Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  Stephen pulled out the police mugshot as well as a newspaper clipping of Hurst taken twenty years before and compared it with Renzo’s. ‘That’s the same man,’ Stephen said. Renzo nodded his head.

  ‘We need to get something straight. I’d be more than happy to work with you. But things have changed,’ Hurst said.

  ‘What circumstances?’ Paolo said.

  ‘This is what you came for, isn’t it?’ Then the sound of paper rustling.

  ‘Paying them off?’ Stephen mouthed. Renzo nodded.

  ‘It’s all there,’ Hurst said.

  ‘What do we do with all the stuff we found for you?’ Corri asked.

  ‘I’ve paid you for the head and the krater as agreed. But hold onto everything else. I’ll have the new Tony in place in a week. Maybe two. He’ll go through everything you have. Then work out a fair price.’

  ‘What’s changed?’ Paolo said.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that,’ Hurst said. Then there was the sound of a chair being pulled out.

  ‘What do we do now?’ said.

  ‘I’ll bring my vehicle round and we’ll make the exchange,’ Hurst said, ‘After that, gentlemen, please don’t contact me again. Have you got that?’ It sounded like a threat. ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ Hurst’s voice was more distant now, his footsteps fading.

  ‘Bastard,’ Paolo muttered.

  ‘What if they both drive off?’ Stephen said.

  ’Relax. They won’t. We’ve got eyes on the two nighthawks and Hurst is hardly going to leave without his trophies, is he?’ Renzo said.

  Just then, a black Range Rover swung around the corner and parked next to Geppo Corri’s van.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the same vehicle that hit me in Geneva.’

  ‘Deliberately?’ Renzo said.

  ‘It felt like it. Elisabetta passed it off as bad driving. We didn’t get a proper visual on the driver. But it was the same make and model and had those distinctive reflective plates.’

  Just then the boot of the Range Rover lifted up and Hurst wound down his window to say something to the waiting men.

  Renzo fired off a series of photos.

  Corri and Paolo opened the back doors of their van. Corri carried one box and placed it carefully in the boot of Hurst’s vehicle and went back to help Paolo, who was lifting something heavier in what appeared to be the packaging for a microwave.

  Hurst got out from the driver’s seat and came around to inspect the boxes before awkwardly shaking both men’s hands.

  Stephen and Renzo got up simultaneously and walked rapidly out of the coffee shop and into the street, Stephen talking into his walkie-talkie.

  ‘Black Range Rover. Reflective plates. Tail him,’ he said. As Hurst drove off a nondescript dark grey car pulled out after him.

  ‘We’ll follow you,’ Stephen said as he and Renzo walked down the street and got into their waiting vehicle.

  As they were driving along, the area became more exclusive.

  ‘Where are we?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Where the rich people live,’ Renzo said.

  Suddenly Hurst did a U-turn and headed straight for them.

  ‘Shit,’ he’s seen us,’ Stephen said, grabbing his radio. ‘Hurst on the move, where are you?’

  ‘I’m boxed in. A woman is dropping off her kids,’ came the reply from the uniform police officer.

  ‘We’re going to lose him,’ Stephen said. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  Renzo shook his head. ‘He outwitted us.’

  Franco peered out on to the street, looking left, then right before he ushered McCarthy inside.

  ‘You go ahead while I lock up.’

  McCarthy wondered what had happened since he’d last seen him. He seemed flustered. Had someone tried to break in?

  Franco pulled the door to the studio behind him and locked it. Once they’d settled themselves down in front of the painting, Franco turned to McCarthy. ‘There was one more sample I took. It’s a fragment of the background. Let me show you.’

  The conservator’s hands had always been small, but today they seemed tiny, McCarthy noticed, as he took out his finest scalpel and began to gently flick away the fragments of paint.

  ‘You can keep them for further analysis,’ Franco said, picking up the paint shavings with tweezers and popping them into a test tube which he carefully corked with a little rubber stopper. McCarthy got up and walked around the room. Franco had by now exposed a layer of paint the size of a euro cent. The paint underneath was in stark contrast to the layer on top—a lemon yellow that seemed to him to belong in an entirely different painting.

  ‘It’s been overpainted?’ McCarthy asked. The little man took off his round glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘And recently, too.’

  ‘St Jerome and the Lion is a fake?’ McCarthy said in astonishment.

  ‘Without a doubt. Rather a good one. The painter went to elaborate lengths to make it look like a Brunetti.’

  McCarthy recalled the casual way Giuseppe had talked about the painting and had stressed that it was unsigned and from an artist’s workshop without mentioning any particular artist.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ Franco asked. McCarthy nodded, trying outwardly to appear calm.

  ‘I’m going to turn the lights off now so that we can see from the light of the UV torch,’ Franco said. They were sitting in the dark, the only light the faint blue glow from the torch.

  Staring back at McCarthy was the faintest trace of another scene. It seemed to be an interior. A woman appeared to be sitting down in front of what looked like a writing desk. The newly exposed lemon paint seemed to come from her dress. Across from her, standing, was another woman, holding something in her hand, a letter, perhaps?

  But it was the black and white floor tiles that made McCarthy nearly leap out of his skin.

  He locked eyes with Franco, who started to twitch.

  ‘And you’re sure it isn’t a van Meegeren?’ McCarthy asked.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ Franco snapped back. ‘Van Meegeren may have fooled the Nazis, but they couldn’t do the pigment analysis we can today. The natural ultramine in the yellow-green area is made from lapis lazuli. He would have had to have been using the synthetic alternative: it’s been in use since the nineteenth century.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ Franco interrupted. ‘But it can’t stay here. I don’t want the responsibility,’ the old man began.

  ‘I understand. But I can’t take it like that with the piece missing,’ McCarthy said.

  ‘Leave it with me. Once I’m finished, nobody will know it’s anything but a Brunetti. I’ll call you as soon as it’s done. I didn’t sleep at all last night.’

  McCarthy felt the weight of responsibility hanging over him. Giuseppe had done this for a reason, McCarthy kept telling himself. He was using him as a conduit to make his peace with God. But just at that moment, McCarthy had unholy thoughts and wished, selfishly, that the patriarch had chosen another priest.

  All McCarthy wanted to do was to slip quietly away to Mexico. Now he was responsible for a painting by the master of domestic quiet. Any discovery of a Vermeer would have been rare enough: he had barely thirty-five known works attributed to him. But this one was famous for another reason.

  The Isabella Stewart Gardner had been the first museum McCarthy had taken Giuseppe for his art history lessons. They had walked past The Concert, he was certain, but Giuseppe hadn’t seemed that interested, preferring instead more dramatic pieces in the collection.

  Walking home, McCarthy recalled that Giuseppe seemed agitated in his last moments on earth.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he had said. McCarthy had tried to reassure him, encouraging him to do what he believed was true in his heart. When he had told the old man it wasn’t too late, he had been referring to confessing his sins. But Giuseppe in his morphine-induced fog had eithe
r misunderstood or was talking about something entirely different, unfinished business, perhaps. Then this: ‘It’s too late for me. They’re safe, I can assure you.’ McCarthy had thought at the time that the “they” he was referring to were loved ones, but what if it was in fact stolen paintings?

  Joe already had his suspicions about why his father had gifted the artwork to McCarthy. What if he put two and two together before McCarthy had the chance to go to the authorities? Now Franco’s life was in danger, and that was his fault too.

  In hindsight, what was McCarthy thinking? That by teaching Giuseppe to appreciate beautiful art that he’d stop the torture and murder? That he could make him a better human being? If religion couldn’t do that, then how could art? The problem wasn’t Giuseppe’s. It was his. Had his own love of art that transcended all else made him blind to the world around him?

  All that he’d done by instructing Giuseppe on the rich and powerful art patrons of the Renaissance was to make him envious. Giuseppe must have imagined himself as a modern-day Medici. He had money, he wielded power. What was missing was the art collection. If he couldn’t afford to buy it, or it belonged to someone else, or if it just wasn't for sale, he could simply go and steal it.

  For decades Giuseppe was the de facto leader of gangland Boston and nobody, not even the cops, could stop him. But as Giuseppe’s physical strength began to fade away, he realised that soon he would be facing his maker, and he’d had a change of heart. By entrusting McCarthy, one of God’s representatives on earth, with one of the stolen paintings, he hoped that McCarthy would do the job for him and go to the authorities. Giuseppe would be absolved of his sins and rest in peace.

  Why had it taken McCarthy so long to grasp this? His life had been so entwined with that of the patriarch’s that he had been blind to what Giuseppe was expecting him to do. But while McCarthy had followed his duty of care for the old man while he was still alive, all he wanted now was to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Russo family. It was time to pass the baton on.

  Chapter 16

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  Stephen tried to piece together the connections between Robert Hurst, the Vatican and Michael McCarthy. Hurst had acquired a krater on the Vatican’s behalf during McCarthy’s directorship. Had McCarthy been for or against the acquisition? Not long after the krater went on display, McCarthy was fired. Was it a coincidence or were the two events connected?

  Was Tony Sanzio aware of McCarthy? And could the priest be one of the nicknames in Sanzio’s notes?

  Stephen stopped to make himself a pot of espresso. Boston seemed to be where McCarthy had spent most of his career. Could there be something there? Was it worth combing through the parish records? There were 288 Catholic churches in Boston, but if he stuck to the Irish Catholic suburbs he’d have a better chance. Sure enough, by 9.00 p.m. he had a match in the parish of Allston.

  To get any decent intel required boots on the ground: going to mass, passing McCarthy’s photo around among elderly parishioners who might remember him from thirty years ago. There was no way he could justify to Elisabetta a fact-finding mission to the USA to investigate a priest who could have bought looted items in Italy. He’d have to think of another way.

  It was only when he had exhausted all his networks of former colleagues that it struck him. He might not have mates he could pull a favour from, but he did have a distant cousin on his mother’s side, Cormac Hannigan, who he’d last seen when he was a teenager, but who was now Lieutenant Detective in the Boston Police Department.

  Hannigan had been pleased to hear from him and assisted him in every way he could, but as McCarthy had a clean record there was nothing else he could do. Why didn’t Stephen come over for a weekend, he’d suggested. Hannigan was a season ticket holder for the Red Sox and the Patriots, and the Sox were playing this coming weekend.

  ‘That’s too good an offer to turn down.’ To hell with it, even if he didn’t find anything on McCarthy, he’d have a weekend away to remember.

  Hannigan laughed. ‘Don’t tell the rest of the clan, will you? Or they’ll all be expecting major league baseball tickets when they come to visit.’

  ‘You know, I was thinking when Ma finds out on the jungle telegraph that we’re meeting up, I’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘Great. Let me know when you get in. The game’s on Sunday.’

  So that was that, he was going. If anyone asked, it was a weekend break to meet up with long-lost family. And if anything came of his McCarthy investigation, he’d try and recoup some of the costs from work later.

  Just then his cover phone rang. ‘Stephen Walsh.’

  Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Michael McCarthy. I won’t keep you.’ He sounded agitated. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to get a quote for insuring my artworks after all. I plan to break up the collection. Some will go into storage, some will be donated.’

  There was none of McCarthy’s usual hail fellow well met banter: something, or someone had clearly rattled his cage. The chance to see McCarthy’s treasures on display was too great an offer to turn down.

  ‘I’d be delighted to help. When would suit?’

  ‘When can you get here?’

  If only he’d waited a few more minutes before committing himself to his trip. But it was too late now.

  ‘The earliest I can do is Monday afternoon, say around 2.00 p.m.?’

  ‘I’ll be here. I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘If I can get there any sooner, I’ll call you, I promise.’ He’d barely got the words out when McCarthy had hung up.

  Boston, USA

  * * *

  Stephen’s transit through Logan had been seamless and he was in a taxi forty-five minutes after the plane had arrived at the gate.

  It was dusk by the time he got into downtown. The hotel was a dark brownstone, an old flatiron building on Merrimac Street. From an angle it looked like a wedge of aged cheese. Dumping his stuff, he stashed his passport and valuables in the safe and headed downstairs to the bar. After a couple of beers and a bag of crisps, he was ready to hit the sack.

  He walked into the room, threw his things down and drew the curtains, before switching on the TV.

  Lieutenant Hannigan may not have been able to do anything to aid Stephen’s investigation in his official capacity, but Cormac Hannigan, regular mass-goer, turned out to be a mine of information. He’d confirmed that McCarthy’s old parish church was the one in Allston and prepared the ground with the story of a visiting relative from Ireland.

  Flicking between Rachel Maddow on MSNBC and Anderson Cooper on CNN, he felt the wave of jet lag overcome him, especially when the pharmaceutical ads came on. When the earnest voice-over artist listed the potential lethal side-effects from taking a heavily promoted drug for a condition he’d never heard of, but now worried that he had, it was time to hit the shower and head for bed.

  By nine the next morning he was on the Red Line subway train to Harvard Square. He walked down North Harvard Street across the Charles River. The corporate-style buildings of Harvard Business School gave way to a district noticeably shabbier, once he was away from the main thoroughfare. Two-storey clapboard houses seemed to have been divided into flats and many of the properties were separated by utilitarian chain-link fencing.

  He walked down Brentwood Street. It took him a while to realise that the building he’d passed by was in fact St Augustine’s. The honey-coloured stone made it look modern, but for America, it was probably old.

  As Stephen walked in, he glanced at the congregation. There were no more than a dozen parishioners on each side of the aisle. He sat down at the back so that he could observe the people there.

  As he’d entered the church, he’d noticed a stone plaque and a dedication. He went over to it to read the inscription, mainly to kill time until the priest appeared:

  St Augustine’s is deeply grateful to the Russo family for the restoration and upkeep
of this church.

  If anyone asked, he was trying to track down his uncle, Michael McCarthy, last heard of as the parish priest in Allston. They hadn’t heard from him in twenty years, and his sister was keen to get in touch.

  A woman with kind eyes approached him.

  ‘Is this your first visit?’ she asked.

  ‘It is, yes,’ Stephen whispered.

  ‘We’re serving tea and coffee after the service, if you’d like to join us.’

  Seeing this as his opportunity to quiz the parishioners about McCarthy, Stephen whispered his grateful thanks.

  The woman held out her hand, ‘Helen.’

  ‘Stephen,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll see you afterwards,’ Helen said, as the priest swept in and began his blessing to the faithful.

  Stephen looked around. From his vantage point at the last seat nearest the aisle, he had a clear view of the first few rows of the congregation. The front pew on the left caught his attention. He could see the backs of the heads of two burly men with military-style short hair. Between them was a willowy figure of a woman, dressed in black, her hair covered by a black veil. When the rest of the congregation knelt to pray, Stephen stayed seated. From his vantage point he got a clearer view of the trio at the front.

  As soon as the priest had concluded the service, first down the aisle was the ageing Jackie Kennedy lookalike, now with her veil lifted over her face, carrying herself with regal dignity. She was flanked on both sides by the two rent-a-thugs. She swept past in a cloud of designer perfume. She was frailer close-up and had thin arms and tiny wrists. Her fixed expression, staring straight ahead, seemed troubled.

  Once the entourage had passed through, Stephen joined the throng and shuffled out after them. Once outside, the woman put on enormous dark sunglasses and was escorted to a black Cadillac with tinted windows.