Midnight Angels (24 page)

Saltieri pulled a Lord cigarette from the pack, jammed it into a corner of his mouth and lit it with a butane lighter he kept by the side of his phone. He took a long, slow drag and leaned back in his chair. “The works were hidden long before I stepped into this job,” he said. “All I did was simply follow the dictates left to me by the gentleman who preceded me.”

“Save the Good German bit,” Clare said. “What’s down there?”

“Have you ever heard mention of the Midnight Angels?” Saltieri asked.

“Sure,” Clare said. “That rumor has been around since my father’s time, even well before. There have been lots of stories about them, but far as I can tell, not by anyone who has ever seen them. It sounded like more myth than reality.”

“They were commissioned by a secret benefactor of Michelangelo’s shortly after he completed work on the David, which would have made him about twenty-seven years old at the time,” Saltieri said. “The benefactor, long rumored to have been a member of the Medici inner circle, wanted a work that would serve as a masterful follow-up to the piece that had rapidly given rise to Michelangelo’s legend. The seven Archangels, the guardians of the very gates themselves, chiseled in perfect form, was that follow-up work.”

“Which Michelangelo either never completed or didn’t even bother to start,” she said. “At least, that’s the extent of the stories I’ve heard.”

“Only partly true,” Saltieri said. “He never managed to complete the work, or at least no one so far has been able to prove that he did. But he
did indeed begin it, working on it either full- or part-time for close to two years.”

“How far did he get?”

“He completed three of the Angels, as far as anyone has been able to determine,” Saltieri said. “Through the years, there has been a great deal of gossip in the art world, especially among the high-end collectors, that a fourth Angel does exist, but up to now there have never been any actual sightings. And if a work can’t be seen, how then can it be thought to exist?”

“But you know three of the Midnight Angels exist?” Clare asked.

“And they are exactly as they were intended to be,” Saltieri said, “a true example of a genius at work.”

“How long have they been kept in the corridor?”

“From what I can gather, roughly fifteen, perhaps as many as twenty years,” Saltieri said. “Prior to that, they had been hidden in Rome, in the basement of a private gallery near the Vatican. Before then, I don’t know where they were kept, but I can imagine they were moved quite frequently.”

“Is there a reason they were never made public?” Clare asked.

“Sometimes myth is of greater value to sustaining a legend than reality,” Saltieri said. “The mere thought that such a work as the Midnight Angels might exist gave an added dimension to Michelangelo’s already immense legacy. In many ways, keeping them out of the public eye further fueled the impression that they were not only real, but that they were his most inspired work.”

“How much do you figure them to be worth?” she asked.

“If they were to be placed at auction, I would estimate they would fetch anywhere from $100 to $150 million each,” he said. “On the open market, the price could very well triple, especially now with both the Russians and an array of terrorist groups eager to invest heavily in art.”

“How much of that would find its way into your pockets?” Clare asked, knowing the intent of the question would sting.

“I think you’ve taken up enough of my time,” Saltieri said, glaring across the desk. “Now, unless you have anything of consequence to add, I suggest we end our day as it began—as friends.”

“I do have one more question,” Clare said.

“Then ask it,” he said.

“When was the last time you personally saw the Midnight Angels?”

“I’m not at liberty to give out information of that nature,” Saltieri said. “That is Uffizi business as well as
my
business, and that’s where it will stay.”

“Fair enough,” Clare said, standing and tossing the strands of a Prada bag over her right shoulder. “I need to get going, anyway. You were just my first stop. And I’ll do my best to keep a lid on what was said between us.”

Saltieri stood and walked around his desk, stepping onto the thick Oriental rug that lined the center of his office, and over toward Clare. “You never did say why you were in Florence,” he said, gently placing a hand on the small of her back.

“That’s because you never did ask,” she said.

“I’m asking now.”

“I’m working on a fresh case,” Clare said.

“If I can be of any assistance, you know I’ll be there for you if it’s at all possible,” Saltieri said. “Even though I must confess to complete ignorance. I haven’t heard word one on a lift of any kind from any of the high-end museums, and that is the sort of information that usually finds its way to my desk quickly.”

“It’s a newborn,” Clare said. “Not even the police are aware of it, so far as I can tell.”

“So then, you came to see me on background?” he asked. “I wish you had made mention of that from the start. I wouldn’t have been as resistant as I might have appeared.”

Clare reached for the handle of the thick wooden door leading out into the foyer. “I would hardly consider you background,” she said. “Not on this case.”

Saltieri stiffened but held onto his calm demeanor. “Which makes me what, then?” he asked.

“You’re either one of the primaries,” Clare said, “or one of the targets.”

The color drained from his face and the thin edges of his lower lip began to twitch. “The Midnight Angels?” he asked. “If that’s what you’re implying, you are way off base. It just isn’t possible.”

“They’re in the wind,” Clare said. “You don’t need to believe me, you can check for yourself. Now, even though I have my doubts that you know
much about what went down, there are going to be quite a few people looking in your direction. I can give some cover, if you think you’ll need it. But I’m not in the business of giving away any help for free.”

“How long can this be kept quiet?” Saltieri asked.

“Twenty-four hours more,” she said. “Forty-eight if you’re lucky.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Take me to where the Midnight Angels were kept,” she said. “I would like a look at the crime scene before the police do.”

“And can I expect coverage from you in return?” Saltieri asked.

“Anyone can give you coverage,” Clare said. “I’ll go a big step further, but only if you help me. And only me.”

“What’s your offer?”

“I’ll keep you alive,” Clare said.

She turned away from Saltieri and walked into the foyer, the click of her pumps echoing across the marble floor as she made her way toward the back stairwell and out of the Uffizi.

CHAPTER
30

E
DWARDS SIPPED A GLASS OF PINOT GRIGIO AND WATCHED AS A
trio of men in fishing outfits, ski hats, and thick rubber gloves lumbered through the front doors of the otherwise elegant restaurant, pushing three large hand trucks filled with the day’s fresh catch. He was sitting alone in a corner table set for three, a large basket filled with bread sticks resting alongside a flower arrangement and a burning candle. He looked out across the expansive dining area, crowded with a comfortable mix of quiet couples and groups of friends. Edwards always looked forward to dinner at Fuor d’acqua, not only because it served the freshest and best fish in the city, but because it catered mostly to locals. He also found the locale, in the middle of Via Pisana in the oldest part of the city, to be a place that gave him room to breathe, allow him his quiet space and clear his mind while he feasted.

Edwards had been in Florence for only a few hours and already was feeling the burden of this latest mission. In the four-day span since Kate and Marco moved the Midnight Angels from their long-hidden crib, two men had been killed, a dozen new recruits were flown in by the Raven’s crew, and he’d put in a request to Russell by way of Rita to double the presence of the Society within the city limits. And this was on top of the small army of freelance art hunters and thieves who regularly set foot in Florence hoping to latch onto a hot property. He also knew the temperature would rise the moment the police working the cases discovered links between the two dead men—and they would completely boil over when the museum finally decided to report the theft.

He was weary, and the battle had yet to begin.

This sensation of dread mixed uneasily with the need to step back and carefully weigh each move. He usually enjoyed the challenge that came with each new discovery—forced to outfight and outwit his opponents, get to the intended target before the police and the hunters, clear the work out of the danger zone and find it its proper home, and make every decision while on the run. He had thrived under the adrenaline rush such assignments produced. But such was not the case with the Midnight Angels, and he imagined it was due to the fact that for the first time since he became head of the Vittoria Society, Kate was now at the center of the hunt.

He had always known that this moment would arrive, just never anticipated it would be for such a rare find and under such violent circumstances. He was also aware, perhaps more than any other member of the Society, that the implications of such a discovery—assuming it became public—would be both a good thing and a bad thing for himself, the organization, and Kate. It would bring media and law enforcement scrutiny, a harsh exposure of the manner in which their business was conducted. And that was something he wanted to avoid at all cost.

“I took the liberty of ordering for both of us,” the Raven said, standing in front of the table, his hands at rest on the back of the chair opposite Edwards. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Not at all,” Edwards said, watching as he pulled out the chair and sat down. “It’s been a long time. And, if my memory is on the mark, the food we ate back then would not be found on any high-end restaurant’s menu.”

“We shared a brisket of beef on a hard roll,” the Raven said. “We were huddled in the front seat of a Ford, parked across the way from the Museum of Natural History, shivering in the cold, waiting for Frank and Andrea to complete another of their escapades.”

Edwards nodded and watched as a young waiter poured white wine into a perfectly chilled glass and set it before the Raven. “I never regret a moment of those early days spent in your company, David,” he said. “It’s a shame that time didn’t last as long as we all thought it would.”

“It lasted as long as it was meant to, I suppose,” the Raven said.

“So what brings you to Florence this time?” Edwards asked, deciding to bring a quick end to the memory lane excursion.

“A rare find,” the Raven said. “Or, to be more precise, the rumor of
one. No doubt you’ve heard such talk yourself. Otherwise why leave the sanctity of the classroom? Unless, of course, you simply were craving a good meal.”

“I never put much weight in rumors, David,” Edwards said. “I find them to be a waste of time. I only allow facts to influence any decisions that need to be made. But once I’m convinced of the actual proof of a find, then I allow no one to stop me from bringing it in.”

“Well put,” the Raven said. “Spoken like a true disciple of the Westcott theory of lost and stolen art. And you’ve had many impressive victories down the years to illustrate your point. But with this one, I must warn you. This one will belong to me.”

“It’s not just the two of us this time,” Edwards said. “Not just the Society against the Immortals. There is someone else in the mix now and we both need to be careful.”

“Kate may be new to this,” the Raven said, “but she doesn’t seem slow to learn. Much quicker, I would wager, than the two dead men the local police are hoping will lead them to a few useful clues.”

“I knew that, sooner or later, you and I would need to finish this …
thing
between us,” Edwards said. “I think we both realize that with the discovery Kate has made, our moment has arrived. Only one of us can have it. But I need you to promise me that regardless of what happens between us, Kate won’t be harmed.”

“You were always the most dramatic of our little group,” the Raven said, dismissing the plea. “With what’s at stake, knowing all you know about me and what I have accomplished, why would you even entertain the thought that I would worry myself over her welfare?”

“You were in love with Kate’s mother,” Edwards said. “We all knew it.”

“People with little to do tend to talk,” the Raven said. “And we both know that no one has as much idle time as an academic.”

“It went beyond talk. I think Andrea was infatuated with you, at least for a while.”

“That was a very long time ago, Richard,” the Raven said. “I have done my best to dissolve my memories of that period of my life. And none of it—no matter if the gossip surrounding myself and Andrea was true or false—has anything to do with the situation facing us now. So if you are mentioning it in order to dredge up some, I don’t know,
nostalgia
, it’s all
for naught. I will do what I need to do to claim the Midnight Angels as my own.”

“For a man such as yourself, who claims to be an avid student of history, you can be a complete idiot,” Edwards said, his words weighed more with sadness than regret. “Especially when it comes to your own history.”

“If you want to know whether Andrea and I had an affair, all you need to do is ask me,” the Raven said. “At this point in our lives, there really is no reason to get cute with the facts.”

“I
know
you and Andrea had an affair,” Edwards said. “And as much as that troubles me, it has never changed my own feelings toward her.”

“How admirable of you.”

“What does concern me is Kate’s well-being. Right now, you are the biggest risk to that.”

“And you think whatever affections I may have had for Andrea can sway me to treat Kate differently from anyone else standing in my path?” the Raven asked. “If that’s the case, then you know nothing about me.”