hadn’t. Earlier that morning, Zen had listened in to the conversation between Tom Newman and Nicola Mantega — courtesy of the electronic devices installed in the latter’s office — concerning the whereabouts of the treasure that had been buried with that Gothic chieftain. Mantega had performed very much as Zen had expected, which is to say in the manner of a third-rate tenor in a provincial opera house. He had neither the range nor the volume, not to mention the subtlety, to tackle really big roles in Rome or Milan, but he could certainly ham it up and belt it out. It remained to be seen whether anything would come of his plan for drawing Giorgio into a trap, but Zen’s only real criticism of it, having nothing better to suggest himself at present, was that it left him feeling trapped too. He longed to take action, but any move he made might ruin everything. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait and then react to events, and this was depressing him enormously.
He was summoned from his reverie by the police driver, who had not only returned at the agreed time but had come on foot to find Zen, who had forgotten all about their arrangement. He got up unwillingly and took a last, long look at the hulking plateau opposite, the perched towns and villages appearing at this distance like quarries slashed into its wooded flanks, the elegant curves of the superstrada striding insolently across the landscape on its stilted viaducts. That thought in turn suggested one action that he could take, and as soon as he returned to the Questura he summoned Natale Arnone.
‘Do I have an accent?’ he asked the young officer.
Arnone looked shifty.
‘Sir?’
‘When I speak, are you conscious of an accent? In other words, could you tell that I wasn’t from around here if you didn’t already know?’
‘Well, sir, the thing is that — ’
‘A simple yes or no will suffice, Arnone.’
‘Then yes. Sir.’
‘Right. I want you to call this number and ask for Signora Maria Arrighi. If she answers, pass the phone to me and get out. If someone else answers, and asks who’s calling, tell him or her that you are a doctor at the hospital and that you need to discuss the results of the signora ’s tests with her. If she’s not at home, find out when she will be. Do not leave a number for her to call back. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Zen did not listen to the ensuing phone call. He walked over to the window and looked out at the mass of the Sila mountains looming over the city to the east. He was now convinced that the origins of the case he was investigating lay there, and perhaps also the solution.
‘ Un momento solo,’ he heard Arnone say behind him.
Zen put his hand over the mouthpiece of the held-out phone.
‘Pull Mirella Kodra off the front-line surveillance on Mantega. It sounds as though he’s starting to have doubts about her.’
Arnone nodded. Zen removed his hand and put the receiver to his ear.
‘Signora Arrighi, this is Aurelio Zen speaking. I need to see you tomorrow.’
‘Ah, that’s difficult!’
Zen tried to visualise the room that Maria was in, a squalid cube lit by a shrill bare bulb beneath which a swarm of flies circled endlessly, and whose walls had even better ears than those installed in Nicola Mantega’s office.
‘One of my friends died last night and I’m helping with the arrangements,’ Maria went on. ‘I can’t just drop all that now and say I have to go into the city to see my doctor. It would surprise the people here and cause comment. Do you understand, dottore?’
‘Perfectly. And please allow me to offer my condolences. When is the funeral?’
‘In a few days. Benedicta had relatives abroad. They will need time to get here.’
Zen grunted.
‘Obviously I have no wish to intrude at such a painful moment, but if you were prepared to meet me tomorrow morning, I have an idea to make such a meeting possible.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you announce that you intend to make a pilgrimage on foot to the church in Altomonte Vecchia in order to pray for your friend. You might say that it is your belief that prayers sent from the old church are more powerful than those that originate in the new. And also that you wish to go alone, at — shall we say? — eleven o’clock in the morning, and be undisturbed. If you agree, I should then join you there, having ascended from the other side of the hill with some of my men, who will seal off all entrances to the old city to everyone except you.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘You are proposing an assignation?’ Maria said at last.
‘Well, yes,’ Zen said after a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Why?’
At first he didn’t know how to reply, and then all the answers came at once.
‘Because you’re the only person I’ve met here whom I trust. Because you remind me of my mother, may God grant her peace. Because not long from now you will be as your friend Benedicta is, and I believe that there are things you have never told anyone which might compromise your bureaucratic status in vitam venturi saeculi.’
A long silence followed, then the acoustic at the far end of the line altered. There were background noises and a mumbly voice somewhere offstage.
‘I’m speaking to my doctor,’ Maria muttered. Then into the phone, very distinctly: ‘Tomorrow at eleven? Eh no, dottore! Mi dispiace, ma non posso veramente. I have to make a personal pilgrimage, all alone, to the church in the old town up on the hill here to pray for my dear friend Benedicta. She was a good person at heart, but the manner in which she died meant that she had no time to confess her sins and I can’t help worrying about the status of her immortal soul. So I shall be there at that time, not at the hospital. But thank you so much for having the kindness to call me. I shall not forget it.’
‘Car leaves in thirty minutes,’ Martin Nguyen snapped when Tom appeared back at the hotel. ‘You want a ride home, get your ass in gear. I’ve cancelled your room.’
Martin’s own room had been gutted and his impedimenta reduced to two armoured and combination-locked suitcases which stood beside the unmade bed. It had been a morning from hell. First the Iraqi work crew had had to be shipped off home, blissfully unaware that their death sentences had been revoked. Martin had got a break on the price from his Baghdad contact over that aspect of the deal, but he wasn’t about to pass this bit of good news on to Jake — not that he could have got through anyway. Jake’s site was down. He was offline. All you could get out of him was error messages and access denied.
‘Mantega says he knows the people who found Alaric’s treasure.’
For a moment, Martin thought that Tom was speaking Italian. He heard the words clearly but couldn’t make any sense of them.
‘Mantega?’ he queried.
‘The notary who was — ’
‘Notary!’ Martin screamed. ‘Who cares about fucking notaries? If they were any good they’d be lawyers. A goddamn fortune has just gone down the drain and you’re talking to me about notaries! Are you out of your mind? Letting crazies board a plane is against FAA regs. Buy your own ticket home!’
Tom stood his ground. On the way back to Rende that morning, he’d called Mirella and suggested dinner. She’d said she’d check her diary and would get back, but she’d taken his call and she hadn’t said no. Tom wasn’t afraid of Martin Nguyen.
‘Mantega is willing to get in touch with them and ask them to hand over samples for you to have verified as genuine by an independent expert of your choosing. If you’re satisfied that they’re authentic, further pieces would be available for purchase on an item by item basis.’
Martin speared Tom with a look.
‘How did Mantega know that we were looking for that treasure? What happened to our film location cover story?’
‘Well, there was that Aldobrandini interview. After that, knowing Mantega, he probably asked around. Quizzed the pilot or the ground staff. What do I know? It’s hard to keep an operation of that size secret in a place like this.’
