Book of Stolen Tales (14 page)

Shaheen cut Madison off. “A disease? What kind?”

“Don't know. Whatever it was Renwick caught it long ago—in childhood. It left him with severe physical abnormalities. People develop all kinds of wild theories about things. And they get obsessed with proving them. I tried to find out more from Renwick's business partner but that's all he knew. Renwick was pretty close-mouthed about it, apparently.”

Wilson slapped her file shut. “That will be all then. Thank you for coming in, Mr. Madison. We have your contact information and will likely be in touch. Will you be staying on in London?”

Madison stood up with obvious relief on his face. “Not unless the thief's still here. I have every intention of getting that book back.”

Wilson frowned. “That's not at all wise. Vigilantes just make matters worse. Leave this to the police.”

“If it isn't recovered I may as well kiss my business goodbye; rumors are already circulating back in New York. And there's a legal issue. The book was in my possession and, stolen or not, I might be liable, so there's a better than even chance I'll be on the line for a whack of money I don't have. Plus, the thief didn't act alone. Others are involved. They threatened me. If you'll pardon my frankness, I'm going to pay the assholes back.”

Madison took a few steps toward the door before appearing to think better of it and turning around. “About my time in Iraq”—he threw Shaheen a glance—”like you mentioned. Over there I got thrown under the bus. I felt like a pawn in someone else's chess game. I didn't know what the agenda was or who I could trust. I'm sick of that. I'm tired of lowlifes thinking they can fuck me over, ruin my business, and walk away laughing. I'm going on the offensive with this and will bring these people to justice whether it's official or not. I hesitated to say this before because you'd probably think it sounded ridiculously old-fashioned, but this is a matter of personal honor for me. It's no more complicated than that.” He threw Wilson a warm smile, nodded to Shaheen, and walked out the door.

As his footsteps retreated down the hall, Wilson said, “The last time I heard someone talk about personal honor was in an old movie right before the dueling scene. I expect that's just bluff. He's not given us the full story. And he didn't sit in a restaurant across from the Ritz snapping photos. Unfortunately, we can't prove it because the night clerk didn't notice when Madison got back to his hotel.”

“You're right on that one. Doesn't compute at all.”

“I wish we could stop him from leaving the country. Without more evidence we don't have the right to, especially an American citizen. You could, though,” Wilson said.

“No worries. He'll be under active surveillance. What do you think about the discrepancy as to whether he bought the entire book or just one of the volumes?” Shaheen asked.

“The book's gone. There's no evidence to support either claim. But I'd side with Sherrods, who told us the entire book was offered. They're an old and very respectable firm.”

Shaheen thought about the discussion with Madison for a moment. “Not sure I agree. He strikes me as pretty smart. If he was going to put something past us, I don't think he'd try something so obvious.”

“Well, your endorsement is just more speculation. He'll end up being trouble, I can sense it, even though there's nothing we can do to stop him right now. He was attending the auction at the time we've concluded the robbery and possible assault on Renwick took place. And realistically? As far as the book Renwick wanted is concerned, Madison is probably right. Our best chance of finding it will be when it turns up on the black market. That could be years from now.”

As she stood up, Shaheen noticed her somber pantsuit had no wrinkles, not even a speck of lint. He'd known a marine like that once. An officer. An older guy. Whenever he wore his dress uniform, it looked as if he'd personally ironed and starched it, and his shoes were polished till the light bounced off them. “Respect for the office. If you don't have respect for what you're doing, what else have you got?” the officer said when Shaheen remarked on his dress. Wilson was clearly of the same mind.

“Madison could just be good at spinning us,” Shaheen said after a moment. “But he might be on the level. If it were me, I'd do the same as him—get the job done myself.”

Wilson's disapproving look showed his reply didn't sit well with her. “It's highly unusual to include external personnel in one of our investigations but my superiors insisted. I don't care for that kind of murkiness. And I noticed your reaction when Madison referred to Renwick's illness. What was that all about? If there's some public health concern, I need to know.”

“That has to stay classified.”

Good though she was at keeping her facial expressions neutral, a spark of alarm flashed in her eyes. “God forbid we have to face another SARS outbreak or something like that. If Renwick is dead and his body's lying in some alley and he was a carrier.…”

Shaheen held his hand up. “Anything of that nature and we would have told you. If there's something to concern yourself about, you'll know.” He quickly changed the subject. “Madison was holding back on something.”

Wilson couldn't help smiling. “Definitely. Renwick's solicitor is certain he's involved in the book theft. If he's guilty, when and if the book turns up for sale his fingerprints will be all over it—metaphorically speaking.”

“You may not have a long wait. As I said, we'll be keeping a close eye on him.” Shaheen eased himself out of his chair. “That is if Interpol doesn't get him first.”

“That's not going to happen,” Wilson responded.

“Why not?”

“You'd have to steal the
Mona Lisa
before they got directly involved. Investigations are left to local or national police.”

“Who does own the book, by the way? Who filed that Interpol claim?”

“A wealthy Italian from Naples, Lorenzo Mancini,” Wilson said, “an aristocrat. The Comte de Soissons. It's a French title, although he uses the Italian word—
conte
. He's an investment banker, quite powerful and secretive. Mancini has the highest connections and the lowest, if you know what I mean. Put bluntly, he's a money launderer. Find a mound of dirty money and you'll pick up his trail.”

“He's from Naples? You mean he's with the Camorra?”

“No official link but he can call upon them anytime and he's useful to them as well. They don't operate as a tight group like the Sicilian Mafia do. I learned quite a bit about them when I assisted on a case involving one of their men in London a few years back. They follow an ancient tradition. The Greek Cumae settled Naples first and their society was structured around
fratria
, family-based fraternities headed by a patriarch. The Camorra form loose-knit cells centered around their families, similar to the fratria. Almost like tribes.”

Wilson gazed at the door Madison had just closed on his way out as if she could see the ghost of his image through it. “Whether or not Madison took that book, by involving himself in Mancini's affairs, he's already a dead man.”

Part Two

WITCH IN THE STONE BOAT

This spell I lay upon you, that you slacken not your course until you come to my brother in the underworld.

—ICELANDIC FAIRY TALE FROM
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK
BY ANDREW LANG

Thirteen

November 19, 2003

Naples, Italy

M
y morning interview at Scotland Yard went better than I hoped. The police hadn't found Alessio's body, or if they had, made no connection to me. The story I gave them went down smoothly enough. They would never have believed the truth of how an old man overpowered me or why I let him into my hotel room in the first place. But why was Special Forces there? They didn't waste time on stolen valuables without a compelling reason. Shaheen didn't look fit for army grunt let alone officer rank in an elite outfit. The questions multiplied and I had no answers.

The accusations about my abduction to Iraq last summer really burned me. Amazing how information gets twisted. Just being associated with a stolen artifact made me guilty in their eyes—never mind that I helped put the thieves behind bars. Simply being in Iraq made me untrustworthy. All the more reason to locate every volume of the book. And fast.

Late that afternoon, the plane's wings dipped
and banked a gentle curve to land at Naples' Capodichino Airport. From the air, densely packed buildings fanned out in the almost perfect half-basin cupping the glittering ultramarine harbor. A few freighters piled high with orange containers chugged out of the central port marked by its tall white-and-blue loading cranes. Yachts floated like tiny seagulls on the water. City streets zigzagged in a maze of angles.

They rolled up a movable stair for us to exit the plane like a scene out of
Casablanca
, although in the taxi on the way to my hotel the image of Havana came most vividly to mind. Like the old Cuban city, Naples had hundreds of exquisite Spanish-style six- and seven-story buildings, all with graceful balustrades, painted in pastels or constructed from the famous local yellow tufa stone. Many showed the wear of centuries. The guidebook I picked up in the airport claimed Naples boasted five hundred churches and from what I could see that had the ring of truth. In one block alone I spotted three Baroque beauties. But they were abandoned, their entrances padlocked and barricaded with chain-link fencing.

We battled with Vespas and motorbikes along palm-fringed cobblestone streets. A friend once told me Naples was a city on steroids and I thought how apt a description that was. Wherever I looked, everything was one continuous blur of motion. I took a deep breath, glad to have escaped my woes in London. It felt good to be here. My hotel on the harbor was near Castel Nuovo, a formidable fortress built by French crusader kings. After checking in I wandered across the street to the waterside promenade to take in the view.

Vesuvius loomed over the eastern edge of the harbor, dominating the landscape. Waning afternoon sun lit up the town nestled at its base, the cloak of forest on its lower slopes and the furrows of reddish stone making up the two cones at its peak. I couldn't take my eyes offit. The stratovolcano, once worshiped as a power of Jupiter, possessed the god's legendary temper. I could almost believe a living and vengeful god still dwelled there.

The humpbacked mountain sat placidly in the distance but its peacefulness was deceptive. Almost two millennia ago, clouds of deadly ash, burning rock, and superheated gas shot twenty miles into the sky, suffocating thousands of people. Its most recent eruption was in 1944. No one believed that would be the last.

We all get used to the natural environment we live in and in time take it for granted. Central Park is like that for me, even though I always look forward to walking its shaded paths. I imagined that here it was different; you could never really let your guard down and Vesuvius's presence contributed significantly to the boisterous Neapolitan character. Living here would be like walking blindfolded through a minefield with a whistle on your lips.

I had the evening in Naples to myself because it was much too late to visit Ewan Fraser at the library. At a café on the edge of Piazza del Plebiscito, I stretched out my legs and basked in the sun's warmth, a welcome change from the chill and fog of London. My vantage point served as a prime people-watching spot. The waiter brought me a cup of espresso strong enough to fuel a jet plane. I sipped at it, admiring the parade of gorgeous Neapolitan women with flowing Botticelli locks, tight jeans, fitted jackets, and trim little boots. After a while, reluctantly, I took my mind off those lovely visions and went over all that had recently transpired in London.

Why hadn't Alessio killed me when he had the chance? Why choose to wade dangerously farther into the river? The man had committed suicide in front of me and no matter how I tried, I couldn't make sense of his deliberate and awful end.