J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, Washington DC
18th March - 9.37 a.m.
The door buzzed open. Tom didn’t bother to look round. He could tell from Ortiz’s shuffling steps and Stokes’s heavier, wider stride, who it was.
‘How long are you going to keep me here?’ he demanded angrily.
‘A federal agent’s been killed, Mr Kirk,’ Stokes replied icily, no longer even attempting to mask his instinctive hostility. He dragged a chair out from under the table and extravagantly straddled it. ‘So we’re going to keep you here pretty much as long as we like.’
‘You don’t have to tell me she was killed, you pompous bastard,’ Tom hissed, holding out a sleeve still flecked with Jennifer’s blood. ‘I was holding her hand when she died, remember?’
In a way he was glad that Stokes was acting
like this. It gave him a reason to be angry, to give himself over to his rage, to feel its intoxicating opiate course through his veins and his pulse quicken. Better that than allow his sadness to envelop him, feel the paralysing arms of grief tighten around him as he subjected himself to a Sisyphean analysis of what he could and should have done to save her.
Even as this thought occurred to him, he felt Jennifer’s image forming in his mind. An image he’d tried to suppress ever since he’d seen the gurney disappear into the bowels of the hospital, and then been escorted back on to Kezman’s jet and flown to this windowless interview room. But there she was, bloodied, her face shrouded by an oxygen mask, arms pierced by wires. A martyr? A sacrifice? But if so, for what and by whom?
‘If we’re going to catch the people who did this, we’re going to need your help.’ Ortiz, standing to his right, had adopted a more conciliatory tone which Tom sensed was genuine, rather than some clumsy attempt at a good cop, bad cop routine. His cheeks were shadowed by stubble, his eyes tired.
‘You’re not going to catch anyone, stuck down here,’ Tom retorted. ‘The longer we talk, the colder the trail. We should be in Vegas.’
‘SOP says we pull back and let an IA team step in when an agent falls in the line of duty,’ Stokes intoned, sounding as though he was reciting from
some sort of manual. ‘They’re on the ground there already, reporting directly to FBI Director Green.’
‘To FBI Director Green?’ Tom asked, momentarily encouraged. He knew Jack Green, or at least had met him a few times when working with Jennifer. He had first-hand experience of the help Tom had given the Bureau in the past. ‘I want to talk to him. Does he know I’m here?’
Ortiz’s eyes flickered questioningly towards the large mirror that took up most of the left-hand wall. Tom’s heart sank. Not only did Green know he was here, but, judging from the uncomfortable expression on Ortiz’s face, he was probably watching. Jennifer’s death had clearly reset the clock. Until they knew exactly what had happened, he wasn’t going to qualify for any special treatment.
‘You can talk to us instead,’ Stokes snapped. ‘Tell us what happened.’
‘You know what happened. You were there. You saw the whole damn thing.’
‘All I know is that twelve hours after Browne brought you into the case, she was dead.’
‘You think I had something to do with it?’ Tom’s anger was momentarily overwhelmed by incredulity.
‘Twenty million dollars is a lot of money.’ Stokes’s eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘Even for you.’
‘So that’s your theory? That this was some sort of botched heist?’ Tom wasn’t sure whether Stokes
was being deliberately provocative, or just plain stupid.
‘I think that shooting a federal agent is a pretty good diversion. If one of our agents hadn’t secured the suitcases, who’s to say -’
‘If all they’d wanted was a diversion, they could have shot anyone in that place,’ Tom countered. ‘They could have shot me.’
‘Exactly.’ Stokes raised his eyebrows pointedly, as if Tom had somehow proved his point.
‘Except they didn’t. They chose Jennifer. Maybe you should be asking yourselves why,’ Tom insisted.
‘What are you talking about?’ Stokes said with an impatient shrug.
‘Jennifer told me that two weeks ago she’d stumbled across an antiquities smuggling ring,’ Tom said, looking to Ortiz who acknowledged this point with a nod. ‘Then, out of the blue, a longlost Caravaggio shows up. One of the few works in the world guaranteed to ensure that Jennifer gets the call. You think that’s a coincidence?’
‘You don’t?’ Ortiz asked him with a frown.
‘I did until last night.’ Tom shrugged. ‘But now I’m thinking that there never was any Caravaggio; never was any exchange. That it was all a set-up. That that’s why the priest started stalling. Because he was expecting Jennifer. Because he wanted to give the gunman enough time to find her.’
‘This was about the money, and you know it,’
Stokes said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘We just got to it before you or anyone else could.’
‘Jennifer told me that the dealer you arrested in Queens had given you a name. Someone in Italy,’ Tom said to Ortiz, still ignoring Stokes. ‘Who was he? Did he have any ties to the mafia?’
‘Why? What do you…?’
‘That’s classified,’ Stokes interrupted angrily before Ortiz could answer. ‘Browne trusted you with too much, and
you
shouldn’t be encouraging him.’ He jabbed his finger at Ortiz.
‘The mafia control the illegal antiquities business in Italy,’ Tom explained. ‘They decide who can dig where, and take a cut on everything that comes out of the ground. It’s worth millions to them. The same mafia who, if you believe the rumours, have been holding the Caravaggio all these years.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ortiz breathed, ignoring Stokes’s venomous gaze.
‘I’m saying it was a professional hit. I’m saying that something she’d stumbled across had made her a threat and that the painting was just a way of flushing her out into the open.’
‘If you’re right…’ Ortiz said slowly.
‘If I’m right, then we’re already too late to catch the killer. You can run a DNA test on the blood traces, but people like that are ghosts. You’ll get nothing. But I might still be able to find whoever ordered the hit.’
‘
You
might be able to find them?’ Stokes gave a hollow laugh. ‘We’ve got a long way to go yet before we’ll even let you take a piss without someone holding your dick for you.’
‘Let me see her files.’ Tom turned to Ortiz. ‘I can go places you can’t, speak to people you don’t know. But I need to move fast. I need to move now.’
Ortiz went to say something, but then hesitated, his eyes again flickering towards the mirror.
‘Yeah, sure!’ Stokes gave a rasping laugh. ‘Get a load of this guy. Our necks are already on the line and now he wants us to bend over and drop our pants too?’
‘Then either charge me with something, or let me go,’ Tom shouted angrily, rising to his feet. ‘Right now you’re just wasting my time.’
‘Like I said, Kirk, you’re going nowhere,’ Stokes said coldly, standing up and swiping the door open.
‘I’m sorry, man,’ Ortiz shrugged, joining him in the doorway. ‘But he’s right. This is how it’s got to be.’
The door sealed shut behind them and the electronic reader flashed from green to red. Saying nothing, Tom reached into his trouser pocket and felt the hard outline of the swipe card Jennifer had pressed into his hand in the helicopter.
Even then, as she lay dying, she’d known how this would play out. Even then, she’d known what he would have to do.
Ospedale Fatebenefratelli, Isola Tiberina, Rome
18th March - 3.51 p.m.
Allegra had left Aurelio in yet another of his sulks. She had arrived late and was now leaving early, he had complained as she hurriedly saw herself out. She had pointedly reminded him that she was only leaving so she could follow up on a case that he was responsible for her being involved with in the first place. But by then he had turned the radio on and was pretending he couldn’t hear her. No matter. All would be forgiven and forgotten by tomorrow, she knew, his moods breaking and clearing as quickly as a summer storm.
Allegra wasn’t sure whether the link between the lead discs and the Delian League was meaningful or not, but one thing that she was almost certain about was that Gallo would want to know about it ASAP, so he could make that decision for himself.
Normally she would have called him, but his phone appeared to have been switched off. According to his assistant, this was because there was no reception in the mortuary basement levels, where she would still catch him if she hurried.
Having signed in, she headed down to the cold store in the basement. A young man wearing a white lab coat - a medical student, she guessed, judging by his age - was manning the reception desk and glaring at a monitor.
‘Colonel Gallo?’ she asked, flicking her wallet open. He jumped up, deftly minimising a game of solitaire.
‘You just missed him,’ he replied anxiously, leaning over the top of the counter and peering down the corridor behind her as if he still might be able to see him. ‘Signor Santos is still here, though.’
‘Who?’
‘He came in for the formal ID on Argento. Colonel Gallo thought it better that they leave separately.’
She glanced at the door he had indicated and with a curious frown stepped towards it. Peering through the porthole she could see that it opened on to a large and resolutely featureless rectangular room, the only splash of colour coming from a few moulded blue plastic seats that were huddled for warmth around a water cooler bolted to the right-hand wall. Opposite these were a series of evenly spaced square aluminium doors,
perhaps eight across and three high, each with a large levered handle and a name-tag slot. One of the doors was open; the drawer had been pulled out. A man was standing to one side of it, his back to her.
‘Signor Santos?’
She pushed the door open and announced herself with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. Santos turned slowly at the sound of her voice. He was in his late forties and looked slim and fit, with a tanned face and teeth the colour of polished ivory. His closecropped dark hair was sprinkled with silver and started high up his head where his hairline had begun to recede a little. He was immaculately dressed in a Cesare Attolini navy blazer and white flannel trousers that had been cut to crease at just the right place to slightly ride up over a pair of brown Church’s. His creamy pink shirt was from Barba in Naples, his striped tie from Marinella, and his belt by Gucci, although given the obvious excellence of the tailoring, this last item was clearly worn for sartorial effect rather than to keep his trousers up.
He gave her a wary, even suspicious look that prompted her into an explanation.
‘Lieutenant Allegra Damico,’ she introduced herself, holding out her ID. ‘I’m working with Colonel Gallo.’
‘I see.’ He smiled, returning her wallet with a nod. ‘Apologies. I thought you might be from the press.’
‘They’re looking for you?’
‘They’re looking for an opportunity to snatch a photograph of an elected official grieving over his dead brother’s butchered corpse. I’m here to make sure they don’t get that chance.’
‘Deputy Argento asked you to identify his brother’s body instead of him?’ she guessed.
‘Actually, Colonel Gallo suggested it,’ he corrected her. ‘He thought it might help…simplify matters.’
‘How did you know the victim?’
‘My apologies -’ Santos stepped forward with an apologetic shrug, his hand rising to meet hers - ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I am Antonio Santos, President of the Banco Rosalia.’
He handed her his business card, the way he held it out with both hands suggesting he had lived, or at least done a lot of business in the Far East. It was stiff and elaborately engraved with a sweeping copperplate script that identified him as:
Antonio Santos
President & Director-General
Banco Rosalia
‘Gio used to work for me.’
Allegra moved over to stand on the other side of the open drawer, her ghostly form reflecting indistinctly in the adjacent door’s dull aluminium surface.
Giulio Argento was lying in between them, naked and shrouded by a white sheet apart from his uncovered face and where it had fallen away from his left arm, revealing a bar-coded tag fixed to his wrist like a supermarket label. She barely recognised his waxen and hollow features but there was no mistaking, though, the ugly welt of the sword strike where it had opened up his neck like a second smile.
‘Liquorice?’
She refused. There seemed something strangely inappropriate about the way Santos was shaking the ornate tin over Argento’s body.
‘I read that Roman soldiers could go for ten days without eating or drinking with liquorice in their rations,’ he said, popping two pieces into his mouth and then slipping the tin back into his pocket. Allegra nodded, deciding against mentioning that she had read somewhere else that too much liquorice could reduce a man’s testosterone levels. ‘So? Any leads? Any clues as to who did it? Why they did it?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t…’
‘I understand.’ He shrugged. ‘Due process, jeopardising a live investigation, respect for the victim’s family…Gallo spun me a similar line.’
‘It’s for your own protection,’ she insisted.
A pause. Santos looked back down at the body.
‘You know, the traffic was terrible the day they found the body,’ he said eventually, a strangely
vacant expression on his face, as if he couldn’t quite see Argento and yet knew he was there. ‘Half the streets seemed to have been barricaded off. I remember being angry that it had made me late for a meeting. I never realised that…’
‘What did Signor Argento do for you?’
‘God’s work.’
‘In a bank?’ The words came out sounding more sceptical than she had intended.
‘The Vatican Bank is our largest shareholder,’ he explained with the weary patience of someone who had had to give this explanation many times before. ‘We take deposits in the normal way and then lend money at subsidised rates to worthy projects that might not otherwise get funding. Gio had responsibility for managing the relationships with some of our larger accounts.’
‘So no reason to think that anyone would want to -’
‘This?’ Santos gestured with disgust. ‘This is the devil’s work.’
‘The devil?’ she asked, not sure from his expression if he meant it literally or had someone in mind.
‘I trained as a priest in Rio before I realised that my true calling lay in financing God’s will rather than trying to live by it.’ He fiddled with the buckle of his belt, aligning it with his shirt buttons. ‘But I still recognise the hand of evil when I see it.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Of course.’ With the memory of Ricci’s staring eyes and Argento’s congealed scream still fresh in her mind, it was hard not to agree with him.
‘The irony, of course, was that, despite working for us, poor Gio was not a true believer.’ Santos glanced up at Allegra with a rueful smile. ‘He used to say that life was too short to waste it worrying about what might happen when he was dead. At times like this, when it almost seems that God might have deserted us, I almost understand what he meant.’
Folding the sheet back over Argento’s face, Santos made the sign of the cross and then eased the drawer back into the wall and swung the door shut. It closed with a hollow metal clang, the echo reverberating around them as if a stone slab had been dropped over a tomb. Allegra turned to leave, then paused.
‘I wonder, did he ever mention an organisation or group called the Delian League?’
‘The Delian League? Not as far as I remember.’ Santos shook his head, frowning in thought. ‘Why, who are they? Do you think they…?’
‘It’s just a name I’ve come across,’ she reassured him with a smile. ‘It probably means nothing. Shall I see you out?’
A large Mercedes with diplomatic plates was waiting for Santos on the street outside. The chauffeur jogged round and held the rear door open for him.
‘A small perk of the job,’ Santos smiled as he shook her hand. ‘Saves me a fortune in parking tickets.’
He slipped inside and peered up at her through the open window, an earnest look on his face.
‘Gio had many faults, but he was a good man, Lieutenant Damico. He deserved better. I hope you catch whoever did this to him.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ she reassured him with a nod.
The windo hummed shut and Santos settled back into his seat. As the car drew away, he reached for his phone.
‘You know who it is. Don’t hang up,’ Santos said carefully when the number he had dialled was answered. ‘I need a favour. And then I’m gone. For good this time, you have my word.’