feeling that she might in some way owe him something.
‘How did you find us?’
‘I had a back-up team watching Eco. They picked you up coming out of the gallery and followed you to where De Luca snatched you up and then out to Contarelli’s farmhouse. I sent my men in as soon as I could. Luckily, they weren’t too late.’
‘Luckily,’ Allegra repeated in a sarcastic tone, the thought of the plastic bag slick and tight against her lips still making her stomach turn.
‘So it was you that fed us the information about D’Arcy?’
‘I knew that he worked for De Luca,’ Gallo nodded. ‘So when I heard about the fire and that he’d gone missing, I realised it was probably connected. The problem was that I didn’t have the jurisdiction to investigate. Luckily for me, I’d seen enough of Allegra to know that, if I gave her the option, she’d follow up the lead herself rather than walk away.’
There was a long silence, Gallo glancing at each of them in turn with a look that threatened to veer into an apology, although Allegra knew that he’d never allow himself to actually say anything.
‘So what happens to Santos now?’ she asked eventually.
‘He sells the painting and leaves the country. As long as he never comes back, we forget about him and move on. Let him become someone else’s problem.’
‘And the Banco Rosalia?’
Gallo laughed.
‘The Banco Rosalia is bankrupt. That’s why he had to make a move for the painting. It was his last chance to get out with something before the news broke. Not that it ever will. The government and the Vatican have already agreed to jointly underwrite the losses and quietly wind the business down to avoid any bad press. No one will ever know a thing.’
Allegra shook her head angrily, her jaw clenching and throat tightening. The hypocrisy and injustice of a world where a murderer like Santos was allowed to go free to protect a cabal of corrupt politicians and God-knows who else, while Gambetta was…it made her feel dirty.
‘What about De Luca and Faulks? Aren’t you going to charge them?’ Tom asked hopefully.
‘What with?’ Gallo shrugged. ‘We know what Faulks does, but we’ve never had any proof that he’s broken an Italian law on Italian soil. And as for De Luca…’
‘Colonel!’ He was interrupted by an officer signalling urgently from the end of the bridge. ‘We’ve found them.’
EIGHTY-THREE
Via Appia Antica, Rome
21 March-12.29 a.m.
Sirens blaring, they swept through the city, outriders clearing their path, people pointing and staring. Twenty minutes later they reached the Via Appia Antica where curious faces were replaced by the sombre countenance of the Roman funerary monuments that, like foxes pinned down by their headlights, momentarily reared out of the darkness, only to slink away as soon as they had raced past.
‘A local patrol unit ran their plates as they came past,’ Gallo explained over the noise of the engine as soon as he had finished his call. ‘They came up registered to a vehicle stolen last week in Milan. When they tried to stop them, the driver lost control and rolled it into a tree.’
Peering through the seats in front of her, Allegra could see a faint glow on the horizon, a red hue with a blue-edged tint. She looked across to Tom, who gave her an encouraging smile and then reached for her hand. She understood what he was trying to tell her. That this was nearly all over. That they’d almost won.
There were two fire crews on the scene but they were holding back, their flaccid hoses lying uncoiled at their feet.
‘The fuel tank could go at any moment and there’s no danger of it spreading,’ one of the crew explained to Gallo. ‘We’re just going to let it die down a bit.’
Allegra led Tom to the edge of the semi-circle of policemen and passers-by that had formed around the burning ambulance like kids at a bonfire, the heat from the flames searing her cheeks. Deep ruts in the verge showed where the vehicle had careered off the road and into a ditch, a partially uprooted tree explaining why it hadn’t continued on into the field that lay on the other side of the hedge. One of the wheels was on fire and still slowly turning.
Abruptly, the fuel tank exploded, the ambulance jerking spasmodically, the noise of breaking glass and the tortured shriek of expanding metal coming from somewhere inside it. Sparks flitted though the air around them like fireflies.
Allegra glanced at Tom and followed his impassive gaze to the body that must have been thrown clear before the fire had broken out. It was the priest, Orlando. From the way he was lying it didn’t look like he would be getting up again. She turned back to the ambulance, straining to see through the swirling flames and smoke, and caught the charred outline of a body in the driver’s seat, head slumped forward, hands still gripping the wheel.
‘Santos?’ she asked Tom.
Tom shrugged and then turned away.
‘If you want it to be.’
EIGHTY-FOUR
The Getty Villa, Malibu, California
1st May-11.58 a.m.
One thing was certain-they had all been asked here to witness something special. The clue, as always, had been in the expense lavished on the engraved invitations, the quality of the champagne served at the welcoming reception and the bulging gift bags positioned next to the exit.
When it came to what was going to be announced, however, opinions were more divided. Opinions that, as the minutes passed, grew ever more outlandish and unlikely, until some were confidently predicting that the entire collection of the British Museum was even now being loaded into containers to be shipped to California, and others that it was the Getty itself that was relocating to Beijing. As guesswork was layered on to conjecture, so the noise grew, until what had started as a gentle breeze of curious voices had grown into a deafening storm over which people were struggling to make themselves heard.
Then, without warning, the lights dimmed and three people stepped out on to the stage, one of them wearing sunglasses. The noise dropped as abruptly as if they had passed into the eye of a hurricane, leaving an eerie, pregnant silence.
The shortest person, a man, approached the lectern and gripped its sides, seemingly comforted by its varnished solidity. A large screen behind him showed a close-up of his face-pink, fleshy and sweating.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Director Bury began nervously, licking the corners of his mouth. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you here today. As many of you know, our founder had a simple vision. It was that art has a civilising influence in society, and should therefore be made available to the public for their education and enjoyment.’ He paused, his voice growing in confidence as a polite round of applause rippled through the crowd. ‘It is a vision that continues to inspire us today as we seek to collect, preserve, exhibit and interpret art of the highest quality. More importantly, it is a vision that continues to inspire others into the most extraordinary acts of generosity. Acts of generosity that have led us today to what I believe is the single most important acquisition in the museum’s history. Dr Bruce, please.’
He retreated a few steps, glistening and exultant, and led the clapping as Verity stepped forward. Saying nothing, she waited for the applause to die down, and then nodded. The stage was immediately plunged into
