monument to your taste and generosity.’ He spat these last two words out, as if he’d just bitten into a bar of soap.
‘We both know what that collection is and where it came from,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘And if it’s a monument to anything, it’s to your greed.’
‘Be careful, Deena,’ Faulks said sharply, still smiling. ‘I’ve buried a lot of bodies for Avner over the years and dug up even more. And I can prove it. You should think about how you want him to be remembered.’
She went to answer but said nothing, glancing instead at Klein. Hands clasped together on the crisp sheets, grinning lovingly at her, he had quite clearly not followed a word of their exchange. She walked over to his side and smiled, tears welling as she stroked the few wisps of hair that clung stubbornly to his scalp.
‘Just go, Earl,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘Find someone else to dig for.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Lungotevere Gianicolense, Rome 19th March-7.37 a.m.
They had found a battered old Fiat a few streets from Cavalli’s house, Tom preferring it to the Mercedes parked just behind it. It was a suggestion that Allegra was already rather regretting, the rusted suspension jarring with every imperfection in the road as they headed north along the river. And yet she couldn’t fault his logic-the Fiat was coated in a thick layer of rainstreaked dirt that suggested that it hadn’t been used for weeks, and so was less likely to be missed.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she suddenly cut across the Ponte Principe Amedei di Savoia and pulled in on the Largo dei Fiorentini. ‘We can’t stop here. We’re still too close. If anyone’s seen us…’
‘If you want to get out, now’s your chance,’ she snapped, leaning across him and pushing his door open. ‘Otherwise, I want some answers.’
‘What sort of answers?’
‘How about a name?’
He sighed, then slammed the door shut.
‘It’s Tom. Tom Kirk.’ He made a point of holding out his hand so that she had to shake it rather formally. ‘Can we do the rest of the Q and A somewhere else?’
‘You said you knew what it was like to be on the run. Why? Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he asked, his face screwed into a disbelieving frown. She returned his stare, jaw set firm. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually with a resigned sigh. ‘I…I used to be a thief.’
‘A thief?’ She smiled indulgently before realising that he wasn’t joking.
‘What sort of thief?’
‘Art mainly. Jewellery too. Whatever paid.’
She nodded slowly. It was strange, but it was almost as if she’d been expecting him to say something like this. It certainly seemed to fit him better than being police or FBI.
‘And now?’
‘Now I help recover pieces, advise museums on security, that sort of thing,’ he replied.
‘What’s any of that got to do with Cavalli?’
‘I told you. Jennifer had asked me to help her on a case before she was killed. Cavalli was the best lead I had as to who might have ordered the hit.’
‘So we both went there looking for answers,’ Allegra said with a rueful smile.
‘Why-what’s Cavalli to you?’
‘It’s what he is to Gallo that I care about.’ She turned back to face the front, her hands clutching the wheel.
‘Who’s Gallo?’ Tom frowned. ‘The person you’re running from?’
‘Colonel Massimo Gallo,’ she intoned in a bitter voice. ‘Head of the GICO-the organised crime unit of the Ministry of Finance-and the officer in charge of the two Caravaggio killings.’
‘What?’
‘Ricci and Argento,’ she explained impatiently. ‘The other murders I told you about. Their deaths had been staged to mirror to two Caravaggio paintings.’
‘Jennifer was lured to Las Vegas to help recover a Caravaggio stolen in the 1960s,’ Tom explained with the triumphant finality of someone laying down a winning poker hand.
‘You think…?’
‘Don’t you?’
There was a pause as she let this sink in. First the symbol. Then the mention of the Delian League. Now Caravaggio. Perhaps he was right. These surely couldn’t all be coincidences?
Speaking fast and confidently, she plunged into an account of the past few days-the murders of Ricci and Argento; the choice of locations; the references to Caesar; the Caravaggio staging of the murder scenes; what she knew about Cavalli and his death; Gallo’s cold-blooded execution of Gambetta. It was only when she got to describing Aurelio’s treachery that her voice faltered. The memory of his betrayal was still too fresh, too raw for her to share anything more than the most basic details. Instead she quickly switched to her tortured flight from his apartment and the restless night that she had spent in the grimy airport hotel until, unable to sleep, she had decided to visit Cavalli’s apartment for herself and see what she could find there.
Tom listened to all this without interrupting and she realised when she had finished that it had been strangely calming to talk things through, even if she barely knew him. There had been so much going on, so many thoughts tripping over each other inside her head, that it had been surprisingly cathartic to lay all the different elements together end to end.
‘Somehow, it’s all linked,’ he said slowly when she had finished. ‘The murders, Caravaggio, the symbol…we just need to find out how.’
‘Is that all?’ she said with a bitter laugh.
‘Sometimes you just need to know who to ask.’
‘And you do?’ she asked in a sceptical tone.
‘I know someone who might be able to help.’ He nodded.
‘Someone we can trust?’
Tom took a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks.
‘More or less.’
‘What sort of an answer’s that?’ she snorted.
‘The sort of answer you get when you’re out of better ideas.’
There was a pause. Then with a resigned shrug she started the engine.
‘Where to?’
THIRTY-SIX
Fontana di Trevi, Rome 19th March-8.03 a.m.
Allegra heard the fountain before she saw it, a delirious, ecstatic roar of water that crashed and foamed over gnarled travertine rocks and carved foliage, tumbling in a joyful cascade into the open embrace of the wide basin below. This was no accident, Allegra knew, the Trevi having been deliberately positioned so that, no matter what route was taken, it could only be partially seen as it was approached, the anticipation building as the sound got louder until the monument finally revealed itself.
Despite the relatively early hour, the tourists were already out in force, some seated like an eager audience on the steps that encircled the basin’s low stage, others facing the opposite direction and flinging coins over their shoulders in the hope of securing their return to the Eternal City. Oblivious to their catcalling and the popcorn burst of camera flashes, the statues ranged above them silently acted out an allegorical representation of the taming of the waters. Centre stage loomed Neptune’s brooding figure, his chariot frozen in flight, winged horses rearing
