The Geneva Deception

‘That’s what I thought. Except it wasn’t a coin. It was a lead disc.’

‘Lead?’ Aurelio frowned. ‘That’s unusual.’

‘That’s what I thought. I seem to remember reading that Roman forgers used to fake coins by casting them in lead and covering them in gold leaf, but I wondered if there was some other reference to the Classical world that might.’

‘Unusual, but not unprecedented,’ he continued, interrupting her. ‘Can you reach that red book down for me.’

She extricated the book from between the fifteen or so other academic texts he had written and handed it to him. He held it for a few seconds, his eyes closed, fingers resting lightly on the leather cover as if he was reading braille. Then, opening his eyes, he leafed through it, the brain haemorrhage that he’d suffered some fifteen years before betraying itself in his slow and deliberate movements.

‘Here,’ he fixed her with a knowing smile, about halfway in.

‘Here what?’

‘Threatened by the Persian empire, several Greek states came together in the fifth century BC to form a military alliance under the leadership of the Athenians,’ he read. ‘Members had to contribute ships or money, and in return the alliance agreed to protect their territory. Symbolically,’ he paused, Allegra remembering that he used to employ the same theatrical technique in lectures when he was about to make a particularly compelling point. ‘Symbolically, upon joining, representatives of the member states had to throw a piece of metal into the sea.’

‘Lead,’ Allegra breathed. He nodded.

‘Normally a piece of lead. The alliance was to last until it floated to the surface again.’

There was a pause, as she reflected on this.

‘And you think…?’

‘You asked about a link between lead and the Classical world.’ He smiled. ‘Thinking’s your job.’

‘What was the name of this alliance?’

Aurelio pretended to consult the book, although she could tell it was just an excuse for another of his dramatic pauses.

‘They called themselves the Delian League.’

NINETEEN

J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, Washington DC

18th March – 9.37 a.m.

The door buzzed open. Tom didn’t bother to look round. He could tell from Ortiz’s shuffling steps and Stokes’s heavier, wider stride, who it was.

‘How long are you going to keep me here?’ he demanded angrily.

‘A federal agent’s been killed, Mr Kirk,’ Stokes replied icily, no longer even attempting to mask his instinctive hostility. He dragged a chair out from under the table and extravagantly straddled it. ‘So we’re going to keep you here pretty much as long as we like.’

‘You don’t have to tell me she was killed, you pompous bastard,’ Tom hissed, holding out a sleeve still flecked with Jennifer’s blood. ‘I was holding her hand when she died, remember?’

In a way he was glad that Stokes was acting like this. It gave him a reason to be angry, to give himself over to his rage, to feel its intoxicating opiate course through his veins and his pulse quicken. Better that than allow his sadness to envelop him, feel the paralysing arms of grief tighten around him as he subjected himself to a Sisyphean analysis of what he could and should have done to save her.

Even as this thought occurred to him, he felt Jennifer’s image forming in his mind. An image he’d tried to suppress ever since he’d seen the gurney disappear into the bowels of the hospital, and then been escorted back on to Kezman’s jet and flown to this windowless interview room. But there she was, bloodied, her face shrouded by an oxygen mask, arms pierced by wires. A martyr? A sacrifice? But if so, for what and by whom?

‘If we’re going to catch the people who did this, we’re going to need your help.’ Ortiz, standing to his right, had adopted a more conciliatory tone which Tom sensed was genuine, rather than some clumsy attempt at a good cop, bad cop routine. His cheeks were shadowed by stubble, his eyes tired.

‘You’re not going to catch anyone, stuck down here,’ Tom retorted. ‘The longer we talk, the colder the trail. We should be in Vegas.’

‘SOP says we pull back and let an IA team step in when an agent falls in the line of duty,’ Stokes intoned, sounding as though he was reciting from some sort of manual. ‘They’re on the ground there already, reporting directly to FBI Director Green.’

‘To FBI Director Green?’ Tom asked, momentarily encouraged. He knew Jack Green, or at least had met him a few times when working with Jennifer. He had first-hand experience of the help Tom had given the Bureau in the past. ‘I want to talk to him. Does he know I’m here?’

Ortiz’s eyes flickered questioningly towards the large mirror that took up most of the left-hand wall. Tom’s heart sank. Not only did Green know he was here, but, judging from the uncomfortable expression on Ortiz’s face, he was probably watching. Jennifer’s death had clearly reset the clock. Until they knew exactly what had happened, he wasn’t going to qualify for any special treatment.

‘You can talk to us instead,’ Stokes snapped. ‘Tell us what happened.’

‘You know what happened. You were there. You saw the whole damn thing.’

‘All I know is that twelve hours after Browne brought you into the case, she was dead.’

‘You think I had something to do with it?’ Tom’s anger was momentarily overwhelmed by incredulity.

‘Twenty million dollars is a lot of money.’ Stokes’s eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘Even for you.’

‘So that’s your theory? That this was some sort of botched heist?’ Tom wasn’t sure whether Stokes was being deliberately provocative, or just plain stupid.

‘I think that shooting a federal agent is a pretty good diversion. If one of our agents hadn’t secured the suitcases, who’s to say -’

‘If all they’d wanted was a diversion, they could have shot anyone in that place,’ Tom countered. ‘They could have shot me.’

‘Exactly.’ Stokes raised his eyebrows pointedly, as if Tom had somehow proved his point.

‘Except they didn’t. They chose Jennifer. Maybe you should be asking yourselves why,’ Tom insisted.

‘What are you talking about?’ Stokes said with an impatient shrug.

‘Jennifer told me that two weeks ago she’d stumbled across an antiquities smuggling ring,’ Tom said, looking to Ortiz who acknowledged this point with a nod. ‘Then, out of the blue, a longlost Caravaggio shows up. One of the few works in the world guaranteed to ensure that Jennifer gets the call. You think that’s a coincidence?’

‘You don’t?’ Ortiz asked him with a frown.

‘I did until last night.’ Tom shrugged. ‘But now I’m thinking that there never was any Caravaggio; never was any exchange. That it was all a set-up. That that’s why the priest started stalling. Because he was expecting Jennifer. Because he wanted to give the gunman enough time to find her.’

‘This was about the money, and you know it,’ Stokes said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘We just got to it before you or anyone else could.’

‘Jennifer told me that the dealer you arrested in Queens had given you a name. Someone in Italy,’ Tom said to Ortiz, still ignoring Stokes. ‘Who was he? Did he have any ties to the mafia?’

‘Why? What do you…?’

‘That’s classified,’ Stokes interrupted angrily before Ortiz could answer. ‘Browne trusted you with too much, and you shouldn’t be encouraging him.’ He jabbed his finger at Ortiz.

‘The mafia control the illegal antiquities business in Italy,’ Tom explained. ‘They decide who can dig where, and take a cut on everything that comes out of the ground. It’s worth millions to them. The same mafia who, if you believe the rumours, have been holding the Caravaggio all these years.’

‘What are you saying?’ Ortiz breathed, ignoring Stokes’s venomous gaze.