Midnight Angels (23 page)

“How much longer?” the man asked, his voice giving Marco a jolt, breaking the quiet that had engulfed them.

“Any minute now,” Kate said. “Make a right at the corner of Via de’ Bardi at the start of the Ponte Vecchio.”

“Are you sure?” Marco said in as low a voice as he could.

Kate moved her right hand off the handlebar and patted his right knee. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

Marco eased the bike into a sharp turn around the low curb that brought them onto the wider paths of Via de’ Bardi, street merchants working both ends, hawking their high-end knockoffs to tourists looking for on-the-cheap buys. “Pull up next to the tall guy selling the handbags,” Kate said.

“And then?” the man asked, glancing up and down the active street.

“You’ll get one step closer to the Angels,” Kate said.

BANYON HELD A LEATHER
wallet in his hand and nodded to the tall African standing with his back to the Arno. “How much?” he asked.

The young man spread the fingers of his left hand. “Five,” he said, smiling. “Good price.”

“It would be,” Banyon said, “if I were holding real leather, but I’m not. Is it a fair price for a knockoff?”

“Three euros, then,” the African man said.

“I’m not here to bargain,” Banyon said. “I’ll pay the five. I just wanted to be clear on what it is you’re selling and I’m buying.”

The African stared at him and nodded. “Five,” he said, “for what you hold.”

“You just closed a deal, my friend,” Banyon said.

He handed the African a five-euro coin, then slipped the thin brown wallet into the front pocket of his cream-colored safari jacket and stepped onto the curb. Leaning over the low brick wall, he surveyed the luxury apartment buildings lining the other bank of the river. He marked the angles of the sun and the shade as they blended together and crisscrossed the Arno and onto the street at his back. He listened for the rumble of passing cars and scooters and took note that traffic was on the light side, especially for the time of day. There were a number of pedestrians on both sides of the street—some locals in a rush, others the usual assortment of tourists, folded maps in hand, not sure they were headed in the right direction but not too concerned about it if they weren’t. He always found Florence to be one of the most relaxing cities to visit, the people who called it home clearly in love with their town. That low-key manner seemed also to affect the tourists, causing them to dial down their excitement and simply cherish the moments spent in the company of the masters in the museums, the churches they would venture into, and the unforgettable if overpriced Tuscan fare.

Banyon was always struck by the way Florence seemed to be a city of both the very young and the very old. It was almost as if middle age was a period spent in some other place. But more likely it was because the young and the elderly were those with the time and desire to be out and about, leaving the city’s engines to be run by those hidden away in banks and office complexes. Whatever the reason, he found it a most pleasurable city to visit and one of the easiest to navigate, and he greeted an assignment in Florence with fondness. He was always eager to get here and slow to make his way back.

It was also one of the best places in the world, he believed, to kill someone.

The Florence police department was well-trained, but it was a small force and tended to gravitate toward the larger squares and main thoroughfares. As far as he could tell, in all the years he had worked his trade as the dark muscle of the Vittoria Society, there were few undercover officers walking the streets. And if there were any on duty, they would be in the neighborhoods where there was a possibility of terrorist sleeper cells. Florence didn’t have a high-crime track record and muggings were rare, which to Banyon meant the police stationed throughout the city were mostly concerned with street traffic and any disruptions to normal patterns. They were not as skilled as a New York plainclothes or uniform cop might be in reading a person’s body language, looking for either intent or the potential for malice, which made it all the easier for a professional, especially one as experienced as he was, to blend in with a crowd.

Turning away from the Arno, he spotted Kate and Marco rounding the corner on the young man’s bike, the mark keeping pace with them, his occasional glances to the left and right the only signal that he was at all apprehensive. Banyon walked back a few feet from the tall African man, who was nestled between another merchant moving sweatshirts and T-shirts and a shuttered kiosk. The African ignored him, his eyes focused on the old bicycle slowly veering his way and the smile of the young woman astride the front bar.

Banyon walked toward the kiosk and waited, looking once again at the Arno as its heavy current moved downstream, pushing its way out toward higher waters. It was, he thought, the most polluted river in the world.

And, somehow, the most charming.

KATE CAUGHT SIGHT
of the African and waved in his direction. She saw him leave his post, step in front of the large table covered with an array of leather goods and spread out his arms in welcome.

“What now?” the man walking alongside them asked.

“An old friend,” Kate said.

She jumped from her seat on the bike and ran the several feet that separated her from the narrow sidewalk to greet the African with a tight hug.
“Oh, Francis, you have no idea how happy I am to see you again,” she whispered, her arms around his neck, feeling his strong hands on her back.

“It’s been much too long,” Francis said.

“How are Hanna and little Francis?” Kate asked. “He must be so grown by now. It’s been years since I’ve seen either one.”

Francis gently released his hold on Kate but held onto her right hand. “There will be much time for us all to catch up,” he said.

“Let’s get on with our business, shall we?” the British man said, moving close to Kate and Francis, his back to Marco, who still sat on his bike, legs stretched out.

Francis positioned himself between the intruder and Kate, shielding her with his back as he turned toward Marco. “That is a very old bicycle you have,” Francis said. “It must be a gift from someone who loved you very much. There would be no other reason to keep it.”

“It was my father’s bike,” Marco said.

“I guess you didn’t hear me,” the British man said, stepping closer to Francis. “I have business with your lady friend and you’re in the way.”

“I know your business,” Francis said.

The man glared at him, the knife sliding slowly down his arm and into the palm of his right hand. “Get out of my way,” he said.

“As you wish,” Francis said, his body still shielding Kate, one foot on the curb, the other on the edge of the sidewalk, inches from the table filled with leather goods.

The man peered over Francis’s right shoulder to look at Kate. “Bring this game to an end now,” he snarled.

Kate shook her head.

“Not the answer you wanted, is it?” Francis said, flashing a wide smile.

The man swung the knife blade low and fast, his wrist at an angle, the aim meant to slice Francis from left to right. With a quick flick of his hand, Francis caught the man’s wrist in midswing, then leaned forward to land a powerful head butt across his face, producing a violent gush of blood. Reaching out his other arm, Francis held the man, turning him away from the leather table toward the low brick wall between the Arno and the shuttered kiosk. The British man’s head drooped and his eyes were
glassy. Francis looked at him and said in a soothing voice, “The Angels are close enough for you to touch.”

“With cold hands,” Banyon said.

He stood next to Francis now and swung open the small wooden door leading into the darkened kiosk. Francis pushed the man into the entryway and then stepped aside, casting a quick look down the street to his right, noting that their actions had garnered little attention. He then looked at Kate. He held her eyes, controlling her fear, even as the three soft muffled shots sounded from Banyon’s weapon, the British man falling down, head to one side, dead inside the stone silence of a shuttered kiosk.

Banyon locked the door to the kiosk, shouldered his weapon, walked past Francis and Kate and down the center of the street.

Marco stood frozen in place on his bicycle, having witnessed the entire bloody event. His front arms, locked onto the handlebars, were trembling, and his entire upper body shook. Kate had her hands cupped around her mouth, muzzling a scream. She didn’t move as Francis walked toward her, lifting a leather shoulder bag off his table. “Take the bag and your friend and get away from here,” he told her, his voice calm and steady.

“Did he have to die?” she managed to say.

“There was a time when our business was more like a chess match,” Francis said. “Now, it has become a death match, with casualties on both sides. Don’t ever lose sight of that.”

“What about the Angels?” Kate asked.

“They are safe,” Francis said, “at least for now.”

“Where can we go?” she asked. “They know what we look like. It won’t be long before someone else will be on us.”

“When you are off this street, look inside the shoulder bag,” he told her, gently leading her toward Marco and the bike. “You will find an address in there. It is a safe place that will allow you both to rest and get some food.”

Kate draped the bag over her head and shoulder and reached up to kiss Francis on the cheek. She jumped on Marco’s bike and waited. “It will be okay,” she told him, her voice urging him to start pedaling.

“It will never again be okay,” Marco said.

CHAPTER
29

“I
STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU ARE HERE,” GIOVANNI
Saltieri said, “asking me all these silly questions about a robbery when we have had no robbery occur.”

“You’ve been in this job how long now?” Clare Johnson asked. “About six, maybe seven years. That right?”

Saltieri nodded, tempted to reach for a fresh cigarette from the open pack of Lords resting on his desk next to an ornate letter opener. “It will be seven years this fall,” he said.

“Your job includes responsibility for the Vasari Corridor, correct?” Clare asked.

“I am responsible for the entire Uffizi,” Saltieri said, “and that would include the corridor.”

“Can I ask a stupid question?”

“Ha,” Saltieri said. “The ones you’ve asked so far have been plenty stupid.”

Clare sat back and crossed her legs, her black skirt revealing plenty. “Why is part of the corridor sealed?” she asked.

Saltieri paused before answering. “It is being repaired,” he said. “Once that work is completed, we will determine whether or not it should be reopened.”

“Besides you, who has access to the sealed-off portion?”

“I can’t answer that and I won’t until you tell me where this line of questioning is headed,” Saltieri said. “I’ve agreed to meet with you because of the favors you have done for me in the past. But now this conversation is starting to cross into areas that should be of no interest to you.”

They were sitting in Saltieri’s third-floor office in the Uffizi, a large room highlighted by wall-to-ceiling portraits of counts and dukes from the glory days of Florence. His desk was large and imposing, making him appear shorter than he actually was and, in ways she could not explain, adding at least ten years to his age. As befit his position of director of Uffizi security, Saltieri was impeccably dressed and stylish in manner and tone.

“Look,” Clare said, “you’ve known me long enough to know I don’t like to waste time, mine or anyone else’s. So for me to come up here and start asking about the sealed-off portion of a corridor no one—and I emphasize
no one
—is allowed to visit, there must be a good reason, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Saltieri said, “except I have yet to hear it.”

“You will, trust me,” she said. “But before we go there, I need some more information to see if I’m even close to being on the right track with this. My instincts tell me I am. But I still don’t have enough to wrap my hands around, and until I do, it’s all just talk to me.”

“Stay within the boundaries,” Saltieri said, “and I will do my best to answer your questions. But I will be more than angry if you aren’t as forthcoming with me. That’s as fair a deal as I can offer.”

“Do you keep any art in the sealed portion of the corridor?” Clare asked.

“Not as a rule,” Saltieri said. “But that’s not to say that, on occasion, when the need arises, we don’t place pieces there.”

“Are there any kept there on a permanent basis?”

Saltieri stared at her, smiled and slowly shook his head. “Have you ever been in the sealed portion of the corridor?”

“My understanding is that no one is allowed access,” Clare said, “other than you and people employed by you.”

“Well, if you
had
ever been in there, you would know it is not the place to put a work of art,
any
work, without expecting it to be ruined,” Saltieri said. “And you know me well enough to know I would never allow that.”

Clare uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, placing her hands on Saltieri’s desk. “Let’s be clear,” she said. “We both know what that corridor is used for, since we’ve both made money off it down the years. If I were looking to hide a work of art, especially a work that was only rumoured
to exist, that sealed corridor would be my first stop, and you would be the first man I would see.”

“Is that what this is about?” Saltieri asked. “You have a painting you need to keep out of the public eye?”

“Not exactly,” she said.

“Then
what
, exactly?” he asked.

“Were
you
keeping any work out of the public eye?” she asked. “And take a minute before you answer. I don’t need to tell you how severe the legal ramifications are for such offenses, especially in this country. So you can sit back and talk to me and we will work out an arrangement that, as always, will be beneficial to us both. Or I’ll leave here and speed-dial the Art Squad in Rome.”