Midnight Angels (38 page)

“You might have been killed,” she said, her voice cracking from strain.

“I did my best to avoid that,” he said. “But would you have missed me?”

Kate nodded, reached up and held his hand close to her face. “They told me the woman who saved me is going to be fine, but she’ll be in the hospital for a few days.”

“I guess it helps to have God on your side,” Rumore said.

“How’s Marco doing?” Kate asked.

“He’s in a police car on his way to the hospital,” Rumore said. “He’ll probably get there before you do. He was positioned a few miles from here, on the other side of the Arno and heard it all on the police radio. But they’re ready to take you now,
mia cara
. I’ll come and see you soon.”

“They’ll only keep me there for a few hours,” Kate said, “and then send me home.”

“Not to worry,” Rumore said, smiling. “I’ll find you.”

“And can you not crash into me when you do?” she said.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

Rumore nodded at the two ambulance attendants standing nearby, watched as her gurney was lifted into the rear, and gave her a final wave as the doors closed. Then he turned to a uniformed officer standing off to his left.

“I think I’m going to need another car,” he told him, the remains of his unmarked sedan still smoldering in the warm air behind them, the body and tires punctured with bullet holes.

CHAPTER
15

T
HE FAMED PIAZZA SANTA MARIA NOVELLA WAS NEARLY BARREN. IT
was closing in on three in the morning, and most of the residents of the square were hours away from greeting a new day. The massive train station that stood behind the church in the center of the piazza was also still, an occasional train chugging into a rail stall, either from a distant city or in need of repair or fuel. There was a chill in the air and a thin layer of fog shrouded the piazza that through the centuries had been a home to scholars, painters, and poets, among them Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Henry James, and James Fenimore Cooper. The Italian storyteller Boccaccio set the opening of his most famous work,
Decameron
, in the church, while the frescoes of both Filippino Lippi and Ghirlandaio graced its interior walls.

The piazza was the gateway to Florence, a resting stop for nobleman and peasant, tourist and resident, an irregularly shaped square dominated by two stone obelisks that rested on the backs of savage-looking bronze turtles. It was in the piazza that the Medici dukes first introduced chariot races to the city in the sixteenth century, and it was there, along the stone walkway, that couples met, lovers parted, friends got reacquainted, and families reunited. And it would be here that two lifelong enemies would arrive in order to bring their blood feud to its violent conclusion.

The Raven was the first to step out of the shadows of the imposing church, walking slowly, hands by his sides, heading toward the center of the square. “Do you know that of all the famous and infamous people who have stayed in this square, it was only William Dean Howells who
truly grasped its beauty,” he said. “The rest of them, even those who called Florence their home, never saw it for what it was.”

“That’s because you have to seek out the beauty,” Edwards said, sitting on a folding chair he had found resting against a wall of a shuttered café. “It doesn’t overwhelm, like Santa Croce. You need to take time to absorb what’s here, and not many are willing to do that.”

“That’s part of what made you and me stand apart, Richard,” the Raven said. “We were always willing to seek out the beauty, regardless of time and cost, knowing that if we did indeed find it, we would be rewarded.”

“But we did choose separate paths to get there,” Edwards said, “and we always had different motives.”

“The end result was the same, however,” the Raven said. “We both became wealthy and powerful men, in debt to no one other than ourselves. And, yet, here we stand, in the middle of one of the grandest piazzas in all of Florence, one of us destined to die at the hand of the other.”

“And of course it’s impossible to run from one’s destiny,” Edwards said.

“We can, Richard,” the Raven said, “you and I. All we need to do is unite and we can be as we once thought we would be—partners in the pursuit of lost treasures.”

Edwards stood and walked closer toward the Raven. “The possibility of such a thing has long since passed,” he said. “I would not be able to bend to your rules any more than you could bend to mine.”

“Is it merely that?” the Raven asked. “Or is there more to your dismissal of me than the fact that I sell my discoveries for the highest sum? Is there something else?”

“You tell me, David,” Edwards said. “You always were the one with the answers.”

“I think it all has to do with Andrea,” the Raven said. “I think it is the simple fact that she chose to rush into my arms, not yours, which has burned inside your soul all this time. I’m not the only art hunter with whom you have competed over the years, but I am the only one you seek to destroy.”

“I loved Andrea, more than I’ve allowed even myself to admit,” Edwards said. “But I wasn’t blind to what she had with Frank. I never would
have done anything that had the potential to hurt them. And, even if I were so inclined, such feelings ended as soon as Kate was born.”

“So you chose to relinquish the woman you loved for the man you believed she loved,” the Raven said. “I always thought you were a romantic, but I never realized the extent of your foolishness. And as for your beloved Kate—well, she could just as easily have been your child as she was Frank’s or possibly mine.”

“Yet despite the very real possibility that Kate could be your daughter,” said Edwards, his tone suddenly hardened, “you would kill her to get your hands on the Midnight Angels.”

“I’m as sentimental as the next guy, Professor,” the Raven said. “But I would kill
anyone
to get to the Midnight Angels.”

“Then look no further, old friend,” Edwards said. “I’m the one you want. I have them, and if you want them, it is me you need to kill.”

The first bullet landed against pavement, and the second chipped a side of a stone wall. Both shots came from up high but from different directions. Edwards sprang from his chair and took cover in a narrow alleyway between the church and a small apartment building. He pulled a gun from his waistband and scanned the piazza, looking for the Raven, now hidden behind a clump of trees on the side nearest the train station.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the Raven shouted across the square, “but I brought along some friends.”

Three more shots rang out, one shattering glass, the other two lodging into the side of the apartment building. Edwards leaned against the soot-stained bricks and took a deep breath.

“A final act between two old friends,” the Raven said. “It doesn’t get more dramatic than that.”

Edwards moved from the wall, scanned the rooftops and aimed his gun in the Raven’s direction. He fired off two quick rounds, then ran out of the alley and to his left, hugging the sides of the buildings as he sprinted toward the corner, the ping of bullets landing against stone, both at his feet and above his head. He turned the corner and raced out of the piazza, running full tilt through the dark and empty streets of Florence, the Raven and his men in pursuit, covering both ground and rooftops.

Edwards cut through side streets, moving fast, running low and steady as he made his way toward the Ponte Vecchio, the silence of the night broken only by the sounds of his footsteps across cobblestones and the drone
of an occasional passing scooter. Few cities slept as soundly as did Florence.

Edwards was not fooled at all by the quiet that seemed to engulf him. He knew he was being followed, and wanted to bring the fight to higher ground and more open terrain. He needed to lure the Raven to the fight, knowing well his history of steering clear of head-on confrontations, allowing his minions to handle the dirty deeds he often required. As he raced through the streets, the stones slippery and moist with dew, he recalled many other races through cities across the globe, times when he was either the hunter or prey, all in the name of the Vittoria Society.

He had done his best to keep Andrea and Frank Westcott’s dream a reality. He did his best to maintain the integrity of the Society, but was also enough of a realist to know that its goals could often only be achieved through the cost of a life.

He had few regrets—not for making the sacrifices required to prepare Kate to replace him at the helm, and not for any of the actions that allowed the Society to achieve its exalted status in the art world. After this day it might all change, and he knew that if his run was indeed coming to an end, he could not have envisioned a more fitting conclusion than to leave the Society one of the rarest finds ever uncovered in the art world—Michelangelo’s Midnight Angels.

Edwards came to a full stop and looked around the quiet streets.

The sky overhead was crammed with stars, and the roar of the Arno could he heard in the distance. The Angels were in a secure location, and on the rooftops above him and across the alleyways that surrounded him members of the Society were taking their positions, preparing to do battle with the Raven and his Immortals, each soldier awaiting his signal. In a matter of moments the peace of the night would be broken and the city of Florence would turn into one large battleground, where blood would flow and bodies would fall, all in the name of art.

Edwards reached into the side pocket of his jacket, pulled out a flare gun and aimed it toward the star-lit sky. He fired off one round, watching the flare zoom straight up, waited for the quick pop and the flash and then tossed the gun into a trash can on the corner. He ran up a narrow street, opened the door to a small private home, and disappeared inside.

CHAPTER
16

R
UMORE REACHED INTO A SMALL WICKER BASKET, GRABBED THE
half loaf of fresh Italian bread and ripped off a thick slice. He rested it against the small plate by his left elbow and nodded.

“It’s not the Angels I’m after at the moment,” he said. “It’s the Raven I want. If I capture him, he might lead me to them or he might lead me to dozens of other stolen works. My job is to retrieve lost and stolen art, and the best way I know to do that is to arrest the best art thieves in the world. Right now, he’s the one I want.”

He was sitting in the rear garden of Trattoria Pandemonio, a restaurant as popular with the locals as it was with tourists, thanks to a first-rate menu and wine list, a stress-free ambience, and Mama, a petite and engaging dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who treated every customer like a long-lost relative. Her warmth and energy filled the restaurant and made it a home to all who frequented it. It was a favorite place of Kate and Marco’s, and to their surprise, they soon discovered it was also a favorite of Rumore’s.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Marco asked. He was sitting next to Kate and across from Rumore, his right hand in a small cast covering his broken fingers.

Rumore dipped the slice of Italian bread in an olive paste spread across the small plate and shrugged. “If I took the time to count, my guess is the two of you, either together or separately, have broken at least half a dozen laws just in the time I’ve known you,” he said, looking from one to the other. “If I wanted to, I could easily have you locked away for as long as I’m in town, and for even longer than that. But you’re not behind bars.
You’re sitting here, across from me, waiting for Mama to bring you a plate of pasta with artichokes and tomatoes. Does that answer your question?”

“You know how the Society functions?” Kate asked. “I would imagine this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed the same paths the group has, looking to land the same lost or missing work.”

Rumore shook his head and took a bite of the bread. “No,” he said. “I’ve worked with them before and found them to be a big help in securing the work. It doesn’t mean I approve of the methods they employ. But we do share similar goals—to return the art to whomever it was intended.”

“Then there’s no problem,” Kate said, smiling. “You collect the Raven and we take the Angels. You get what you want and we get what we need.”

“I don’t have that kind of authority,” Rumore said. “I can’t simply allow this work to slip from my grasp. This isn’t some marble bust of a Roman emperor no one remembers. This is Michelangelo, and to find a work of his, dating back to his own time, will be a discovery that will get the full attention of practically anyone with the slightest connection to the art world. This is not an ordinary find, Kate. This may well be the biggest find ever. It will need to be protected, and not even the Society with all of its resources is up to that task.”

“But you think the Rome Art Squad would be?” Marco asked, not meaning his question to come off as sarcastic as it did.

“You think they hand us a museum pass and send us on our way?” Rumore said, doing little to hide both his anger and his impatience. “There isn’t anyone in the world better at this job than we are, and right now I’m exactly what the two of you need and who you need to trust.”

“Then we work together,” Kate said. “I move ahead with my plan and you move on with yours, but we’ll function as a team. You’re right about one thing—we might be able to take the Raven’s group on our own. The Society has more members and can be just as lethal when confronted. But there are a lot of hunters in the city not affiliated with either organization. Some of them might just back away if they heard the Rome Art Squad was also on the scene.”

Mama came up to the table, holding three warm platters filled with pasta smothered in a thick artichoke and tomato sauce. She placed a dish in front of each of them and smiled. “You all look so serious,” she said.
“You eat now and don’t worry. The problems will all still be there when you’re finished.”