of a block of flats and watched carefully.
He was hurrying along, dressed unremarkably but carrying over his right shoulder a brown canvas bag, which he clutched tightly to his body. Mary Verney observed this with interest, and saw with some alarm that he walked straight up the steps to the main entrance of the church itself, pushed on the door and went in. A compact man, with dark curly hair, sports jacket, glasses.
It didn’t take a great genius to realize that he was not there by chance, and that he knew the door would be open. Which it surely shouldn’t be; who leaves doors open all night these days? Mary Verney was seized with a wave of panic. Something else was beginning to go badly wrong. She felt it in her bones. If it did, then all her plans would collapse. And Mikis would carry out his threat about her granddaughter. She knew him well enough for that. She had managed to keep it at the back of her mind most of the time, but this sudden development brought it all painfully close. She walked forward quickly, crossed the road and began mounting the steps to the church. She had no idea what she was going to do in there, but she had to do something.
She was almost at the door and a few seconds later would have bumped into the man coming out again. He was pale and nervous, and looked as though he had had a bad fright. He almost ran down the steps, half tripped and dropped the bag. It fell on the hard stone with a soft thud, and he scooped it up quickly before hurrying off up the street.
She thought quickly, then decided. Something wasn’t right. She quickly walked into the church and looked around. It took a few seconds for her eyes to get used to the darkness, and then she saw a figure lying on the ground. It was an old man, a priest, with a bad wound to his head; the blood was dripping out of the cut.
He was conscious, but only barely. She kneeled down beside him. “What happened?”’
He moaned softly, and tried to shake his head. With surprising gentleness, she stopped him, cradling him gently in her hands. “What happened?”’
“The picture … He …”
“Who? Who is he?”’
“Burckhardt. He’ll …”
Then he was unconscious. She knelt down to look at him more closely, then stood up to avoid getting blood on her. “Don’t struggle or move,” she said softly as she loosened his clothing and tried to staunch the bleeding. “It’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.”
And nothing else to be done for him at the moment. She glanced up and saw the empty frame of the icon, and ran out of the church again. She was afraid she’d lost him, but after a few minutes saw his distinctive figure standing still, consulting a map.
Thank God for irrational Roman street-planning, she thought as she slowed down and took up her station a hundred yards or so behind him.
“We are nervous, aren’t we?”’ she thought. “But make up your mind. Where are you going, little man?”’
Then he was off, down the via Albina, then crossed the little park leading to the pyramid and the Porta San Paolo. Here he consulted his map again, then crossed the square into the little railway station. Mary followed at a discreet distance. It had finally clicked; should have done the minute she heard the name. Eggs and Bacon. Icons and Burckhardt. Of course.
But again, he changed his mind, came out and started walking round the back and into the Ostiense station which was already disgorging the first commuters of the day on to the streets. This time he was more decisive. He walked into the grim entrance, and straight across to the left-luggage compartments. Fumbled in his pockets for some coins, and threw his bag into one of the lockers. Shut it, removed the key, and put it in his pocket.
He found a taxi outside and she let him go; there was no point in following him any more, and walked across the road to a bar. Half an hour should do it, she thought, just to be safe. But first, a little humanitarianism. She rang for an ambulance.
Not the police and not the Art Squad; that would have been too obvious. Doing as good an impression as she could manage of a Roman accent, she reported an accident in the church of San Giovanni and rang off before they could ask any more questions. Seven-forty. Conscience salved. Time for a large, frothy cappuccino and a pastry, sitting down at the back. She was certain that in that bag, in that left-luggage compartment, lay the solution to her problem. She might even be on the plane home this afternoon.
At ten past eight she walked back to the station, straight over to the manager’s office.
“Bon jorno,” she said in an execrable accent. “Ho un problem. Difficulty. Understand?”’ She smiled inanely as she twittered. The man on duty, used to the occasional idiocies of tourists, sighed heavily and smiled pleasantly. He was in a good mood. One more shift and he was off on holiday. It was something he’d been planning all year, and he was eager to get going. The challenge of a lifetime.
“Yes?”’
“Baggage? Left luggage. Um, Consigno? Lost the key.” She made suitable movements with her hand to indicate someone turning a key in a lock. “Big problem.” And smiled sweetly again.
The man frowned, and bit by bit they worked out between them what was the matter, he straining to understand the verbal nonsense she spouted, she trying to avoid using the Italian words she knew all too well.
“Ah. You have lost the key to your left-luggage locker. Is that it?”’
She nodded enthusiastically, took out a piece of paper and scribbled the number to hold up to him. “C37,” she said.
“What’s in it? You have to say. Otherwise how do we know it’s yours?”’
She delayed a reasonable time about understanding this, waving what she hoped would be mistaken for a plane ticket to indicate how desperately late she was for a flight. Eventually she condescended to understand and, successfully giving the impression that she was outraged at anyone doubting her honesty in the matter, waved her hands some more.
“Bag,” she said. “Case. Sack?”’
“Sacco, si.”
“Lovely. Light brown. Shoulder strap. Zipper.”
Then she prattled away, describing spurious contents so quickly that she knew he wouldn’t have a chance of understanding a single word, until he held up his hands. “OK,” he said. “OK.”
He opened a drawer and took out a key and led her across the forecourt. Mary pointed at the box, and he opened it.
“There we are,” she said delightedly, taking possession. “Oh, thank you, signor. You’re so very kind.” She pumped his hand up and down with fervent gratitude.
“Niente,” he said. “Be more careful next time.” He was in too relaxed a mood to make the report that regulations required, but reminded himself to tell the appropriate people to dig out a new key. But not at the moment. There was too much to do. He’d get around to it later.
And Mary Verney went off to the toilet, locking herself into a cubicle and putting the bag on her knee. Journey’s end. Thank God for that. Well wrapped up, she thought as she unzipped it. Her heart was beating fast with excitement.
Then she stared inside with complete dismay and incomprehension. There was no icon. Just money, a whole lot of it. But who was interested in that?
Damnation, she thought. It’s not there. Where the hell is it?
She flipped through the piles, to see how much there was. Stack after stack of deutsche marks. Big ones, little ones, all wrapped up in elastic bands. Nothing else at all.
She counted quickly. Must be about two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, she guessed. She zipped the bag shut again, and sat and thought.
This did not make sense. Didn’t make sense at all.
Still, first things first. Better get rid of this bag. She left the toilet and walked on to the platform, then hopped on to a crammed commuter train that lumbered in a few moments later. She knew that no one in their right minds would try to collect a ticket from her, especially as it was only another five-minute run to the end of the line. So she stood there, clutching the bag with only slightly less nervousness than Burckhardt had shown, and waited patiently until the train creaked into the main terminus and disgorged her along with several hundred others.
She repeated his tactic of leaving the bag in the left luggage at the terminus then rang Mikis at his hotel. It took some time to wake him.
“We’ve got another problem,” she said quickly once she had his attention. “The icon’s gone. Someone went in
