Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘You’re paranoid. One last shot and we’re done, okay. And it’ll be your turn to buy the drinks tomorrow night.’

  Geppo was dismissive. ‘Sure. Beginner’s luck.’

  ‘I’m reading a book. It says nobody makes money working for other people. Look at Berlusconi.’

  ‘You want to be like him? I don’t. Kid, you have to have customers. And we don’t have any. Your business book got any answers for that?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far. You were the one who was mad when you found out that the top guy sold the prizes we dug up for a million dollars apiece.’

  ‘And I’m still mad.’ Geppo stopped mid-game and leaned on his pool cue. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going to run round trying to find who the top dog is. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘That’s easy. He’s a fancy art dealer with a gallery in Switzerland. His name was in the papers when he sold our stuff to that fancy museum in America.’

  ‘And you’re going to ring him up and tell him what, exactly?’

  ‘That we can save him thousands if we deal direct, but he has to pay us, say, 25% more. He’ll still be making on the deal.’

  ‘Well, son, let me know how you get on,’ Geppo said, laying his cue down, grabbing his jacket and making towards the door.

  ‘Tony made enough money off us to buy a beach house,’ Paolo called after him.

  As that sunk in, Geppo stopped and turned around to look at his nephew.

  ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,’ he said, as he closed the door behind him.

  Geneva, Switzerland

  * * *

  ‘Who is it, Maris?’ Robert Hurst called out.

  ‘Someone from Italy. Doesn’t speak English. Keeps repeating a name, Antonio Sanzio.’

  Robert Hurst got up from his chair as his wife held up the mobile phone and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Pronto? Sono Robert Hurst.’ There was a pause and what sounded like paper being shuffled.

  ‘We have items for sale we found for Tony. Only Tony’s dead, and we have nowhere to store them. If you want them, we can meet you.’

  How the fuck had they got his number? Why hadn’t Tony told him he had stuff on order?

  ‘Okay, I’ll try and sort this out,’ Hurst said. He heard an argument going on at the other end in the background as the phone was passed from one to another.

  ‘Try isn’t good enough. Tony owes us money. And we have to pay the guys who work for us,’ a younger-sounding man said.

  ‘You’ll get your money, I promise you. I just have to find a replacement for Tony,’ Hurst said. To his astonishment, he heard a laugh down the phone.

  ‘We don’t want a go-between. We want to deal direct.’

  Hurst could barely contain himself, but he held back. Now that Tony was dead, these lowlifes were the only ones who knew the exact location of the looting site. Until he’d been down there to see for himself, he had to humour them.

  ‘Okay, let me think about it and we’ll see if we can work something out,’ Hurst said, the words sounding as though he meant them.

  ‘You will?’

  Hurst couldn’t believe that the dumb fuck had fallen for it.

  ‘Of course. You have an eye for antiquities.’ Even a stupid person fell for flattery.

  ‘I do?’ The younger guy sounded surprised. There was whispering in the background and then arguing, as though the younger guy was describing what he’d just said.

  ‘I’m the management guy. My uncle’s the art expert.’

  ‘Put him back on again.’ He had these two clowns wrapped around his fingers. All he had to do was string them along.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone and an embarrassed laugh. He tried again.

  ‘Geppo Corri.’ And then another scuffle and a lot of whispering.

  ‘Holy crap, Uncle. Now he knows who we are.’

  ‘Be quiet Paolo. I can’t hear the gentleman.’

  ‘Signor Corri, thank you for all the treasures you’ve found.’

  ‘At least someone appreciates me.’

  There was more jostling and whispering. Hurst started to drum his fingers on a table. What were they doing now?

  The younger one came on the line. ‘We have two big ticket finds we’d like you to see,’ Paolo began.

  Hurst wasn’t going to get excited until he knew what they were. ‘Describe them to me.’

  ‘One is identical to that large pot with all the drawing on it. And the other is a large head. A man with curly hair and a curly beard.’ There was another Euphronios in that tomb and a warrior? He couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Send me photos and we’ll talk.’

  ‘Sending them now,’ Paolo said, texting the photos.

  ‘I’d have to see them of course. The head is intact and the krater is in three pieces. Is that right?’

  ‘Correct and we want 20,000 euros for both. The same amount that you paid Tony.’

  ’10,000 for both and it’s a deal,’ Hurst said.

  ’Fifteen.’

  ’12,500 is my final offer.’

  ‘Done. Cash on the day,’ Paolo said.

  ‘Be careful how you wrap them,’ Hurst said.

  ‘You’d better be careful how you transport them,’ came the facetious reply. ‘You break it. You buy it.’

  Hurst counted to ten in his head to stop himself saying anything he’d regret.

  ‘I’ll travel to you. I’ll meet you outside Naples Central Station. Just name the date and time.’

  Chapter 15

  Stephen had been up late going through Ginny’s work emails including a long email chain that discussed items offered for auction by Robert Hurst, aka Tie Pin Man. He insisted on addressing Ginny as Darling. She must have loved that. When he wrote to her boss he was passive-aggressive. When he wrote to Ginny, he was boastful. He painted himself as someone of global standing.

  Stephen felt sorry for anyone who had to plough through his pompous emails. They were full of obtuse references and jargon and he had a habit of giving nicknames instead of an official title, to the pieces he was trying to sell. It had to be deliberate. He must have learned his lesson from his run-in with the law back in 2000.

  At 1.00 a.m. Stephen got a text from Renzo in Naples:

  Corri rang a Robert Hurst. Offered him artefacts. They’re meeting near the railway station in Naples at 4.00 p.m. the day after tomorrow.

  So Hurst was meeting two small-time crooks? Whatever they had for sale must have been of sufficient interest to warrant Hurst travelling from, where did he live, Switzerland, to Naples. Judging by the boastful name-dropping in Ginny’s emails, he wasn’t in the habit of mixing with types like Corri and his nephew.

  Stephen took Sanzio’s list of names and started to draw a mind map. He put the Fixer (Tony and beside that, deceased - vacancy) in the middle. And from that central point he drew an arrow down and scribbled Nighthawks (Geppo Corri and nephew). As far as he knew, there was still no sign of Sanzio’s replacement. Sanzio had been able to chivvy the lowly nighthawks into doing his bidding and yet was able to command the respect of the kingpin at the top. Was that Hurst?

  Tony had a sense of the bigger picture—he’d written this list in the first place. Maybe he’d done it to get more money out of his paymasters? Without him, the set-up was in danger of falling apart. And now Hurst was forced to deal with the tomb raiders himself.

  What if Tony had got too big for his boots and someone higher up decided he needed to be taught a lesson. Then, in the act of giving Sanzio a warning by arranging for his car to be side-swiped on the motorway, the driver in the white Fiat had hit him too hard and given Sanzio such a fright it had resulted in the fatal crash?

  Stephen didn’t dispute that Sanzio was obese and had eaten a heavy lunch, nor that the cause of death had been a heart attack—but fatalities were rarely caused by one thing and were more often the result of a chain of unfortunate events.

  One
role in Sanzio’s list that he hadn’t yet been able to connect with the looting chain was the Sales Rep. In the snooty end of the art world, which Ginny inhabited, the word “sales,”was replaced by the word “auction.” And what were auction houses but fancy shopfronts where millions changed hands and it was all about money. Ginny had said her boss had put her name forward for her new job. What, Stephen wondered, did he want as payback? A friendly face in a major gallery with a massive acquisitions budget would grease the wheels, ensure there was a market for precious artworks.

  If Stephen had played by the rules this would have been the perfect opportunity to recruit Ginny to help them bring down Hurst. But he’d well and truly blown it. It was bad enough that he got hold of the Hurst emails by illegal phone-hacking but to use his fiancée to do so was indefensible. Imagine if the press got hold of that information—he’d not only be vilified as a love rat but out of a job, if Elisabetta had anything to do with it.

  And what if Ginny refused to help? She could argue the cost was too high—she’d be sacrificing her career to help bring down one of her former clients. And for what? Art looting was a victimless crime. Nobody was going to die from it. What scared him most was that Ginny herself might be a cog in the looting chain.

  Stephen glanced at his watch. Another late night. He turned off his light and dreamt that Ginny and Elisabetta had found out about the stolen data. Ginny hadn’t said anything: just shaken her head sorrowfully and walked out of his life forever. Elisabetta had him forcibly removed from work by security, where he’d literally been thrown out into the street. He woke up with a start at the persistent sound of the alarm.

  ‘Renzo messaged me. Corri’s meeting Robert Hurst in Naples tomorrow afternoon. I’ll go down in the morning,’ Stephen said.

  Elisabetta looked up, surprised.

  ‘I’ve left three messages for him and not had a reply to one. When you see him, ask him to return my calls.’ Elisabetta seemed out of sorts.

  ‘I will.’ He deliberated whether or not to ask her what was up. But he needed her advice on what to do about Hurst first.

  ‘If we see Hurst receive stolen goods, do we arrest him and Corri on the spot?’

  ‘We need more evidence than one pot and a head. He could say it was a one-off when we’re trying to prove that he’s looting to order,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Get photos and follow Hurst.’

  ‘Okay, will do. What’s the score with Renzo?’

  ‘I wish I knew. Why don’t you go down this evening and meet up with him. Take him out for a drink.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘How do you feel he’s fitting in?’

  He was going to have to be careful how he answered this one.

  ‘I think he’s finding that we do things very differently up here.’

  ‘That’s the diplomatic answer. I get the feeling he had more autonomy down there.’ Elisabetta said.

  Stephen wasn’t about to defend the guy and he wasn’t going to make assumptions either. But he didn’t say that to her.

  She pushed on. ‘I blame Alberti. He was the one who gave Renzo the choice to split his time between here and Naples.’

  ‘I guess it’s because his family is still there.’

  ‘I don’t want to come across as mean about his home life, and we do need him down there now and again, but I can’t help feeling he’s using it to his advantage.’

  ‘Anything else I should know first?’

  ‘Before he applied for the job he cultivated me. And it was only after he got it, I realised I’d been used,’ Elisabetta said.

  Stephen remembered that conversation he’d had with Vittorio when they’d first started working together in Naples. Vittorio couldn’t wait for Renzo to leave so he’d be someone else’s problem. He decided not to mention that to Elisabetta.

  At Renzo’s suggestion they had met in a bar-restaurant, tucked away in the back streets at the smarter end of town, near to Stephen’s hotel.

  ‘How are things?’ Stephen asked.

  Renzo looked at him.

  ‘So so.’

  Seeing an opportunity, Stephen waved to the barman.

  ‘Another two beers, please.’

  ‘I’m feeling the same way,’ Stephen offered.

  ‘You too? But you’re not even married.’

  ‘You didn’t hear?’

  ’Nobody tells me anything,’ Renzo said.

  ‘I’m going to regret this,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Try me. Let’s order some food when the waiter comes over.’

  ‘Sure. I was getting married this summer until this job came up. And my girlfriend came to stay a couple of days ago and told me the wedding’s off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And, oh, by the way, don’t think about getting back together as she’s been head-hunted for a job in America and she’s moving to Denver.’

  ‘That’s pretty bad.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘It’s going to come across as the biggest cliché in the world. My wife and kid left me.’

  Stephen tried to keep a straight face, but because he’d been drinking, he couldn’t help but agree. ‘It does sound like a bit of a sob story.’

  Just then the waiter came over with more drinks. ‘You need the menu?’

  Renzo shook his head and turned to Stephen.

  ‘They do a great spaghetti vongole.’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘Make that two.’ As the waiter left, Renzo pulled out a photo of his baby daughter. ‘That’s Ava. Giulia’s taken her away to go and live with her parents.’

  Stephen felt bad. There was a kid involved. It wasn’t something to joke about. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy.

  Because he was drinking on an empty stomach and hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he’d blurted out ‘That’s bad. But you can put things right can’t you?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Renzo said.

  ‘There’s no turning back with what I’ve done,’ Stephen said.

  ‘What did you do that was so bad?’

  ‘Ginny’s job was always going to get in the way. I warned my boss that she works for a major auction house. They're big in antiquities.’

  ‘Awkward,’ Renzo said.

  ‘Really. And I just can’t let it go that she might be implicated in looting.’

  ‘What makes you sure?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Or I wasn’t.’ Stephen lowered his voice. ‘Until I hacked her phone.’

  ‘You did?’

  Just then the waiter came over with two bowls of steaming clams over spaghetti. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until the wafts of garlic butter reminded him. They fell upon their food.

  ‘It was a heat of the moment thing. She was in the shower and a text came through about work. I just couldn’t resist looking at it.’ Stephen paused. ‘We might not even see each other again. I didn’t have anything to lose. Or so I thought. Apart from the fact that I don’t have the guts to tell her what I did. If anyone finds out that evidence in the case came from my girlfriend’s phone, I'll be on the first plane out.’

  ‘Yeah you would.’ It was Renzo’s turn to laugh. ‘And I thought you were Mr Nice Guy, too good to be true.’

  ‘Let’s forget we ever had this conversation,’ Stephen said.

  Renzo nodded, twirling spaghetti round his fork.

  ‘Now that you know my situation, you couldn’t lend me 400 euros could you, just until payday? It’s so expensive running two households.’

  What an opportunist.

  Given all that Stephen had revealed, he could hardly say no, could he? Renzo definitely had the upper hand. Well it was too late now. He’d taken him into his confidence.

  Franco had dimmed the lights in his studio so that the room was lit solely by an ultraviolet glow, as he moved his torch slowly over every inch of the painting of St Jerome.

  ‘See the way the colour changes? If I shine the light here, on the subject, it’s red, but when I move it
here to the landscape, the rocks appear almost yellow.’

  McCarthy peered closely. The conservator was right.

  ‘And if you look where the lion is lifting his paw, you can see that the surface is uneven where the artist has been inconsistent with the layers of paint.’

  ‘Why would that be?’ McCarthy asked.

  ‘That could be down to the technique, the type of paint used, or it could indicate that the canvas had been used before. I don’t know until I have it x-rayed. Do you want me to go ahead? There will be a charge to have the equipment sent over,’ Franco said.

  McCarthy felt a mixture of excitement and fear that there could be another painting underneath St Jerome. He had enough money saved.

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  Stephen and Renzo watched as Corri and Paolo drew up in their van and parked illegally. Paolo, hands pushed deep into his pockets, seemed to have lost his swagger as he and Corri walked into Caffe Mexico on Piazza Garibaldi. It was one of a half dozen or so cafes in the piazza. Stephen and Renzo slipped into the one next door.

  ‘When did you get hold of his phone?’ Stephen asked, as Renzo passed him an earpiece that he put in his left ear. Renzo had the other earpiece in his right ear and tapped the table, pretending to drum along to music.

  ‘I know the barman where he plays pool most nights with that idiot nephew. Corri has a habit of abandoning his phone on the table when he goes for a slash.’

  Corri and Paolo took it in turns to speak. They heard a third, deeper voice.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the man said.

  Renzo whispered to Stephen, ‘he’s speaking Italian with a strong American accent.’

  ‘We need a visual on him,’ Stephen said. ‘He’s going to look a little different now to the police mugshot from 2000.’

  ‘I’ll go and buy cigarettes,’ Renzo said, getting out of his seat, pulling up his hoodie over his head and walking out. Stephen watched him as he walked past the café window. Five minutes later, Renzo slipped back into the seat next to Stephen and showed him a blurry photo of Corri and Paolo with a well-preserved immaculately-dressed man in his eighties, who even seated had a straight up and down posture and appeared intimidating.