‘Is this real?’ he croaked.
‘What is it?’ Tom repeated.
‘It looks Greek,’ Allegra prompted. ‘I thought the marble could be from Pentelikon.’
‘Greek, yes, but that’s not marble.’ He shook his head excitedly, his eyes locking with hers. ‘It’s ivory.’
‘Ivory?’ she repeated breathlessly. It was obvious, now he’d mentioned it. Obvious and yet impossible.
‘It’s a mask from a chryselephantine statue,’ Aurelio confirmed. ‘Circa 400 to 500 BC. Probably of the sun god Apollo.’ A pause. ‘Are you sure this is real?’ he asked again.
‘Chryselephantine means gold and ivory in Greek,’ Allegra quickly explained in English, seeing the confused look on Tom’s face. ‘They used to fix carved slabs of ivory on to a wooden frame for the head, hands and feet and then beat sheets of gold leaf on to the rest to form the clothes, armour and hair.’
‘It’s rare?’
‘It’s a miracle,’ Aurelio replied in a hushed tone, almost as if they weren’t there. ‘There used to be seventy- four of them in Rome, but they all vanished when it was sacked by the Barbarians in 410 AD. Apart from two fire- damaged examples found in Greece and a fragment in the Vatican Museum, not a single piece has survived. Certainly nothing of this size and quality.’
Their eyes all shot to the door as someone tried the handle, rattling it noisily.
‘Time to go,’ Tom said firmly, snatching the photo from his grasp. ‘The private apartments should still be clear. We can go out the same way we came in.’
‘Wait,’ Aurelio called after them. ‘Don’t you want to know who it’s by?’
‘You can tell that from a photo?’ Allegra frowned, something in his voice making her pause.
There was a muffled shout and then a heavy drum roll of pounding fists.
‘Not definitively. Not without seeing it,’ he admitted. ‘But if I had to guess…there’s only one sculptor from that period that we know of who was capable of something of that quality. The same person who carved the statue of Athena in the Parthenon. The same person who carved the statue of Zeus at Olympia, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.’
‘Phidias?’ Allegra guessed, her mouth suddenly dry. No wonder Aurelio had turned pale.
‘Who else?’ He nodded excitedly. ‘Don’t you see, Allegra? It’s a miracle.’
‘Let’s go,’ Tom repeated, grabbing Allegra’s arm, the door now shaking violently. But she wrestled herself free, determined to ask the one question that she most wanted answered.
‘Why did you do it, Aurelio?’ she snapped. ‘Has Gallo got something on you?’
‘Gallo? I’d never even heard of him until yesterday,’ he protested.
‘Then who were you on the phone to?’
There was a long pause, Aurelio’s lips quivering as though the words were trapped in his mouth.
‘The League.’
‘The Delian League?’ she breathed, not sure which was worse-Aurelio working with Gallo, as she’d first assumed, or this?
‘They said they wouldn’t hurt you. That they just wanted to see what you knew,’ he pleaded. ‘I wanted to tell you everything. Have done for a long time. When you told me about the lead discs and the killings…I tried to point you in the right direction. But I was afraid.’
Abruptly, the noise outside stopped.
‘They’ll be back with a key,’ urged Tom. ‘Come on!’
‘You could have trusted me,’ she insisted, ignoring Tom. ‘I could have helped you.’
‘It was too late for that. It’s been twenty, thirty years. They’d kept records of everything I’d ever done for them. The false attributions, the inflated valuations, the invented provenances. I needed the money. You see that, don’t you? I needed the money to finance my work. Who else was going to pay? The university? The government? Pah!’
‘Who are they?’ she pressed. ‘Give me a name.’
‘Th-there was a dealer who I met a few times,’ he muttered. ‘An American called Faulks who used to fly in from Geneva. He was with them, I’m sure of it. But everyone else was just a voice on the phone. Believe me, Allegra, I tried to get out so many times. Tried to give it up. But the older I got, the harder it became to throw everything away.’
‘Throw what away?’
‘Oh, you don’t understand. You’re too young.’ He gave an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up as if she had somehow let him down. ‘You don’t know what it means to be old, to be out of breath from tying your shoelaces, to not be able to take a piss without it hurting.’
‘What’s that got to do…?’
‘My books, my research-everything I’d ever worked for…my whole life. It would all have been for nothing if they’d leaked my involvement.’
‘Your books?’ she repeated with an empty laugh. ‘Your books!’
‘Don’t you see?’ he pleaded, a desperate edge to his voice now. ‘I had no choice. My reputation was all I had left.’
‘No,’ she said, with a broken smile. ‘You had me.’
FORTY-FIVE
Quai du Mont Blanc, Geneva 19th March-11.16 a.m.
There was a definite spring in Earl Faulks’s step that morning, despite the slightly bitter taste left by Deena Carroll’s sermonising earlier. After everything he’d done for them over the years…the ungrateful bitch. The truth was that, having thought about it, he was rather glad she’d turned him down. With Klein as good as dead, he was no use to him any more anyway, so why do her any favours? Better to give someone else a sniff of the action.
Besides, he could afford to take a small risk. Things were going well. Much better, in fact than he had anticipated. His courier had cleared the border at Lake Lugano that morning and was due down at the Free Port any time now. In Rome, meanwhile, events were unfolding far more quickly and dramatically than he had ever dreamt would be possible. That was the beauty of the Italians, he mused. They were an amaretto paper of a race -ready to ignite at the faintest spark.
There had been that unhelpful little episode with the kouros at the Getty, of course, although for the moment at least, tempers seemed to have cooled. Having seen the ivory mask, Verity had understood that there was a far greater prize at stake here than a dry academic debate over a statue’s marble type and muscle tone. Barring any last-minute disaster, she was due in from Madrid around lunchtime the following day.
Until then he had an auction to prepare for, lots to examine, commission bids to place…On cue, his car drew up outside Sotheby’s. He sat back, waiting for his chauffer to jog round and open his door, but then waved him away when his phone began to ring. An American number that he didn’t recognise. A call he wanted to take.
‘Faulks.’
‘This is Kezman,’ the voice replied.
‘Mr Kezman…’ Faulks checked his watch in surprise-a classic fluted steel Boucheron. ‘Thank you for returning my call. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so late.’
‘I’m in the casino business. This is early,’ he growled.
‘Mr Kezman, I don’t know if you know…’
‘Yeah, I know who you are,’ he shot back. ‘Avner Klein’s a personal friend. He told me about you.’
‘And he told me about you,’ purred Faulks. ‘Said you were a shrewd collector.’
‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass. I pay people for that and I guarantee they’ve all got bigger tits than you. If you’ve got something to sell, sell it.’
‘Fair enough. Here’s the pitch: seven and a half million and your name in lights.’
‘My name’s in ten foot neon out on the Strip already.’ Kezman gave an impatient laugh. ‘Tell me about the money.’
‘Seven and a half million dollars,’ Faulks repeated slowly. ‘Risk free.’
