.’
Avram turned to Dov with a glittery smile. ‘See. I told you she’d say yes.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I
Baldassare checked his watch in the manner of a man wanting an excuse to leave, then raised his eyebrows as if in shock at what he saw. He pushed himself to his feet. Another appointment, he told Carmen with a slight twinkle in his eye. An appointment, as it happened, with young Signor Cesco Rossi himself. He already had one piece of good news to give him. Would she be so kind as to allow him to add a second, in the form of her phone number and the permission to use it? She stared at him, still dizzy from his revelation about who Cesco really was. But now that she knew that, and how he’d saved her from that pit, it would have been beyond churlish to refuse.
She waved him off then went back inside. Her phone had recharged a little. She walked it up into Sicilì until it acquired a signal, then found a bench beneath a pine tree with a gap between the splats of bird shit just wide enough for her to perch while she checked her messages and responded to those that needed it. A frisson passed suddenly through her. Cesco might call at any moment. She had no idea what to say to him, no idea even how to treat him. Was he the fourteen-year-old orphan fighting to stay alive? The skilled conman who’d talked so glibly of duty at her hospital bedside? The false lover who’d gazed deep into her eyes before betraying her by going to rob the Suraces? Or the frantic wreck Baldassare had told her of, who’d saved her life by bringing him and his men to the Mafia farmhouse. But the point proved moot because her phone’s battery died before he called, forcing her to return it to the cottage and its charger.
She took her book out onto the terrace, but she couldn’t settle. She kept being prodded by the thought that Cesco might be trying to call. She kept going to check her phone but it was taking forever to recharge. She decided to take a walk while she waited, sternly instructing herself that on no account was she to waste so sparkling an afternoon brooding about Cesco.
Then she set off across the fields, brooding about Cesco.
II
The olive groves around the house had been so long neglected that it would take more than a day or two of pruning to put them right. But that didn’t mean they shouldn’t do what they could. Tomas chivvied Guido away from watching DVDs and out to join him. They put on boots and work gloves then went from tree to tree with a handsaw and a pair of bolt cutters, lopping off the dead wood and cutting back the branches, which they stacked beneath a tarpaulin for winter wood.
The sun was bright. The work was hot. They could, of course, have afforded power tools, but then the exertion was half the point. The sporadic rains of the last two days had turned the soil into a clayey mud that clumped heavily and made Tomas feel his age. They broke for a light lunch and then went back out. The sky grew grey and chill. Mid-afternoon, it began to drizzle, and they agreed to call it a day. They scraped the mud off on the edge of the terrace then stamped muddy hieroglyphs all over it before taking off their boots and going inside.
Guido headed to his room to take a shower. Tomas went to the kitchen for a tall glass of pomegranate juice. His mobile had buzzed him with alerts while he’d been working. He just hadn’t heard it over the noise of their sawing. He allowed himself a satisfied smile when he saw the reason why. Handing Carmen Nero’s phone and passport into the police had been a long shot, but it had paid off.
He rang Massimo to find out where he and his men were, then went in search of Guido. His shower was still running so he pounded three times on the bathroom door. The shower stopped and then Guido appeared naked at the door, suds still in his hair and his shoulders a bright red from the hot spray. ‘What the hell can’t wait?’ he demanded.
‘Our friend the American woman,’ Tomas told him. ‘She’s turned on her phone.’
‘You got her location?’
‘Yes. A place called Sicilì.’
Guido glowered at him. ‘The fuck you mean, a place called Sicily? How stupid do you think I am, I don’t know Sicily?’
‘Not that Sicily, oh my brother. A different one. A village in the Cilento.
‘Oh.’ Guido thought a few moments. ‘Where are Massimo and the others?’
‘Just passed south of Naples. I’ve already given them their orders. They’ll be there in an hour or so. But we should join them there as soon as we can.’
Guido grinned. ‘Then I’d better put some clothes on, hadn’t I?’
III
Buonabitacolo was an old town of narrow, cobbled streets that made Cesco’s Harley judder like a jackhammer. Already sore from his long drive, he parked it in the first empty bay he found then walked the rest of the way. Baldassare’s cafe was a short stroll from the piazza. He looked through the front window and saw the great man at a corner table. Baldassare saw him almost at the same moment. He stood and waved then bounded across to the door to greet him. Cesco offered him his hand to shake, but Baldassare brushed it indignantly aside and engulfed him in a bear hug instead, then went up on tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks. ‘You wretched young man,’ he said, wagging a finger at him. ‘You left that day before I could thank you properly.’
Cesco shrugged himself free. ‘How is everyone?’
‘Good. Glad to be home, of course. But it will take time. You know how these things are.’
‘Yes,’ said Cesco. ‘I know how these things are.’
They stared at each other a moment. Baldassare slapped him on his shoulder then led him across to his corner table, calling out for more pastries and a coffee for his good friend as he went. There was a plate already there, empty save for crumbs and smears of icing. ‘My first time out in months without a two-car escort and the Critellis to worry about,’ said Baldassare. ‘I mean to make the most of it.’
‘What about your daughter’s dinner? Won’t you spoil your appetite?’
‘Appetite has never been my problem. It’s hunger that’s the curse.’ He picked up a small tan leather folio case from the floor beside his chair then unzipped it on the table. He took out a salmon folder plump with documents. ‘Your grandfather was a career criminal,’ he said. ‘He and his good friend Luca Critelli started with next to nothing but quickly made themselves wealthy by kidnapping for ransom the children of rich parents. To their credit, they released their hostages unharmed – including in at least one instance when no ransom was ever paid. But still. When kidnapping became more trouble than it was worth, they turned to extortion instead, demanding money from honest businesses with threats of violence and arson. They took over Cosenza’s produce business. Then building and waste disposal. When drugs became big business, they began shipping in vast quantities of cocaine from Colombia and Brazil, selling it on throughout Europe. I never had enough evidence to bring charges in court, but your grandfather was most certainly implicated in numerous beatings and half a dozen murders. All of rival gangsters, true. But still. He had your father inducted into the ’Ndrangheta at the age of fourteen, so that everything he ever earned was the proceeds of some crime or other.’
Cesco gazed at him. ‘You had me come all this way to insult my family?’
‘I am not insulting them. I am telling you the plain truth about them, because I don’t want you to romanticise them. After they both died, I – acting on behal
f of the state – seized every bit of wealth I could from both their estates. Every bit of it. And rightly so. They ruined the lives of countless good people. Your mother and your grandmother, however, were not ’Ndrangheta. Or perhaps I should say they were never proven to be. They each came into their marriages with property of their own. I sequestered it all too – frankly, because I could. With your immediate family dead, none of your more distant cousins even tried to dispute this. No doubt they feared the scrutiny a claim would bring.’ He opened the folder, drew out two stapled documents. ‘This first one is an inventory of your mother’s personal assets. Some jewellery, as you can see. Various minor artworks, pieces of furniture and curios, along with a modest portfolio of bonds and shares. This second one is your grandmother’s. She owned a small property near Reggio and the land on which your grandfather built his villa, the one we’ve taken over ourselves. So, then. As their only surviving direct descendent, you have a claim to both these estates. In my opinion, a very strong claim indeed. And, as I am essentially the person in charge of the case, my opinion matters a great deal.’
Cesco frowned at him. ‘Are you saying you owe me money?’
‘I’m saying the state does.’
‘How much?’
‘These valuations are old and approximate. We’d need to make new ones. But I expect somewhere in the region of two and a half million euros, after taxes.’
‘Two and one half… You can’t be serious.’
‘I am completely serious. There is, however, a catch.’
Cesco snorted. ‘Of course there is.’
‘The catch is this: the person with a right to this money is Giovanni Carbone. In the eyes of the law, Giovanni Carbone is dead. I declared him so myself, thirteen years ago, after an ’Ndrangheta hit man confessed to having been party to the murders of him and his twin sister some eighteen months before, along with a hideous catalogue of other such crimes. For me to be able to advance your claim, you would need to establish you truly are Carbone. Not to my satisfaction, you understand. I am satisfied already. But in the eyes of the law. This needn’t be an ordeal. We have your family DNA on file. Give me a cheek swab and I will take care of the rest. Apart from that, it’s simply a matter of filling out certain forms and having your photograph taken. I’ve brought a complete set of documents and a camera. If you agree, we can do it all right now. Then I can get you your old name back, if you wish. Or help you with a new one, if you prefer. Cesco suits you, if you want my opinion. We also run a witness protection scheme of sorts, for Mafia targets. Hopelessly underfunded, of course, but then you won’t need funds, just a new passport and a social security number for your taxes.’
‘My taxes!’
‘Yes,’ said Baldassare. ‘Your taxes. So that you can contribute to the country in which you were born and which you now choose to live. And not just continue to take, like your father and grandfather before you.’
Cesco flushed. ‘And if the Critelli brothers find out about me? If they decide to finish the job?’
Their order arrived on a tin tray. Baldassare licked his lips at the sight of the glazed pastries, then selected the two largest and more lavishly iced for himself. He waited until the waitress had left before speaking again. ‘The Critelli brothers don’t give a shit about you,’ he said, holding a hand beneath his chin to catch the flakes. ‘They haven’t for at least a decade. You know this perfectly well.’
‘If I know it perfectly well, why have I been living like this?’
‘Penance,’ said Baldassare. ‘For being still alive while your sister is dead.’
‘Fuck you.’
Baldassare dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Tell me: is this how you’d have wanted Claudia to live, had she been the one to survive? This shrunken, selfish mockery of a thing you call a life? Or would you have wanted good things for her? To fall in love, to marry, to have children of her own?’
Cesco rose trembling to his feet. ‘You have no idea about my life.’
‘Sit down,’ said Baldassare. ‘Eat your pastry. You’re right. I know nothing about your life. But I do know something about conmen. I’ve prosecuted enough of them. The best ones are amazingly convincing. The way they do sincerity. Bewilderment. Haplessness. Friendship. Anything you like, to gain the slightest advantage. But there’s one emotion I’ve never seen any of them mimic persuasively. Can you guess which?’
‘Which?’ asked Cesco reluctantly.
‘Panic,’ said Baldassare. ‘Specifically, panic on behalf of someone else. It’s so visceral. At the farmhouse, when we couldn’t find Carmen, that look on your face: it was too exactly how I felt about Alessandra and Bettina.’
‘I had a responsibility,’ said Cesco. ‘That was all. I discharged it and then I left.’
Baldassare smiled knowingly. ‘As you like.’ He took the forms in one hand, his pen in the other. ‘Then let me discharge my own responsibilities, and I’ll leave too.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I
A member of this shameful expedition Zara might now be. A trusted member, clearly not. She was hustled out of the private jet terminal into the back of one of a pair of large rental vans that had been hired for the mission. It had small rear windows and bench seats fitted along either side; she sat opposite the companion they gave her – the burly, black-suited man who’d waved her aboard the plane, whose name, it turned out, was Yani, and who – Dov assured her cheerfully – would answer any questions she might have. And so he did, after a fashion, but only with meaningless grunts.
The drivers of the two vans and the Renault were each given their own list of tasks to perform. They headed in separate directions out of the airport. Her own van stopped several times for supplies, so that the back soon filled up. Waterproof clothing, flotation bags, a large inflatable dinghy, a giant roll of bubble wrap, an extensible aluminium ladder. The sheer scale of preparations unnerved her, making it ever clearer how completely she’d misjudged Avram. He wasn’t the genial if driven man she’d thought him, but someone infinitely darker. And the more this bore in on her, the more she remembered the message his son Isaac had left on her voicemail.
Paul Shapiro thought he could fuck with us too. And look what happened to him.
Zara had always dismissed this claim out of hand, and not just because Isaac had been a braggart drunk, or even because of the technical difficulty of arranging for Shapiro to crash into the car in front of him then have a lorry ride up over him and crush him to death. No. What had convinced her was her certainty that Avram hadn’t been that kind of man. But what if he was? Suddenly the nature of the accident wasn’t such a problem. Maybe the brake tampering had merely been meant as a warning. Or maybe the lorry driver had been in on it too. As interior minister, Avram had almost unlimited power over which investigations to pursue and which to ignore. And for sure it had swatted away a troublesome gadfly. Where had the Bernstein money come from, after all? Their house in Jerusalem’s most exclusive quarter, their villas in Netanya and Corfu, the private schools for the kids and the lavish garden parties they threw at least twice a year for the Israeli elite. And if he was capable of ordering one murder to spare himself some grief, why not a second? What made Zara herself untouchable? If she were to go public with Isaac’s voicemails, it would almost certainly trigger an investigation into Shapiro’s death, an investigation over which Avram would have no control. So was it possible that he’d ordered her murdered too?
The thought cast a new and sinister light on everything about this Italian adventure. Sure, Avram’s ideal outcome would always have been to find Alaric and the Menorah. But he could hardly have relied on it. So he’d put a fallback plan in place: for Dov to kill her while she was over here, in such a way that no Bernstein could possibly be suspected. That was why he’d commandeered both her hire car and her hotel room without letting himself be seen with her. It explained, too, that malevolent smile on his lips after he’d looked over her hotel balcony five storeys down to the ca
r park beneath, a perfect set-up for an unhappy suicide. But he’d had to ditch that plan once Carmen had seen them talking together at the gelateria. No wonder he’d been so furious. But rather than give up, he’d sought an alternative instead, pressing Carmen for details of those ’Ndrangheta killers so that he could blame them for their murders, all while protecting Avram from the voicemails and freeing him up to present the replica Menorah as the real thing. The thought made her feel sick. But not quite so sick as the one that followed. For if they came up dry in Alaric’s tomb tonight, there’d be nothing to stop Dov from following through.
II
It took forty minutes for Cesco to fill in and sign the forms Baldassare had brought. It was unreal, the thought of an inheritance. He’d denied his identity for so long that he felt like an imposter. He was even tempted to walk away from it with his head held high. He’d stood on his own two feet for fifteen years, after all. Except that he hadn’t, of course. He’d preyed instead on the generosity of people who’d believed him to be their friend, and whom he’d repaid with betrayal. He’d always justified this to himself as being necessary, and maybe it had been. But no longer. How high could he hold his head if he refused to change course or make amends? And a seed planted itself in his mind at that moment: the idea of reparations.
He asked about the investigation, whether the men in the sketches had yet been identified or caught. Baldassare threw him a look. ‘Stay out of it,’ he warned. ‘Leave it to the professionals.’
The Sacred Spoils Page 28
