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.’
‘Lucky 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.’
‘I’ll know,’ the man replied. ‘And I can’t have your life on my conscience. Now, open wide.’
‘What?’
Santos gave a muffled shout as a grenade was forced into his mouth. The ribbed metal casing smashed two of his teeth as Foster wedged it between his jaws, making sure that the safety handle was at the back so that its sharp edges cut into the corners of Santos’s mouth like a horse bit. Santos began to gag on the oily metal, his eyes wide and terrified.
‘The person who sent me wanted you to know that he is a reasonable man. A civilised man. So, if you were to feel able to apologise…?’
Santos nodded furiously, the pain in his arms now making him feel faint.
‘Good!’ Foster reached forward, pulled the pin out and placed it on the counter. Then he took out a mobile phone, dialled a number and positioned it next to the pin. ‘He’s listening now—’ Foster nodded at the phone. ‘So when you’re ready, just spit the grenade out and say your piece. Just remember—you’ll need to speak quickly.’
‘Know thyself’
Inscription on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi
Tarrytown, New York
2nd May—4.03 p.m.
This was how everything had started.
A funeral. Black limos lining the road. A sea of unfamiliar faces. Secret service agents patrolling the grounds. Guests seated in a horseshoe. The coffin draped with the Stars and Stripes. The service droning towards its muted conclusion.
For a moment it seemed to Tom that time had stood still. That he must have imagined everything. That any moment now Jennifer would appear out of the rain and, silhouetted against the headlights of the car behind her, wave at him to run up and see her.
Except today there was no rain, clear blue skies and the crisp spring sunlight conspiring to lift the congregation’s sombre mood. Today there was no choreographed ceremony or martial display, the
service playing out with a discreet intimacy of its own invention. Today people were there not because of some misplaced sense of duty or to cut a deal, but out of love. And today, rather than be exiled to some sodden, wind swept slope, Tom was sitting amongst them.
Same start. Different ending.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Tom whispered to Archie as FBI Director Green stepped forward and handed Jennifer’s parents the neatly folded flag. Her father took it with a proud nod, clutching it to his chest, his left arm hugging her mother into his collar, her shoulders shaking. Next to them both, Jennifer’s sister and her boyfriend were clasping each other’s hands.
‘You know what? I’ll miss her,’ Archie sighed, medical gauze still taped to his left cheek. ‘Never thought I’d say that about an FBI agent, but I really will.’
‘I’m sure she would have said the same about you,’ Tom smiled.
‘How was Allegra when you saw her?’
‘Still angry.’
‘Do you think she’ll stick with it? With being a copper, I mean?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think she knows herself yet.’
The service ended and the congregation broke up. Some remained seated, alone with their thoughts; others lingered in small groups, swapping
memories or phone numbers as old acquaintances were renewed; a few paused at the grave’s edge, peering down at the earth-speckled coffin and maybe passing on a final thought.
Tom had a sudden urge to go and introduce himself to Jennifer’s parents, to share his memories of her and hear theirs, to let them know the part she’d played in his life and he in hers. But there seemed little point. They had no idea who he was. The truth was, he was as much a stranger here as he had been at his grandfather’s funeral.
‘Come on then. Let’s go.’
He got up and made eye contact with FBI Director Green on the other side of the coffin. He too was preparing to leave, it seemed, but the sight of Tom caused him to mutter some instructions to his security detail and then step towards him. Tom met him half-way.
‘Kirk.’
‘Mr Director.’
‘I thought you might like to know that Santos was killed yesterday. In Panama.’
Tom nodded slowly, a weight that he had scarcely been aware of slowly lifting from his shoulders.
‘How?’
‘Hard to tell really. There wasn’t much left of him. My people tell me a grenade.’
‘Dangerous things, grenades.’ Tom nodded. ‘What about the shooter? This isn’t over yet.’
‘We’re still working on it.’ Green shrugged. ‘As soon as we get a firm lead, I’ll let you know.’
‘And the ballistics results? I know someone who…’
‘We’ll find him. And when we do, I promise you that he’ll feel the full force of…’
‘Not if I get him first.’
‘Be careful, Kirk. I can’t protect you if you do something…’
‘Excuse me, but are you Tom Kirk?’ Jennifer’s father had appeared in front of them. A tall man, he was immaculately dressed in a pale grey suit and a black woven silk tie, his eyes sore, a slight tremor in his voice.
‘Yes, yes I am,’ Tom stammered, feeling both surprised and strangely awkward. ‘I’m so sorry...’
‘I think ...I think she would have wanted you to have this.’
Biting his lip to hold back his tears, he pressed the triangular shape of the folded flag into Tom’s uncertain hands and then, with a tight nod at Green, fell back to his sobbing wife’s side.
Tom and Green stood there silently, only a few feet apart, the material strangely warm against Tom’s chest. Green glanced around, as if to check that no one was watching, then thrust out his hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Tom hesitated for a few moments, then shook it.
The next instant he was gone, caught up in a
flurry of dark suits, Ray-Bans and clear plastic earpieces as he was bundled towards his car.
‘You think he let you escape from the FBI building on purpose?’ Archie murmured.
‘I think I did exactly what he’d hoped I would,’ said Tom. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
‘Mr Kirk? Mr Kirk?’
A voice called out as they turned to leave. Tom’s eyes narrowed, unable to place the man navigating his way through the crowd, although he recognised his jowly face and the metronomic sway of his gut from somewhere.
‘Larry Hewson, from Ogilvy, Myers and Gray,’ the man introduced himself enthusiastically.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’ Tom frowned.
‘We met at your grandfather’s funeral. I’m the Duval family…’
‘Attorney, yes,’ Tom suddenly remembered. ‘How did you…?’
‘Your associate was kind enough to suggest that I might find you here,’ Hewson explained.
Tom fixed Archie with a questioning stare.
‘My associate?’
‘He kept bloody calling.’ Archie shrugged. ‘I didn’t think he’d actually show up.’
‘There’s the small matter of your grandfather’s will,’ Hewson continued. ‘As I explained to you when we last met, he specified that I was to pass on to you something that your mother had given him shortly before her death.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘This time I’ve brought all the paperwork with me. If you wouldn’t mind just signing here—’ Hewson produced a sheet of paper and a pen and then held up his briefcase so that Tom could lean against it as he signed. ‘Excellent,’ he exclaimed, popping the briefcase’s brass catches and taking out a small wooden box and an envelope that he handed to Tom with a flourish. ‘Then I will be on my way.’
With a nod, he filed away the signed sheet of paper and strode off towards his waiting car, a phone snapping to his cheek.
‘What is it?’ Archie asked in a curious voice.
‘A letter from my mother,’ Tom replied, the sight of his name written in faded black ink strangely familiar from hoarded postcards.
The envelope opened easily, revealing a white card dated to the year before she’d died, across which she’d scribbled a brief message:
Darling Tom
One day, when you’re older, you might want some answers. And if you’re reading this, it probably means I’m not there to give them. So what’s inside this box might help. Whatever you find, don’t think too badly of me. I always loved you. I still do.
Love Mummy
Tom turned away from Archie, his eyes hot and stinging, his throat tightening, and opened the box.
All of a sudden, the events of the past few weeks came flooding back into sharp focus. De Luca’s strange familiarity on meeting him, Faulks’s openmouthed surprise at the mention of his name, Santos’s veiled questions.
Because inside, nestling on a black velvet background, was a watch.
A watch with an ivory face and an orange second hand.
The Nativity with St Francis and St Lawrence
(also known as
The Adoration
) was painted by the Italian master Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio in 1609 during his self-imposed exile from Rome after killing a man in a duel. The six square metre work was stolen from the Oratory of San Lorenzo in Palermo, Sicily on 16th October 1969. Working under the cover of darkness, the thieves cut the work from its frame with razor blades and escaped in a lorry. In 1996, Francesco Marino Mannoia, an informant and former member of the Sicilian mafia, claimed he had stolen the painting as a young man on the orders of a high-ranking mobster. Other sources, however, have pointed the finger at amateurs who acted after seeing a TV programme about the painting the previous week and then sold it on to the local Sicilian mafia when they realised that they couldn’t fence it. At one point it is said to have ended up in the
hands of Palermo boss Rosario Riccobono (throttled in 1982 at a barbecue lunch organised for that purpose by the Corleonesi family) before passing on to Gerlando ‘The Rug’ Alberti, commander of the Porta Nuova district in Palermo. Other rumours that the work was damaged in the theft or even destroyed in an earthquake in 1980 have also circulated from time to time, as have stories of supposed sightings abroad. Today, however, the
Nativity
remains one of the most famous unrecovered stolen paintings in the world. It is listed by the FBI as one of its top ten art crimes and they have estimated its value at $20 million, although the likely auction value is far, far greater.
Tomb-robbing has often been called the second oldest profession. Italy, with over forty UNESCO World Heritage sites, is a particular target, but it is a plague that increasingly affects other countries such as Peru, Guatemala, Mexico, China, Thailand, Turkey, Egypt and Greece, where poverty, poor security, the buried remains of a rich civilisation and seemingly insatiable demand from unscrupulous dealers and collectors have conspired to rapidly destroy thousands of years of our shared archaeological and historical heritage for profit. On 13th September 1995, Swiss police raided four bonded warehouses in the Geneva Free Port and seized a large number of illegally excavated antiquities. The premises were
registered to a Swiss company called Editions Services, which police later traced to Giacomo Medici, a man later described as ‘the realmastermind
of much of [Italy’s] illegal traffic in archaeological objects.’ According to the Carabinieri, the warehouses contained over ten thousand artefacts worth around $35 million at the time, including hundreds of pieces of ancient Greek, Roman, and Etruscan art and a set of Etruscan dinner plates alone worth $2 million. Accompanying these were files, binders and boxes containing sales records and correspondence between Medici and dealers and museums around the world, and thousands of photographs, some of which illustrated the journey of single pieces from the ground, to their restored state, to the display cabinets of some of the world’s largest museums. As a result of these findings, Medici was sentenced to ten years and fined ten million euro in 2004 for dealing in stolen ancient artefacts. Evidence from the Geneva raid was also used to bring charges against American antiquities dealer Robert Hecht, Jr. and former J. Paul Getty Museum curator of antiquities Marion True for conspiracy to traffic in illegal antiquities, with True claiming that she was being made to carry the burden for practices which were known, approved, and condoned by the Getty’s Board of Directors. Their trial continues. In September 2007, the Getty signed an agreement with the Italian culture ministry to return forty major
works of ancient art. Similarly in 2006, the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art agreed to give legal ownership of the famous Euphronios krater (sold to it by Robert Hecht in 1972) back to the Italian government. The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and the Princeton University Art Museum have also returned items. Since the destruction of the Medici smuggling ring and the more stringent acquisition policies put in place by museums and collectors in the light of these events, the latest information suggests that illegal digging is down by half. The Carabinieri art squad also claim that the quality of seized objects has collapsed. Whether this is just a temporary lull, or sign of a more permanent shift, remains to be seen.