‘Which must make the other bloke Moretti,’ Archie guessed, nodding towards a short man wearing glasses who was seated on the other side of Santos. Completely bald across the top, his scalp gleaming under the lights, he had a bristling wirewool moustache that matched the hair clinging stubbornly to the back and sides of his head. He was wearing a grey cardigan and brown corduroy trousers, looking more like someone’s grandfather than the head of one of the mafia’s most powerful families.
Tom nodded but looked past him, distracted by the gagged and bound figure he could see slumped in a chair to Faulks’s left. It was Allegra. Still alive, thank God, although there was no telling what they might have done to her. Or what they might still be planning.
‘She wants to speak to us,’ Faulks protested. ‘She said she had a message.’
‘Of course she does,’ Santos shot back in English, his tone at once angry and mocking. ‘She’s working on the Ricci and Argento cases.’ He glanced across at De Luca. ‘I thought you said you’d taken care of her?’
De Luca shrugged, gazing at Allegra with a slightly dazed look.
‘I thought I had.’
‘She managed to locate and break into my warehouse,’ Faulks retorted. ‘Who knows what else she’s found out.’
‘She broke in and, from what you’ve told us, took nothing apart from your pride,’ Santos reminded him. ‘You should have taken care of her in Geneva. You have no business here.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I have two seats on this council.’ Faulks spoke in a cold, deliberate tone. ‘I have as much right to be here as anyone. If not more.’
‘An accident of history that you delight in reminding us of,’ De Luca said dryly.
Santos took a deep breath, attempting what Tom assumed was intended to be a more conciliatory tone.
‘This meeting was called by the Moretti and De Luca families-’ he nodded at the two men either side of him in turn-‘as representatives of the founding members of the Delian League, to resolve their recent…disagreements. Disagreements that, as we all know, have led to two former members of this council not being here with us tonight.’
‘We had nothing to do with D’Arcy’s death,’ Moretti insisted angrily.
‘Cavalli was a traitor who deserved what he got,’ De Luca retorted, both men standing up and squaring off.
‘Enough!’ Santos called out. Muttering, they both sat down. Santos turned back to face Faulks. ‘They asked me here to help mediate a settlement. I let you know we were meeting as a courtesy. But, as I told you when we spoke, there was no need for you to come.’
Faulks looked at them, then nodded sullenly towards Allegra.
‘Then what am I meant to do with her?’
‘What you should have done already.’
‘I dig bodies up, not bury them,’ Faulks said through gritted teeth.
‘Then I’ll finish what you are too weak to begin,’ Santos snapped, taking his gun out from under his jacket and aiming it at Allegra’s head.
SEVENTY-NINE
20th March-10.54 p.m.
A shot rang out. Santos fell back with a cry, clutching his arm.
‘Sit the fuck down. Don’t nobody move,’ Archie bellowed.
Tom pushed past him to Allegra, pulling the gag out of her mouth, then slicing her wrists free.
‘Are you okay?’ he breathed as she fell gratefully into his arms.
She nodded, gave him a weak smile. Turning, Tom scooped Santos’s weapon off the floor and quickly searched the others.
‘I’m bleeding,’ Santos shrieked.
‘It’s a graze. You’ll live,’ Tom snapped.
‘Pity,’ Archie intoned behind him. Looking up, Faulks’s eyes widened in shocked recognition, although the others didn’t seem to notice his expression.
‘You have no idea what you’ve done,’ Santos hissed though clenched teeth, holding his arm to his chest. ‘You’re both dead men.’ He snatched a glance towards the entrance.
‘Who are you?’ Moretti demanded.
‘He’s Tom Kirk,’ De Luca said slowly, greeting Tom with a half-smile. ‘Also risen from the dead, it seems.’
‘Kirk?’ Moretti gasped.
‘Tom Kirk?’ Faulks gave a disbelieving smile, his face turning grey.
Tom frowned, confused. Some people, criminals especially, knew who he was, or at least who he had been. But that didn’t usually warrant this sort of reaction.
‘What do you want?’ Santos demanded.
‘The same as you,’ Tom said simply. ‘The Caravaggio.’
‘You’re robbing us?’ De Luca seemed to find this almost amusing.
‘I’m borrowing it,’ Tom corrected him.
‘You’ll never get it out of there,’ Faulks scoffed. ‘Not without destroying it.’
‘Even with these?’ Tom asked, holding up the monogrammed case he’d taken from Faulks’s safe. The dealer went pale, his eyes bulging. ‘Here, you might as well collect them all up,’ said Tom, tossing Allegra the box. ‘Although it is only the three watches I need, isn’t it?’
Moretti and De Luca swapped a dumbfounded look.
‘How did you know?’ De Luca asked as Allegra loosened his watch and then Moretti’s, before finding the sixth in Santos’s top pocket. ‘Did your…’
‘Santos has struck a deal to sell your painting,’ Tom explained. ‘We overheard him negotiating the terms yesterday in Monte Carlo. He let slip about the watches.’
Santos rose from his seat.
‘
‘Bullshit. Really?’ Tom smiled. ‘Dom?’ he called out.
A few moments later Dominique appeared, ushering Santos’s three sullen-faced men ahead of her. Eyes narrowing, Santos slumped back into his seat as she forced them on to the ground and made them sit with their hands on their heads.
‘These men work for Santos. We found them next door. You were the only people standing between him and the fifteen million dollars his Serbian buyers have promised him for the painting.’
‘He’s lying,’ Santos seethed, his eyes fixed on Tom. ‘It’s a trick. We all know to come to this place alone. I would never break our laws.’
‘Can you open it?’ Tom called across to Allegra, who was crouching in front of the case.
‘There are six plates,’ she said, pointing at the brass roundels set into the wall under the painting. ‘Each one’s engraved with a different Greek letter.’
Opening the box, she took out the first watch and carefully matched it to the corresponding plate, the case sinking into the crafted recess with a click. Then she repeated the exercise with another two watches and stood back, glancing across at Tom with a hopeful shrug. For a moment nothing happened. But then, with a low hum, the thick glass slid three feet to the right, leaving an opening that she could step through.
‘I’ll give her a hand,’ Archie volunteered, handing Tom his gun. He followed her through the gap into the narrow space behind the glass, and then helped her lift the unframed painting down. Carrying it back through with small, shuffling steps, they leaned it gently against the wall.
Tom stepped closer. He recognised the scene. It was exactly as he remembered it from the Polaroid Jennifer had shown him in her car. But there was no comparing that flat, lifeless image to the dramatic energy and dynamism of the original. The angel swooping down from heaven like an avenging harpy, the boy’s taunting face creased with a cruel laughter, Mary’s exhaustion and exultation, the fear and anticipation of the onlooking saints. Light and darkness. Divine perfection and human fallibility. Life and death. It was all there.
