The Geneva Deception

James Twining The Geneva Deception

The fourth book in the Tom Kirk series, 2009

To Jack, Jill and Herbie. Vegas, baby.

‘There is a house in New Orleans They call the Rising Sun It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy And me, Oh Lord! was one’

Traditional American folk song

Historical background

This story was inspired by a Carabinieri raid on a warehouse in the Geneva Freeport in 1995 and their discovery within it of over ten thousand illegally excavated antiquities worth over $35 million. The resulting investigation implicated the mafia and raised questions over the role of some of the world’s largest museums, collectors and auction houses in the multi-million-dollar international trade in illicit cultural artefacts.

All descriptions and background information provided on works of art, artists, thefts, antiquities smuggling, ‘orphans’, illegal excavation practices, and architecture are accurate, apart from the Desposito Eroli in Rome, which I have altered to suit my purpose.

For more information on the author and on the fascinating history, people, places, art and artefacts that feature in The Geneva Deception and the other Tom Kirk novels, please visit www.jamestwining.com

Excerpt

Extract from the Amherst Papyrus, original court records from the reign of Ramses IX (-1110 BC); translated by J. H. Breasted, Ancient Records of Egypt , Book IV (1904)

We opened their coffins and their coverings in which they were. We found this august mummy of this king…Its coverings were wrought with gold and silver, within and without; inlaid with every splendid costly stone.

We stripped off the gold, which we found on the august mummy of this god, and its amulets and ornaments which were at its throat, and the coverings wherein it rested. [We] found the King’s wife likewise; we stripped off all that we found on her likewise. We set fire to their coverings. We stole their furniture, which we found with them, being vases of gold, silver, and bronze.

We divided, and made the gold which we found on these two gods, on their mummies, and the amulets, ornaments and coverings, into eight parts.

Extract from letter written by Thomas Bruce, the seventh Earl of Elgin, to Giovanni Lusieri, 1801

I should wish to have, of the Acropolis, examples in the actual object of each thing, and architectural ornament – of each cornice, each frieze, each capital of the decorated ceilings, of the fluted columns – specimens of the different architectural orders and of the variant forms of the orders – of metopes and the like, as much as possible. Finally everything in the way of sculpture, medals and curious marbles that can be discovered by means of assiduous and indefatigable excavation.

PROLOGUE

‘I see wars, terrible wars, and the Tiber foaming with blood’

Virgil, The Aeneid, Book VI, 86

ONE

Ponte Duca d’Aosta, Rome 15th March – 2.37 a.m.

The cold kiss roused him.

A teasing, tentative embrace, it nibbled playfully at his ear and then, growing in confidence, slipped down to nuzzle against his naked throat.

Eyes screwed shut, cheek pressed against the wooden decking, Luca Cavalli knew that he should enjoy this moment while it lasted. So he lay there, cradled by the darkness, the gentle swell of the river rocking him softly, concentrating on keeping the steady cadence of his breathing constant. So they wouldn’t notice he was awake.

Ahead of him, near the bow, a small pool of rainwater had gathered. He could hear it sloshing from side to side under the duckboards as the boat swayed, smell the rainbow shimmer of engine oil dancing across its surface, the heady scent catching in the back of his throat like an exotic perfume. He had a strange, uncontrollable urge to swallow, to taste the raw truth of this moment while he still could.

The momentary stutter in his breathing’s rhythmic beat was all it took. Immediately, the thin lips resting against his skin parted with a snarl, and the sharp teeth of the knife’s serrated edge bit into him savagely. He was hauled upright, eyes blinking, shoulders burning where his wrists had been zip-locked behind his back.

There were three of them in all. One at the helm, his slab hands gripping the wheel. One perched on the bench opposite, a gun wedged into the waistband of his jeans and a cigarette balancing on his lip. One hugging him close, the knife he had caressed his cheek with only a few moments before now pressed hard against his belly.

They were silent, although there was something noisily boastful about their lack of disguise, as if they wanted him to know that they would never be caught, never allow themselves to be picked out from some Questura line- up. Perhaps because of this, the longer he gazed at them, the more featureless they appeared to become, their cruel faces melting into black shadows that he imagined travelled on the wind and lived in dark places where the light feared to go.

Instead, he was struck by their almost monastic serenity. Mute, their eyes fixed resolutely on the horizon, it was as if they had been chosen to complete some divinely ordained quest. Part of him envied their solemn