‘If he’s looking for a Roman artefact, surely you’d have heard about it.’
‘You think I am so notorious?’ He held up his drink, studying his reflection in the glass. ‘Perhaps I am. What makes you think this thing he is looking for is Roman?’
The ash on the end of Michael’s cigarette lengthened. ‘Everyone knows he’s crazy for the Romans.’
‘Really?’
The question hung in the air, mingling with the smoke and noise. Giacomo stared at Michael, who turned slightly to glance at Abby. He raised his eyebrows.
Giacomo stood. ‘Excuse me.’ He tapped his crotch. ‘An old man’s problems. Perhaps we continue this conversation in a moment.’
He slid out of the booth and edged around the dance floor to the toilets. With his brown suit and shuffling walk, he looked like a sad old man who’d got lost.
‘How did you find him?’ Abby asked.
Michael drained his drink. ‘I’ve got some contacts in the art world. Smuggling stolen artworks and antiquities is big business. Mr Giacomo is one of the best – or worst, depending on your point of view.’
‘And he won’t betray us to Dragovic?’ She craned around. Deliberately or not, Giacomo had manoeuvred them so they sat with their backs to the door. With the flashing disco lights and hammer-drill bass, it more or less amounted to sensory deprivation.
‘I’m not sure about anything.’ Michael waved to the waiter for another drink. ‘Rumour has it he competes with Dragovic’s organisation. For what that’s worth.’
Across the room she noticed a man in a leather jacket standing at the bar. He was young, hair gelled into spikes and a bad case of acne on his cheeks. He was nursing a beer, but had angled himself so that their table was in his eyeline. She nodded at him.
‘Do you think he’s one of Dragovic’s?’
‘Probably a friend of Giacomo’s.’ Michael shook it off. ‘How much do you think we should tell him?’
‘Does it matter?’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the man at the bar.
‘Dealing with someone like Giacomo is like playing poker. We don’t want to show our hand too soon.’
Abby had to laugh. ‘You don’t think he can tell we’re bluffing?’
Across the room, Giacomo emerged from the toilets. As he walked back past the bar, Abby thought she saw him swap a glance with the acne-faced man. He sat down and waited while the waiter delivered Michael’s drink. His own was still more than half-full.
‘So?’
Michael took a deep gulp of his drink. ‘There was a tomb – in Kosovo. I found it. There were some artefacts inside, and I sold them to Dragovic.’
‘You should have come to me. I would give you a better price.’
‘There was a poem in the tomb.’ Michael took the napkin from under his drink and wrote out the first line of the poem from memory. He slid it across the table. Giacomo raised his eyebrows.
‘I am not a poet. Not even a scholar.’
‘I thought you might recognise it.’
‘From your tomb?’
‘It’s a copy of a poem that’s already known. It comes from a grave plaque in the Roman Forum Museum.’
‘
His dark eyes flicked from Michael to Abby and back.
‘Dragovic stole the stone with the poem on it. He thinks it might point to something valuable.’
‘If he does, he has not asked my opinion.’
‘I’m asking you.’
Giacomo’s gaze sidled away over Michael’s shoulder, towards the door. Abby fought back the urge to look around.
‘What do you know about the poem?’ Giacomo asked.
To her surprise, Abby found herself answering. ‘It dates from around the fourth century – around the time of the Emperor Constantine.’
Giacomo sat back. ‘Constantine the Great. Did you know he was born in Serbia? I think here they specialise in megalomaniacs.’ He chuckled. ‘Where in Kosovo did you say was this tomb?’
‘In a forest,’ said Michael evenly.
‘When you looted it, did you leave anything behind? Anything a friend might go back and collect for you?’
‘There are frescoes on the wall. Intact, pretty good condition.’ Michael took the camera out of his bag and showed him on the screen. ‘If you can help us, I could probably give you a more precise location.’
