1925. Ben wondered who Leo had been.
‘Just one of her many celebrated works here on display,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Including a quite incredible recent discovery.’ He said this in a hushed tone of reverence, as though referring to the finger-bone of Christ. Ben waited for more.
‘During the recent restoration of my ancestral home, the Palazzo De Crescenzo – it is far too large to live in, of course – workmen came upon a secret room where it seems the young and terribly unhappy countess carried on her art behind her husband’s back. He had forbidden her to paint, you see. We found several previously unknown works of hers, which are being exhibited here today for the very first time.’ Looking even more excited, De Crescenzo added, ‘And sensationally, among the pieces we discovered in her personal collection were several items by other artists – including a most magnificent miniature charcoal sketch by the artist Goya that had long been believed lost.’
Ben turned to look as he pointed out the piece of artwork across the room. It was a small, simple, shaded monochrome image of a solitary man kneeling humbly to pray inside what could have been a monastic cell.
Again Ben could feel De Crescenzo’s eyes on him and felt expected to comment knowledgeably, but he just nodded appreciatively and tried not to think about that glass of wine Donatella had promised him. He fought the urge to glance at his watch.
‘Naturally it is almost worthless compared to some of the other works here on display,’ De Crescenzo went on rather too grandly. ‘But I founded this academy in April 1987 to honour Gabriella Giordani’s sad passing the previous year, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to be able to mark the inauguration of our new centre with a display of her very own collection. For me, it is what makes this exhibition so special.’
‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Ben said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You’ll be wanting that wine now,’ Donatella whispered as they left the count to carry on the rounds of the guests.
‘I don’t know what gives you that impression,’ Ben said.
Donatella smiled slyly. ‘This way.’ She led him through the crowd to the far side of the gallery, where two doors led off from the main space. One was shut and marked ‘Private’. The other was open, leading into a side room where a long table was covered in expensive finger food and drinks. The glasses were crystal, the white wine was on ice and the red had been opened in advance to breathe at room temperature. Catering done properly. Donatella chose white, while Ben helped himself to a glass of excellent Chianti and suddenly felt much better.
Gianni was allowed to wander about the exhibition on strict orders to behave himself and stay within sight. Away from the chatter of the guests, Ben and Donatella sipped their drinks and talked for a few minutes. She was warm, vivacious and smiled a lot. He found her company relaxing and enjoyable. She told him a little more about her husband’s church restoration project, and then asked him about his own business. Ben had long ago learned to answer those kinds of questions without sounding evasive but without getting too specific about the kind of training that went on at Le Val. She’d visited that part of France a few years earlier and was curious to know if his home was anywhere near to Mont Saint Michel, which he told her it was.
As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.
It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.
‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.
The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’
‘Not that I was told about.’
The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’
Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’
‘So?’
‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’
‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’
‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’
‘I
Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’
‘Fine.’
Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.
Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.
The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.
‘What is it?’ Buratti said.
‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’
‘What?’
‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’
‘You’re shitting us.’
‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.
Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do we look like to you?’
Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.
The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging
