The Geneva Deception (15 page)

Lungotevere Gianicolense, Rome 19th March—7.37 a.m.

They had found a battered old Fiat a few streets from Cavalli’s house, Tom preferring it to the Mercedes parked just behind it. It was a suggestion that Allegra was already rather regretting, the rusted suspension jarring with every imperfection in the road as they headed north along the river. And yet she couldn’t fault his logic—the Fiat was coated in a thick layer of rainstreaked dirt that suggested that it hadn’t been used for weeks, and so was less likely to be missed.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she suddenly cut across the Ponte Principe Amedei di Savoia and pulled in on the Largo dei Fiorentini. ‘We can’t stop here. We’re still too close. If anyone’s seen us…’

‘If you want to get out, now’s your chance,’
she snapped, leaning across him and pushing his door open. ‘Otherwise, I want some answers.’

‘What sort of answers?’

‘How about a name?’

He sighed, then slammed the door shut.

‘It’s Tom. Tom Kirk.’ He made a point of holding out his hand so that she had to shake it rather formally. ‘Can we do the rest of the Q and A somewhere else?’

‘You said you knew what it was like to be on the run. Why? Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘You really want to do this here?’ he asked, his face screwed into a disbelieving frown. She returned his stare, jaw set firm. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually with a resigned sigh. ‘I…I used to be a thief.’

‘A thief?’ She smiled indulgently before realising that he wasn’t joking.

‘What sort of thief?’

‘Art mainly. Jewellery too. Whatever paid.’

She nodded slowly. It was strange, but it was almost as if she’d been expecting him to say something like this. It certainly seemed to fit him better than being police or FBI.

‘And now?’

‘Now I help recover pieces, advise museums on security, that sort of thing,’ he replied.

‘What’s any of that got to do with Cavalli?’

‘I told you. Jennifer had asked me to help her on a case before she was killed. Cavalli was the best lead I had as to who might have ordered the hit.’

‘So we both went there looking for answers,’ Allegra said with a rueful smile.

‘Why—what’s Cavalli to you?’

‘It’s what he is to Gallo that I care about.’ She turned back to face the front, her hands clutching the wheel.

‘Who’s Gallo?’ Tom frowned. ‘The person you’re running from?’

‘Colonel Massimo Gallo,’ she intoned in a bitter voice. ‘Head of the GICO—the organised crime unit of the Ministry of Finance—and the officer in charge of the two Caravaggio killings.’

‘What?’

‘Ricci and Argento,’ she explained impatiently. ‘The other murders I told you about. Their deaths had been staged to mirror to two Caravaggio paintings.’

‘Jennifer was lured to Las Vegas to help recover a Caravaggio stolen in the 1960s,’ Tom explained with the triumphant finality of someone laying down a winning poker hand.

‘You think…?’

‘Don’t you?’

There was a pause as she let this sink in. First the symbol. Then the mention of the Delian League. Now Caravaggio. Perhaps he was right. These surely couldn’t all be coincidences?

Speaking fast and confidently, she plunged into an account of the past few days—the murders of Ricci and Argento; the choice of locations; the
references to Caesar; the Caravaggio staging of the murder scenes; what she knew about Cavalli and his death; Gallo’s cold-blooded execution of Gambetta. It was only when she got to describing Aurelio’s treachery that her voice faltered. The memory of his betrayal was still too fresh, too raw for her to share anything more than the most basic details. Instead she quickly switched to her tortured flight from his apartment and the restless night that she had spent in the grimy airport hotel until, unable to sleep, she had decided to visit Cavalli’s apartment for herself and see what she could find there.

Tom listened to all this without interrupting and she realised when she had finished that it had been strangely calming to talk things through, even if she barely knew him. There had been so much going on, so many thoughts tripping over each other inside her head, that it had been surprisingly cathartic to lay all the different elements together end to end.

‘Somehow, it’s all linked,’ he said slowly when she had finished. ‘The murders, Caravaggio, the symbol…we just need to find out how.’

‘Is that all?’ she said with a bitter laugh.

‘Sometimes you just need to know who to ask.’

‘And you do?’ she asked in a sceptical tone.

‘I know someone who might be able to help.’ He nodded.

‘Someone we can trust?’

Tom took a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks.

‘More or less.’

‘What sort of an answer’s that?’ she snorted.

‘The sort of answer you get when you’re out of better ideas.’

There was a pause. Then with a resigned shrug she started the engine.

‘Where to?’

Fontana di Trevi, Rome 19th March—8.03 a.m.

Allegra heard the fountain before she saw it, a delirious, ecstatic roar of water that crashed and foamed over gnarled travertine rocks and carved foliage, tumbling in a joyful cascade into the open embrace of the wide basin below. This was no accident, Allegra knew, the Trevi having been deliberately positioned so that, no matter what route was taken, it could only be partially seen as it was approached, the anticipation building as the sound got louder until the monument finally revealed itself.

Despite the relatively early hour, the tourists were already out in force, some seated like an eager audience on the steps that encircled the basin’s low stage, others facing the opposite direction and flinging coins over their shoulders in the hope of securing their return to the Eternal City.
Oblivious to their catcalling and the popcorn burst of camera flashes, the statues ranged above them silently acted out an allegorical representation of the taming of the waters. Centre stage loomed Neptune’s brooding figure, his chariot frozen in flight, winged horses rearing dramatically out of the water and threatening to take the entire structure with them.

‘Was there a Trevi family?’ Tom asked as they paused briefly in front of it.

‘Trevi comes from Tre Via, the three streets that meet here,’ she corrected him in a curt voice. ‘Are we here for a history lesson or to actually see someone?’

‘That depends,’ he said with a shrug.

‘On what?’

‘On whether you can keep a secret.’

She gave a dismissive laugh.

‘How old are you, ten?’

Tom turned to face her, face set firm.

‘You can’t tell anyone about what you see.’

‘Oh come on,’ she snorted impatiently.

‘Yes or no?’ he insisted.

There was a pause. Then she gave a grudging nod.

‘Yes, fine, whatever.’

‘No crossed fingers?’

‘What?’ she exploded. ‘If this is some sort of…’

‘I’m only joking.’ He grinned. ‘Come on. It’s this way.’

He led her round to the right to the Vicolo Scavolino where a small doorway had been set into the side wall of the building directly behind the fountain
.
A flock of pigeons rendered fat and tame by years of overfeeding, barely stirred as they waded through them.

‘Here?’ she asked with a frown, glancing up at the carved papal escutcheon suspended over the entrance.

‘Here.’ He nodded, knocking sharply against the door’s weather-worn surface.

A few moments later it opened to reveal a young Chinese man dressed in black, his hair standing off his head as if he had been electrocuted. From the way he was awkwardly holding one hand behind his back, Allegra guessed that he was clutching a gun.

‘I’m here to see Johnny,’ Tom announced. ‘Tell him it’s Felix.’

The man gave them a cursory look, then shut the door again.

‘Felix?’ Allegra shot him a questioning look.

‘It’s a name people used to know me by when I was still in the game,’ he explained. ‘I try not to use it any more, but it’s how a lot of people still know me.’

‘The game?’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Is that a word people like you use to make you feel better about breaking the law?’

The door reopened before Tom had a chance
to answer, the man ushering them inside and then marching them along a low passageway, through a second door and then up a shallow flight of steps into a narrow room, with a stone staircase leading both up and down.

‘Where are we?’ Allegra hissed.

‘Listen,’ Tom replied.

She nodded, suddenly realising that the dull ringing in her ears was no longer the angry echo of the shot that had killed Gambetta but the muffled roar of water through the thick walls.

‘We’re behind the fountain,’ she breathed.

‘The Trevi was pretty much tacked on to the façade of the Palazzo Poli when they built it,’ Tom explained as the man ordered them up the stairs with a grunt. ‘This space was bricked off as a maintenance shaft, to provide access to the roof and the plumbing in the basement. Johnny cut a deal with the mayor to rent the attic.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Why? How else do you think he paid for his re-election campaign?’

They climbed to the first floor, then to the next, the fountain’s low rumble slowly fading, until it was little more than a distant hum. In its place, however, Allegra was increasingly aware of a whirring, rhythmical clattering noise. She glanced at Tom for an explanation, but he said nothing, his expression suggesting that he was rather enjoying her confusion.

Another man was waiting to greet them on the second-floor landing, a machine gun slung across his oversized Lakers shirt, in place of the rather less threatening Norinco Type 77 handgun that their escort was sporting. The higher they climbed, the more lethal the weaponry, it seemed.

The second man signalled at them to raise their arms and then quickly patted them down, confiscating Tom’s bag and Allegra’s gun and keys. Then he nodded at them to follow him to the foot of the next flight of stairs, where an armoured steel door and two more guards blocked their way. Unprompted, the door buzzed open.

Swapping a look, they made their way upstairs.

19th March—8.12 a.m.

The staircase led to a long, narrow attic room that seemed to run the width of the entire building. A line of squat windows squinted down on to the square below, their view obscured in places by the fountain’s massive stone pediment. And running down the centre of the room, hissing and rattling like an old steam engine under the low ceiling, was a huge printing press.

‘The sound of the fountain masks the noise of the machine,’ Tom called to her over the press’s raucous clatter as she approached it. ‘It’s actually five separate processes, although the machines have been laid out end to end. A simultan machine to print the background colours and patterns. An intaglio machine for the major design elements. A letterpress for the serial numbers. An offset press for the overcoating. And obviously a guillotine right at the end to cut the sheets to size.’

Allegra stepped closer to the press, trying to catch what was coming off the machine’s whirling drum, then looked back to Tom in shock.

‘Money?’

‘Euros.’ He nodded. ‘Johnny runs one of the world’s biggest counterfeiting operations outside of China. He used to print dollars, but no one wants them any more.’

‘Johnny who?’ she asked, looking back along the room and noticing the small army of people in blue overalls tending silently to the press.

‘Johnny Li. His father is Li Kai-Fu. Runs one of the most powerful Triad gangs in Hong Kong,’ Tom explained in a low voice. ‘A couple of years ago he posted his five sons around the world, via Cambridge, to help grow the family business. Johnny’s here, Paul’s in San Francisco, Ringo’s in Buenos Aires…’

‘He moved to Rio,’ a voice interrupted him. ‘Better weather, cheaper women.’

‘Johnny!’ Tom turned to greet the voice with a warm smile.

Li was young, perhaps only in his late twenties, with long dark hair that he was forever brushing from his eyes, a pierced lip, and a dotted line tattooed around his neck as if to show where to cut. He was also the only person on this floor not in overalls, dressed instead in a white Armani T-shirt, red Ferrari monogrammed jacket, expensively ripped Versace jeans with a stainless steel
key chain looping down one leg, and Prada trainers. Flanked by two unsmiling guards and balancing Allegra’s gun in his hand as if trying to guess its weight, his face was creased into an unwelcoming scowl.

‘What do you want, Felix?’ He had an unexpectedly strong English accent.

‘Bad time?’ Tom frowned, clearly surprised by his tone.

‘What do you expect when you turn up at my place with a cop?’ Li snapped, stabbing a rolledup newspaper towards him. ‘Even she is bent.’

Tom took the paper off him and scanned the front page, then handed it to Allegra with an awkward, almost apologetic look. She didn’t have to read much beyond the headline to understand why. Gallo was pinning Gambetta’s death on her. There she was, looking slightly arrogant in her crisp Carabinieri uniform, she had to admit. Beneath it was an article describing her ‘murderous rampage’, the text scrolling around her, as if the words themselves were worried about getting too close. She felt suddenly dizzy, as if the floor was moving under her, and was only vaguely aware of Tom’s voice.

‘She’s with me, now,’ he said.

‘Why, what do you want?’ Li shot back, flashing Allegra a suspicious glance.

‘Your help.’

‘I thought you’d retired?’ Li’s question sounded more like an accusation.

‘A friend of mine has been killed. We’re both after the people who did it.’

Li paused, glancing at Tom and Allegra in turn. Then he handed Allegra her gun back with a grudging nod.

‘What do you want to know?’

Tom handed Li the drawing of the symbol.

‘What can you tell me about this?’

Li took it over to an architect’s desk on which he had been examining a sheet of freshly printed notes under a microscope and angled it under the light. He glanced up at them with a wary look.

‘Is this who you think killed your friend?’

‘You know what it means?’ Allegra asked excitedly.

‘Of course I do,’ he snorted. ‘It’s the symbol of the Delian League.’

Allegra gave Tom a look. As they had both suspected, far from being a footnote in some dusty textbook, the Delian League, or rather some bastardised version of it, was clearly alive and well.

‘Who runs it?’ Tom pressed.

Li sat back.

‘Come on, Tom. You know that’s not how things work.’ He smiled indulgently as if gently scolding a child. ‘I’m running a business here, not a charity. Even for deserving causes like you.’

‘How much?’ Tom asked wearily.

‘Normally twenty-five thousand euro,’ Li said, picking at his fingernails. ‘But for you and your
friend I’m going to round it up to fifty. A little…five-o surcharge.’

‘Fifty thousand!’ Allegra exclaimed.

‘I can get it.’ Tom nodded. ‘But it’s going to take some time.’

‘I can wait.’ Li shrugged.

‘Well, we can’t,’ Tom insisted. ‘I’ll have to owe you.’

‘No deal.’ Li shook his head. ‘Not if you’re going up against the League. I want my money before they kill you.’

‘Why don’t you just pay yourself?’ Allegra tapped her finger angrily against the sheet of uncut notes on the desk.

‘This stuff is like dope,’ Li sniffed. ‘You never want to risk getting addicted to your own product.’

‘Come on, Johnny,’ Tom pleaded. ‘You know I’m good for it.’

Li took a deep breath, clicking his front teeth together slowly as he considered them in turn.

‘What about a down-payment?’ he asked. ‘You must have something on you?’

‘I’ve told you, we don’t…’

‘That watch, for example.’ Li nodded towards Tom’s wrist.

‘It’s not for sale,’ Tom insisted, quickly pulling his sleeve down.

‘Think of it as a deposit,’ Li suggested. ‘You can have it back when you bring me the cash.’

‘And you’ll tell us what we need to know?’ Allegra asked in a sceptical tone.

‘If I can.’

‘Tom?’ Allegra fixed Tom with a hopeful look. Unless they wanted to wait, it seemed like a reasonable deal. Tom said nothing, then gave a resigned shrug.

‘Fine.’ Sighing heavily, he took the watch off. ‘But I want it back.’

‘I’ll look after it,’ Li reassured him, fastening it carefully to his wrist.

‘Let’s start with the Delian League,’ Allegra suggested. ‘Who are they?’

‘The Delian League controls the illegal antiquities trade in Italy,’ Li answered simply. ‘Has done since the early seventies. Now, nothing leaves the country without going through them.’

‘And the tombaroli? Where do they fit in?’

‘They control the supply,’ Li explained. ‘Most of them are freelance. But since all the major antiquities buyers are foreign, the League controls access to the demand. The tombaroli either have to sell to them, or not sell at all.’

‘And the mafia?’ Tom interrupted. ‘Don’t they mind the League operating on their turf?’

‘The League
is
the mafia,’ Li laughed, before tapping his finger on the symbol. ‘That’s what the two snakes represent—one for the Cosa Nostra. One for the Banda della Magliana.’

‘The Banda della Magliana is run by the De
Luca family,’ Allegra explained, glancing at Tom. ‘They’re who Ricci worked for.’

‘The story I heard was that the Cosa Nostra was getting squeezed out of the drugs business by the ‘Ndrangheta. So when they realised there was money to be made in looting antiquities, they teamed up with the Banda della Magliana who controlled all the valuable Etruscan sites around Rome, on the basis that they would make more money if they operated as a cartel. The League’s been so successful that most of the other families have sold them access rights to their territories in return for a share of the profits.’

‘Who runs it now?’ Tom asked. ‘Where can we find them?’

Li went to answer, then paused, crossing one arm across his stomach and tapping his finger slowly against his lips.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

Tom gave a hollow laugh.

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘It’s nothing personal, Felix,’ Li said with a shrug. ‘I just want my money. And if I give you everything now, I know I’ll never see it.’

‘We had a deal,’ Allegra said angrily. Li had tricked them, first reeling them in to show them how much he knew and then holding out when they’d get to the punchline.

‘We still do,’ Li insisted. ‘Come back tomorrow
with the fifty k and I’ll tell you what side of the bed they all sleep on.’

‘We need to know now,’ Allegra snapped.

Another pause, Li first centring Tom’s watch on his wrist and then wiping the glass with his thumb.

‘What about the car?’ he asked without looking up.

‘What car?’ Tom frowned.

‘Cavalli’s Maserati,’ Allegra breathed, as she recognized the set of keys that Li had produced from his pocket as the ones that had been confiscated from her on the way in.

‘Do you have it?’ Li pressed.

‘No, but I know where it is,’ she replied warily, his forced indifference making her wonder if he hadn’t been carefully leading them up to this point all along. ‘Why?’

‘New deal,’ Li offered. ‘The car instead of the cash. That way you don’t have to wait.’

‘Done,’ Allegra confirmed eagerly, sliding the keys over to him with a relieved sigh. ‘It’s in the pound, but it should be easy enough for you to get to.’

Smiling, Li slid the keys back towards her.

‘That’s not quite what I had in mind.’