The Lost Relic (45 page)

After that, he poured himself another measure of whisky and stared at the phone for a long time. He saw Brooke’s face in his mind.

He didn’t even know where she was. Back in London, maybe, or still in Portugal with . . . it hurt to think about it. And the idea of talking to her confused and terrified him even more. He swallowed hard, grabbed the phone and stabbed out the digits of her mobile number. As he waited for it to ring, he downed an anxious gulp of whisky and tried to formulate what he wanted to say. Nothing came to him.

He caught his breath when a woman’s voice answered – but then he realised it was the sugary tones of Brooke’s answering service.

He hung up.
Piazza del Campidoglio, Rome

Ben’s journey back from Georgia had been a long one, and a couple of times he’d thought he wouldn’t make his rendezvous. In the end, he was there fifteen minutes early. The world passed him by as he stood in the middle of the square, licking a curly vanilla cone and gazing across at Michelangelo’s facade of the Palazzo dei Conservatori. White statues gleamed against the blue sky. Pigeons flapped about the piazza, squabbling over the scraps left by the tourists.

At exactly twelve o’clock, Ben saw Darcey making her way through the crowd towards him. She was wearing new clothes and carrying a shoulder bag. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her.

She trotted the last few steps towards him, put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him quickly. ‘All this way, for an ice cream?’

‘And a couple of other things,’ he said. ‘Am I one of them?’ she asked with a smile.

Ben scanned up and down the broad square. ‘She should be here in a minute. There she is.’

Darcey followed his gaze and saw a tall, attractive brunette in a dark trouser suit cutting across the square’s geometric paving towards them. ‘Looks glamorous. And familiar. Who is she?’

‘She’s someone we might be seeing an awful lot of on TV soon,’ Ben said. ‘Her name’s Silvana Lucenzi. She’s a reporter.’

Darcey raised an eyebrow. ‘
Might
be seeing an awful lot of?’

‘That depends, Darcey. Depends on you. Did you bring the file?’

She nodded, dipped a hand in her shoulder bag and brought out a clear plastic folder.

‘There are two ways we can go with this,’ Ben said. ‘One, we can call this guy Mason Ferris, tell him we have evidence that could sink him and his whole department for a thousand years and quietly blackmail him into dropping all the charges against both of us, as well as giving you your old job back. With promotion, of course.’

Darcey said nothing.

Ben nodded towards the approaching Silvana Lucenzi. ‘Two, we give the file to Silvana and let her do her thing. Press the nuclear button on these people. The world will never be the same again. Neither will your career. It’s your call.’

‘You think I’d even hesitate?’ she said. ‘Fuck ’em. Let’s do it.’

Silvana Lucenzi walked up to them, staring at Ben in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here? You are wanted by the police.’

‘Not any more,’ Darcey said, handing her the folder. ‘Not after this gets out.’

Silvana Lucenzi took it hesitantly. She flipped open the clear plastic cover, thumbed through a few of the pages and her eyes bugged. By the time she reached the last page, she was speechless.

‘It’s genuine,’ Ben said.

‘And if you want the original file,’ Darcey added, ‘you’ll have to come to London for it. Just name the place and the time.’

The reporter’s initial shock was already fading away rapidly. Ben could see the wheels turning. Possibilities spinning through her mind faster than news front pages through a printing press. Her eyes shone.

‘You just got yourself the hottest scoop in media history, Silvana,’ Ben said. ‘Now go and do what you do best.’

‘W-would the two of you like a coffee?’ Silvana asked. Ben and Darcey exchanged glances. ‘Some other time,’ Darcey told her.

They walked away through the crowds milling about the piazza, leaving Silvana rooted to the spot and still staring agape at the file in her hands.

‘Bombs away.’ Darcey laughed. She paused, looking at him as they walked. ‘So what next, Ben? You heading back to France?’

‘Thought I might stick around here for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘I’m kind of at a loose end now, aren’t I?’

‘Let me buy you lunch,’ he said.

She smiled at him. ‘Lunch would be a start.’

London

Less than an hour later

Mason Ferris was at his desk going through some papers when his phone rang. He calmly reached out and picked up the receiver. ‘Talk to me.’

The panicking, babbling voice on the other end was Brewster Blackmore’s. As Ferris listened, his jaw fell slowly open and the blood chugged to a halt in his veins.

‘They WHAT—!?’

For much of the historical background to this novel I am heavily indebted to my late and sadly-missed friend Contessa M. Manzini, whose spellbinding recollections about her life in 1920s Italy partly inspired me to write
The Lost Relic
. Thanks also to Tim Boswell for invaluable insider knowledge on
SOCA
and special police operations; as well as to all those others whose efforts, great or small, have contributed to the creation of this book.