‘Mrs Carroll is having breakfast on the terrace,’ she called as she retreated back along the corridor before he could stop her. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here.’
The curtains had been partly drawn, throwing a narrow ribbon of light across the otherwise dark room. This had unravelled along the floor and then spooled up and across the bed, revealing the pale hands of the person lying in it, his face wreathed in darkness.
‘Avner?’ Faulks said, his eyes straining to adjust to the sepulchral half light.
‘Earl, is that you?’ a thin voice rasped from the bed.
‘How are you doing, sport?’ Faulks stepped across to the bed with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
Klein looked barely alive, his cheeks hollowed out, eyes sunk into the back of his head, hair missing, skin wrinkled and sagging. Wires from several machines disappeared under the white bedclothes that shrouded his body, their monitors flashing up a hieroglyphic stream of numbers and graphs and pulsing dots. There was a drip too, Faulks noticed, the line seeming to vanish somewhere in the direction of Klein’s groin, the livid purple patches along his wizened forearm suggesting that they couldn’t find a vein there any more.
‘I’m dying,’ Klein replied, the very effort of blinking seeming to make him wince in pain.
‘Rubbish,’ Faulks assured him breezily. ‘You’ll be back on your feet in time for the Triple Crown. I’ve got a killer tip on the Derby this year. A guaranteed winner!’
Klein nodded weakly, although his empty smile told Faulks that they both knew he was lying.
‘Thank you for visiting,’ Klein wheezed. ‘I know you’re busy.’
He nodded at the drink next to the bed and Faulks reached across and held it for him, trying not to wrinkle his nose in disgust as Klein’s cracked lips sucked at it greedily, a drop escaping from the corner of his mouth and trickling down his chin like a tear.
‘Never too busy for an old friend.’ A pause. ‘And there is something I wanted to show you.’
‘Oh?’
Rather than curiosity, there was a resigned sadness in Klein’s voice, as if Faulks had somehow confirmed a rumour that he’d been hoping wasn’t true.
‘I knew you wouldn’t want to pass up a chance like this,’ Faulks enthused, opening his wallet and extracting a small Polaroid. ‘Look-’
Klein lifted himself forward and then almost immediately collapsed back on to his pillow, convulsing under the grip of a sudden hacking cough.
‘Verity Bruce wants it,’ Faulks continued through the noise, glancing lovingly at the picture. ‘I’ve brought all the paperwork ready for you to sign. All you need to do is authorise the payment and-’
Faulks broke off as Deena Carroll, Klein’s second wife, stormed into the room behind him, gold bangles and earrings clanging like a Passing Bell.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said, roasted coffee bean eyes blazing out of a leathered face crowned by a swooping wave of dyed platinum blonde hair.
‘Visiting an old friend,’ Faulks shrugged. ‘I mean, old friends,’ he added with a small bow of his head.
‘You’re no friend,’ she hissed contemptuously, snatching the photograph from him and waving it in his face. ‘Friends don’t try and hawk their grimy trinkets to a dying man.’ She flicked the photograph to the floor. ‘You make me sick, Earl.’
‘Those grimy trinkets have made the Klein-Carroll collection one of the greatest in the world,’ he reminded her tersely as he knelt down stiffly to retrieve the photograph. ‘And now that you’ve donated it to the Met, a permanent monument to your taste and generosity.’ He spat these last two words out, as if he’d just bitten into a bar of soap.
‘We both know what that collection is and where it came from,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘And if it’s a monument to anything, it’s to your greed.’
‘Be careful, Deena,’ Faulks said sharply, still smiling. ‘I’ve buried a lot of bodies for Avner over the years and dug up even more. And I can prove it. You should think about how you want him to be remembered.’
She went to answer but said nothing, glancing instead at Klein. Hands clasped together on the crisp sheets, grinning lovingly at her, he had quite clearly not followed a word of their exchange. She walked over to his side and smiled, tears welling as she stroked the few wisps of hair that clung stubbornly to his scalp.
‘Just go, Earl,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘Find someone else to dig for.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Lungotevere Gianicolense, Rome 19th March-7.37 a.m.
They had found a battered old Fiat a few streets from Cavalli’s house, Tom preferring it to the Mercedes parked just behind it. It was a suggestion that Allegra was already rather regretting, the rusted suspension jarring with every imperfection in the road as they headed north along the river. And yet she couldn’t fault his logic-the Fiat was coated in a thick layer of rainstreaked dirt that suggested that it hadn’t been used for weeks, and so was less likely to be missed.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she suddenly cut across the Ponte Principe Amedei di Savoia and pulled in on the Largo dei Fiorentini. ‘We can’t stop here. We’re still too close. If anyone’s seen us…’
‘If you want to get out, now’s your chance,’ she snapped, leaning across him and pushing his door open. ‘Otherwise, I want some answers.’
‘What sort of answers?’
‘How about a name?’
He sighed, then slammed the door shut.
‘It’s Tom. Tom Kirk.’ He made a point of holding out his hand so that she had to shake it rather formally. ‘Can we do the rest of the Q and A somewhere else?’
‘You said you knew what it was like to be on the run. Why? Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he asked, his face screwed into a disbelieving frown. She returned his stare, jaw set firm. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually with a resigned sigh. ‘I…I used to be a thief.’
‘A thief?’ She smiled indulgently before realising that he wasn’t joking.
‘What sort of thief?’
‘Art mainly. Jewellery too. Whatever paid.’
She nodded slowly. It was strange, but it was almost as if she’d been expecting him to say something like this. It certainly seemed to fit him better than being police or FBI.
‘And now?’
‘Now I help recover pieces, advise museums on security, that sort of thing,’ he replied.
‘What’s any of that got to do with Cavalli?’
‘I told you. Jennifer had asked me to help her on a case before she was killed. Cavalli was the best lead I had as to who might have ordered the hit.’
‘So we both went there looking for answers,’ Allegra said with a rueful smile.
‘Why-what’s Cavalli to you?’
‘It’s what he is to Gallo that I care about.’ She turned back to face the front, her hands clutching the wheel.
‘Who’s Gallo?’ Tom frowned. ‘The person you’re running from?’
‘Colonel Massimo Gallo,’ she intoned in a bitter voice. ‘Head of the GICO-the organised crime unit of the Ministry of Finance-and the officer in charge of the two Caravaggio killings.’
‘What?’
‘Ricci and Argento,’ she explained impatiently. ‘The other murders I told you about. Their deaths had been staged to mirror to two Caravaggio paintings.’
‘Jennifer was lured to Las Vegas to help recover a Caravaggio stolen in the 1960s,’ Tom explained with the triumphant finality of someone laying down a winning poker hand.
‘You think…?’
‘Don’t you?’
There was a pause as she let this sink in. First the symbol. Then the mention of the Delian League. Now Caravaggio. Perhaps he was right. These surely couldn’t all be coincidences?
Speaking fast and confidently, she plunged into an account of the past few days-the murders of Ricci and Argento; the choice of locations; the references to Caesar; the Caravaggio staging of
the murder scenes; what she knew about Cavalli and his death; Gallo’s cold-blooded execution of Gambetta. It was only when she got to describing Aurelio’s treachery that her voice faltered. The memory of his betrayal was still too fresh, too raw for her to share anything more than the most basic details. Instead she quickly switched to her tortured flight from his apartment and the restless night that she had spent in the grimy airport hotel until, unable to sleep, she had decided to visit Cavalli’s apartment for herself and see what she could find there.
Tom listened to all this without interrupting and she realised when she had finished that it had been strangely calming to talk things through, even if she barely knew him. There had been so much going on, so many thoughts tripping over each other inside her head, that it had been surprisingly cathartic to lay all the different elements together end to end.
‘Somehow, it’s all linked,’ he said slowly when she had finished. ‘The murders, Caravaggio, the symbol…we just need to find out how.’
‘Is that all?’ she said with a bitter laugh.
‘Sometimes you just need to know who to ask.’
‘And you do?’ she asked in a sceptical tone.
‘I know someone who might be able to help.’ He nodded.
‘Someone we can trust?’
Tom took a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks.
‘More or less.’
‘What sort of an answer’s that?’ she snorted.
‘The sort of answer you get when you’re out of better ideas.’
There was a pause. Then with a resigned shrug she started the engine.
‘Where to?’
THIRTY-SIX
Fontana di Trevi, Rome 19th March-8.03 a.m.
Allegra heard the fountain before she saw it, a delirious, ecstatic roar of water that crashed and foamed over gnarled travertine rocks and carved foliage, tumbling in a joyful cascade into the open embrace of the wide basin below. This was no accident, Allegra knew, the Trevi having been deliberately positioned so that, no matter what route was taken, it could only be partially seen as it was approached, the anticipation building as the sound got louder until the monument finally revealed itself.
Despite the relatively early hour, the tourists were already out in force, some seated like an eager audience on the steps that encircled the basin’s low stage, others facing the opposite direction and flinging coins over their shoulders in the hope of securing their return to the Eternal City. Oblivious to their catcalling and the popcorn burst of camera flashes, the statues ranged above them silently acted out an allegorical representation of the taming of the waters. Centre stage loomed Neptune’s brooding figure, his chariot frozen in flight, winged horses rearing dramatically out of the water and threatening to take the entire structure with them.
‘Was there a Trevi family?’ Tom asked as they paused briefly in front of it.
‘Trevi comes from Tre Via, the three streets that meet here,’ she corrected him in a curt voice. ‘Are we here for a history lesson or to actually see someone?’
‘That depends,’ he said with a shrug.
‘On what?’
‘On whether you can keep a secret.’
She gave a dismissive laugh.
‘How old are you, ten?’
Tom turned to face her, face set firm.
‘You can’t tell anyone about what you see.’
‘Oh come on,’ she snorted impatiently.
‘Yes or no?’ he insisted.
There was a pause. Then she gave a grudging nod.
‘Yes, fine, whatever.’
‘No crossed fingers?’
‘What?’ she exploded. ‘If this is some sort of…’
‘I’m only joking.’ He grinned. ‘Come on. It’s this way.’
He led her round to the right to the Vicolo Scavolino where a small doorway had been set into the side wall of the building directly behind the fountain. A flock of pigeons rendered fat and tame by years of overfeeding, barely stirred as they waded through them.
‘Here?’ she asked with a frown, glancing up at the carved papal escutcheon suspended over the entrance.
‘Here.’ He nodded, knocking sharply against the door’s weather-worn surface.
A few moments later it opened to reveal a young Chinese man dressed in black, his hair standing off his head as if he had been electrocuted. From the way he was awkwardly holding one hand behind his back, Allegra guessed that he was clutching a gun.
‘I’m here to see Johnny,’ Tom announced. ‘Tell him it’s Felix.’
The man gave them a cursory look, then shut the door again.
‘Felix?’ Allegra shot him a questioning look.
‘It’s a name people used to know me by when I was still in the game,’ he explained. ‘I try not to use it any more, but it’s how a lot of people still know me.’
‘The game?’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Is that a word people like you use to make you feel better about breaking the law?’
The door reopened before Tom had a chance to answer, the man ushering them inside and then marching them along a low passageway, through a second door and then up a shallow flight of steps into a narrow room, with a stone staircase leading both up and down.
‘Where are we?’ Allegra hissed.
‘Listen,’ Tom replied.
She nodded, suddenly realising that the dull ringing in her ears was no longer the angry echo of the shot that had killed Gambetta but the muffled roar of water through the thick walls.
‘We’re behind the fountain,’ she breathed.
‘The Trevi was pretty much tacked on to the façade of the Palazzo Poli when they built it,’ Tom explained as the man ordered them up the stairs with a grunt. ‘This space was bricked off as a maintenance shaft, to provide access to the roof and the plumbing in the basement. Johnny cut a deal with the mayor to rent the attic.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Why? How else do you think he paid for his re-election campaign?’
They climbed to the first floor, then to the next, the fountain’s low rumble slowly fading, until it was little more than a distant hum. In its place, however, Allegra was increasingly aware of a whirring, rhythmical clattering noise. She glanced at Tom for an explanation, but he said nothing, his expression suggesting that he was rather enjoying her confusion.
Another man was waiting to greet them on the second-floor landing, a machine gun slung across his oversized Lakers shirt, in place of the rather less threatening Norinco Type 77 handgun that their escort was sporting. The higher they climbed, the more lethal the weaponry, it seemed.
The second man signalled at them to raise their arms and then quickly patted them down, confiscating Tom’s bag and Allegra’s gun and keys. Then he nodded at them to follow him to the foot of the next flight of stairs, where an armoured steel door and two more guards blocked their way. Unprompted, the door buzzed open.
Swapping a look, they made their way upstairs.
THIRTY-SEVEN
19th March-8.12 a.m.
The staircase led to a long, narrow attic room that seemed to run the width of the entire building. A line of squat windows squinted down on to the square below, their view obscured in places by the fountain’s massive stone pediment. And running down the centre of the room, hissing and rattling like an old steam engine under the low ceiling, was a huge printing press.
‘The sound of the fountain masks the noise of the machine,’ Tom called to her over the press’s raucous clatter as she approached it. ‘It’s actually five separate processes, although the machines have been laid out end to end. A simultan machine to print the background colours and patterns. An intaglio machine for the major design elements. A letterpress for the serial numbers. An offset press for the overcoating. And obviously a guillotine right at the end to cut the sheets to size.’
Allegra stepped closer to the press, trying to catch what was coming off the machine’s whirling drum, then looked back to Tom in shock.
‘Mo
ney?’
‘Euros.’ He nodded. ‘Johnny runs one of the world’s biggest counterfeiting operations outside of China. He used to print dollars, but no one wants them any more.’
‘Johnny who?’ she asked, looking back along the room and noticing the small army of people in blue overalls tending silently to the press.
‘Johnny Li. His father is Li Kai-Fu. Runs one of the most powerful Triad gangs in Hong Kong,’ Tom explained in a low voice. ‘A couple of years ago he posted his five sons around the world, via Cambridge, to help grow the family business. Johnny’s here, Paul’s in San Francisco, Ringo’s in Buenos Aires…’
‘He moved to Rio,’ a voice interrupted him. ‘Better weather, cheaper women.’
‘Johnny!’ Tom turned to greet the voice with a warm smile.
Li was young, perhaps only in his late twenties, with long dark hair that he was forever brushing from his eyes, a pierced lip, and a dotted line tattooed around his neck as if to show where to cut. He was also the only person on this floor not in overalls, dressed instead in a white Armani T-shirt, red Ferrari monogrammed jacket, expensively ripped Versace jeans with a stainless steel key chain looping down one leg, and Prada trainers. Flanked by two unsmiling guards and balancing Allegra’s gun in his hand as if trying to guess its weight, his face was creased into an unwelcoming scowl.
‘What do you want, Felix?’ He had an unexpectedly strong English accent.
‘Bad time?’ Tom frowned, clearly surprised by his tone.
‘What do you expect when you turn up at my place with a cop?’ Li snapped, stabbing a rolledup newspaper towards him. ‘Even she is bent.’
Tom took the paper off him and scanned the front page, then handed it to Allegra with an awkward, almost apologetic look. She didn’t have to read much beyond the headline to understand why. Gallo was pinning Gambetta’s death on her. There she was, looking slightly arrogant in her crisp Carabinieri uniform, she had to admit. Beneath it was an article describing her ‘murderous rampage’, the text scrolling around her, as if the words themselves were worried about getting too close. She felt suddenly dizzy, as if the floor was moving under her, and was only vaguely aware of Tom’s voice.
The Geneva Deception Page 15
