Peering through the seats in front of her, Allegra could see a faint glow on the horizon, a red hue with a blue-edged tint. She looked across to Tom, who gave her an encouraging smile and then reached for her hand. She understood what he was trying to tell her. That this was nearly all over. That they’d almost won.
There were two fire crews on the scene but they were holding back, their flaccid hoses lying uncoiled at their feet.
‘The fuel tank could go at any moment and there’s no danger of it spreading,’ one of the crew explained to Gallo. ‘We’re just going to let it die down a bit.’
Allegra led Tom to the edge of the semi-circle of policemen and passers-by that had formed around the burning ambulance like kids at a bonfire, the heat from the flames searing her cheeks. Deep ruts in the verge showed where the vehicle had careered off the road and into a ditch, a partially uprooted tree explaining why it hadn’t continued on into the field that lay on the other side of the hedge. One of the wheels was on fire and still slowly turning.
Abruptly, the fuel tank exploded, the ambulance jerking spasmodically, the noise of breaking glass and the tortured shriek of expanding metal coming from somewhere inside it. Sparks flitted though the air around them like fireflies.
Allegra glanced at Tom and followed his impassive gaze to the body that must have been thrown clear before the fire had broken out. It was the priest, Orlando. From the way he was lying it didn’t look like he would be getting up again. She turned back to the ambulance, straining to see through the swirling flames and smoke, and caught the charred outline of a body in the driver’s seat, head slumped forward, hands still gripping the wheel.
‘Santos?’ she asked Tom.
Tom shrugged and then turned away.
‘If you want it to be.’
EIGHTY-FOUR
The Getty Villa, Malibu, California
1st May-11.58 a.m.
One thing was certain-they had all been asked here to witness something special. The clue, as always, had been in the expense lavished on the engraved invitations, the quality of the champagne served at the welcoming reception and the bulging gift bags positioned next to the exit.
When it came to what was going to be announced, however, opinions were more divided. Opinions that, as the minutes passed, grew ever more outlandish and unlikely, until some were confidently predicting that the entire collection of the British Museum was even now being loaded into containers to be shipped to California, and others that it was the Getty itself that was relocating to Beijing. As guesswork was layered on to conjecture, so the noise grew, until what had started as a gentle breeze of curious voices had grown into a deafening storm over which people were struggling to make themselves heard.
Then, without warning, the lights dimmed and three people stepped out on to the stage, one of them wearing sunglasses. The noise dropped as abruptly as if they had passed into the eye of a hurricane, leaving an eerie, pregnant silence.
The shortest person, a man, approached the lectern and gripped its sides, seemingly comforted by its varnished solidity. A large screen behind him showed a close-up of his face-pink, fleshy and sweating.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Director Bury began nervously, licking the corners of his mouth. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you here today. As many of you know, our founder had a simple vision. It was that art has a civilising influence in society, and should therefore be made available to the public for their education and enjoyment.’ He paused, his voice growing in confidence as a polite round of applause rippled through the crowd. ‘It is a vision that continues to inspire us today as we seek to collect, preserve, exhibit and interpret art of the highest quality. More importantly, it is a vision that continues to inspire others into the most extraordinary acts of generosity. Acts of generosity that have led us today to what I believe is the single most important acquisition in the museum’s history. Dr Bruce, please.’
He retreated a few steps, glistening and exultant, and led the clapping as Verity stepped forward. Saying nothing, she waited for the applause to die down, and then nodded. The stage was immediately plunged into darkness. For a few moments nothing happened, people craning their necks to see over or between the rows in front of them, hardly daring to breathe. Then a single spotlight came on, illuminating the jagged outline of a carved face. An ivory face. Behind them the screen was filled with its ghostly, sightless eyes.
Still Verity said nothing, the silence of anticipation giving way to an excited murmur, a few people standing up to get a closer look, one man at the front clapping spontaneously, others turning to each other and muttering words of confusion or shocked understanding. Little by little the noise grew, until the room was once again gripped by a violent, incoherent storm that was only partially muted by the sound of Verity’s voice and a second spotlight revealing her face.
‘Thanks to the incredible generosity of Myron Kezman, a man of singular vision and exquisite taste whose philanthropy shines through these dark economic times,’ she called over the clamour, waving at a beaming Kezman to step forward, ‘the Getty is proud to announce the acquisition of the Phidias Apollo, the only surviving work of possibly the greatest sculptor of the classical age.’ She paused as the applause came again, unrestrained and exultant. ‘As you can see, it is a uniquely well-preserved fragment of a chryselephantine sculpture of the Greek god Apollo. Dated to around 450 BC, it shows-’
‘Verity Bruce?’ A man in the front row had interrupted her. Standing up, he moved to the stage.
‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll take questions at the end,’ she said through a forced smile, eyeing him contemptuously.
‘My name is Special Agent Carlos Ortiz, FBI,’ the man announced, holding out his badge. ‘And if you and Mr Kezman don’t mind, you’ll be taking my questions downtown.’
The audience turned in their seats as the doors at the back of the auditorium flew open. Four darksuited men entered the room and fanned out.
‘What is this?’ she called out over the crowd’s low, confused muttering, her expression caught somewhere between incredulity and indignation.
‘I have a warrant for your arrest, along with Mr Myron Kezman and Earl Faulks,’ Ortiz announced, the sight of the piece of paper in his hand raising the audience’s muttering to a curious rumble. Kezman said nothing, his indulgent smile having faded behind the blank mask of his sunglasses as two further agents had taken up positions either side of the stage.
‘On what charges?’ Director Bury challenged him, advancing to Verity’s side.
‘Federal tax fraud, conspiracy to traffic in illegal antiquities and illegal possession of antiquities,’ Ortiz fired back. ‘But we’re just getting started.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Verity erupted, shielding her face from the machine-gun flash of press cameras. ‘I have done nothing-’
She was interrupted by a commotion at the back of the room as a man tried to make a run for the exit, only to be brought down heavily by the outstretched leg of another member of the audience.
‘It seems Mr Faulks is not as confident in his innocence as you appear to be in yours,’ Ortiz observed wryly as two of his men pounced on Faulks’s prone figure and hauled him to his feet. ‘Cuff them.’
Verity and Kezman’s shouted protests were drowned out by the hyena howl of the crowd as they leapt from their seats and surged forward to feast.
Amidst the commotion, a man and a woman slipped out, unobserved.
EIGHTY-FIVE
1st May-12.09 p.m.
‘How’s your foot?’ Allegra laughed as they made their way out into the Outer Peristyle’s shaded cloister. A light salt breeze was blowing in from the Pacific and tugging at her hair, which was now its original colour once again.
‘He was meant to trip over it, not step on it,’ Tom grinned, pretending to limp over the marble floor.
‘Do you think they’ll let him cut a deal?’
‘Unlikely, given what you copied in his warehouse and the
tape.’
‘What tape?’ Allegra asked with a frown.
‘Dominique recorded the three of them discussing the mechanics of the whole deal on the phone she and Archie cloned.’
They stepped between two of the fluted columns and made their way down a shallow ramp into a large rectangular courtyard. Running almost its entire length was a shallow reflection pool, its rectangular white stone basin curving at both ends like a Venetian mirror.
‘What do you think they’ll do with the mask?’ Allegra asked as they navigated their way along a labyrinthine arrangement of box hedge-lined gravel paths to the pool’s edge.
‘Ortiz told me that the Italian government has drawn up a catalogue of forty artefacts acquired by or donated to the Getty over the past twenty years that they want returned. The mask is at the top of the list.’
‘That’s a start,’ she said, sitting down next to him.
‘The Greek and Turkish governments are talking about doing the same. And that’s just the Getty. There are other museums, galleries, private collections…the fall-out from this will take years to clear.’
‘But nothing will change,’ she sighed. ‘When the Delian League finally falls, others will just see it as an opportunity to step in and fill the vacuum.’
‘You can’t stop the supply,’ Tom nodded. ‘Contarelli was right about that. The tomb robbers are fighting a guerrilla campaign and the police are still lining up in squares and using muskets. But if the publicity makes museums, collectors and auction houses clean up their act, it might choke the demand. And with less buyers, there’ll be less money and less incentive to dig. In time, things might just change.’
There was a silence, Allegra playing with the water and letting it slide through her fingers like mercury.
‘They buried Aurelio yesterday,’ she said, without looking up.
‘I didn’t know that…?’
‘Some kids found his body washed up on the Isola Tiberina.’
‘Murdered?’
‘They don’t think so.’
Tom placed his hand on her shoulder. She glanced up and then quickly looked down again, her eyes glistening.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I think he was too.’ She shook the water from her fingers and then wiped them on her skirt.
‘What’s happened to Gallo?’
‘Promoted, I expect.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘To be honest, I don’t care. Him, the people he was protecting…they all disgust me.’
‘But he kept his part of the deal?’ Tom checked.
She nodded. ‘All charges dropped. A formal apology. My pick of assignments. He even had my parking tickets cancelled.’
‘So you’ll stay?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Not everyone’s like him. Besides, I want to see Contarelli’s face when I raid his place.’ Tom grinned. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Archie’s meeting me in New York for Jennifer’s funeral. The FBI only released her body last week, After that…Who knows? I never like to plan too far ahead. Which way’s the sea?’
They stood up and walked through to the other side of the colonnade, following some steps down to a path.
‘By the way, did you hear about the Caravaggio?’ Allegra asked as they headed up a slope to their right.
‘Destroyed?’ A hint of surprise in Tom’s voice.
She shook her head.
‘There wasn’t any trace of it in the ambulance.’
‘And Santos?’
‘The DNA from the body at the wheel matched the sample the Vatican provided for him,’ she said with a shrug. ‘So that’s case closed, I guess.’
‘Except you think he’s still alive,’ Tom guessed.
‘I think if he’s got any sense, he’ll stay dead,’ she said, the muscles in her jaw flexing with anger. ‘Moretti’s people are looking for him and the word is that De Luca’s put a five-million-dollar ticket on his head.’
They reached a large lawned area and walked to its far wall where there was a view out over the treetops to the sea, white caps rolling in neat parallel lines towards the beach.
‘There’s one thing I still can’t figure out,’ Allegra said, hitching herself on to it to face Tom, who was shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Why did Faulks have two watches?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘De Luca, D’Arcy, Moretti and Cavalli only had one watch each. Why did Faulks have two in his safe?’
‘He said he had two seats on the council,’ Tom reminded her. ‘Presumably to act as a counterweight between D’Arcy and De Luca on one hand and Cavalli and Moretti on the other. The watches went with the seats, I guess.’
‘Except the League was formed by putting De Luca’s and Moretti’s two organisations together,’ she said slowly. ‘That must have meant that they would each have had their own dealer at one stage.’
‘So what are you saying? That one of the watches used to belong to someone else?’ Tom frowned as he considered this.
‘De Luca did say that Faulks’s two seats were an accident of history,’ she said. ‘What if the other dealer left? Faulks would have taken over his seat and his watch.’
‘Unless the other dealer never handed the watch back. That might explain why Faulks had to go and get a replacement made.’ Tom suggested. ‘You could be right. Maybe when you see him you can ask him. Which reminds me…’
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and deliberately ripped it in half and then half again.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, as he continued to rip it into ever smaller pieces.
‘You remember when we went through the papers in Faulks’s safe? Well, I found a map. The one showing where Cavalli found the mask.’
‘Wait!’
She reached out to grab his hand, but he threw the pieces up into the air before she could get to him.
‘Tom!’ she shouted angrily. ‘Have you any idea what else could be down there?’
He gave her a rueful smile.
‘Not everything’s ready to be found, Allegra.’
Above him, the scraps of paper fluttered like butterflies in the sunlight, before a gust of wind lifted them soaring into the sky and carried them out to sea, like a flock of birds at the start of a long migration south.
EIGHTY-SIX
Central Square, Casco Viejo, Panama
1st May-6.36 p.m.
Antonio Santos, his arm in a sling, stood to one side and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the door at about head height.
‘Who is it?’
‘DHL,’ a muffled voice called back. ‘Package for Mr Stefano Romano?’
‘Leave it outside.’
‘I need a signature,’ the voice called back.
Santos paused. He was expecting a couple of deliveries this week under that name, and it would be a shame if they got returned. On the other hand, he needed to be careful until he was certain that he had shaken everyone off the trail.
‘Who is it from?’ he asked, slowly sliding his face across to the peep hole.
A bored-looking man was standing on the landing dressed in a brown uniform. He appeared to be trying to grow a beard and was chewing gum. Santos’s last question had prompted him to roll his eyes and blow a bubble that he popped with his finger.
‘It’s from Italy,’ he replied, glancing at the stamps and then turning it over so that he could read the label on its back. ‘Someone called Amarelli?’
Grinning, Santos tucked his gun into the back of his trousers, unbolted the door and threw it open.
‘Amarelli liquorice from Calabria,’ he explained, signing the form and eagerly ripping the box open. ‘The best there is.’ He flicked open a tin of Spezzata and crammed two pieces into his mouth, chewing them noisily. ‘Want to try some?’ he mumbled, thrusting the tin at the courier, who waved them away with a muttered word of thanks. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but no one seems to stock it here. Lucky for me they do mail order.’
‘L
ucky for me too, Antonio,’ the courier replied. ‘Or I’d never have found you.’
His eyes widening as he realised his mistake, Santos immediately kicked the door shut and reached for his gun. But the man was too quick, stamping his foot in the jamb and then shouldering the door open, sending Santos reeling backwards. Swinging his gun out from behind him, Santos lined up a shot, but before he could pull the trigger a painful punch to the soft inside of his arm sent it rattling across the tiled floor, while a forearm smash to his neck sent him crashing to his knees. He made a choking noise, his hands wrapped around his throat, his breathing coming in short, animal gasps.
Quickly checking that no one had heard them, the man eased the front door shut and then dragged Santos by his feet towards the kitchen. Once there he cuffed him, and then attached his wrists to a steel cable that he looped over the security bars covering the window.
‘Wait. What’s your name?’ Santos croaked as he was forced to his feet.
‘Foster,’ the man replied as he tugged down hard on the cable, the metal fizzing noisily as it passed over the bars until Santos’s hands were stretched high above his head, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet to stop the cuffs biting into his wrists, his injured arm burning.
‘Please, Foster, I’ll pay you,’ he wheezed. ‘Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.’
‘You know how this works.’ The man eyed him dispassionately. ‘Once I’ve taken a job, there’s no backing out. It’s why people hire me. It’s why you hired me.’
‘I don’t even know you.’
‘Sure you do.’ Foster tied the cable to a radiator, twanging it to check that it was under tension. ‘Las Vegas? The Amalfi? That was you, wasn’t it?’
‘The Amalfi?’ Santos breathed, whatever colour he had left in his face draining away. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘There must be another way. Let me go. I’ll disappear. They’ll never know.’
The Geneva Deception Page 32
