Turned to Stone (2 page)

PART I

ACCURSED MEDUSA

1

October 2013—El Burgo de Osma—Soria (Spain)

When Jaime Azcárate walked into the rustic restaurant on Calle Mayor at three in the afternoon, the last thing on his mind was the possibility that he was about to get himself into one of his frequent scrapes. Some people run away from problems and lead peaceful, mundane lives from the day they’re born until they die; others seek out excitement and danger, even when simply popping out to buy bread. Jaime Azcárate belonged to a third category of people: those who, without ever intending to, act as magnets for conflict, mysteries, and trouble.

That afternoon, Jaime was looking for none of these things. All he wanted to do was try some of the region’s culinary specialties, perhaps
castellano
stew or some pickled partridge. He was famished after touring the Hospital de San Agustín, the university façade, and the Episcopal Palace, and had wandered the streets extensively, taking in the touristy atmosphere of the town. It had been difficult to find accommodations because the cathedral’s
Ars Homini
exhibit had attracted crowds from all over Spain. But after much searching he’d found an available room in a modest guesthouse where there’d been a last-minute cancellation.

In the end, Jaime opted for a salad and a peppered tenderloin steak. As he waited for his lunch he scanned the small dining room. Of the seven tables, five were occupied, including his: two were taken up by families with noisy children; a couple sat in silence at a third; and at the table at the back, a man sat alone and ate as he typed on a tablet. Jaime thought he looked too professional to be a tourist and could not help feeling for the man.

For once, life’s injustices belong to someone else,
he thought.
Other people have to work, and I’m here on vacation.

That is . . . more or less on vacation,
he corrected himself. Though the trip to see the exhibition had been planned for pleasure, he knew that Laura Rodríguez, editor of
Arcadia
, would ask him to write a few lines for the magazine’s next issue.

For several weeks now he had felt an inexplicable inner turmoil. He didn’t know whether to attribute it to all the changes happening around him or to how little he himself had changed. At some point he had decided that the journey of life was more important than the destination, and ever since, he had felt fulfilled, free, and happy. His work at
Arcadia
made it possible for him to enjoy his independence while simultaneously making use of his training as an art historian and realizing his vocation as a journalist. Still, for reasons he didn’t understand, he’d been feeling a void for almost a month, which was why he had decided to take things easy and get away from his usual surroundings for a few days.

The waiter brought out the salad, and Jaime dressed it in oil and a splash of vinegar. He’d just pierced an asparagus spear and was lifting the fork to his mouth when he heard a timid cough off to his side.

Jaime turned and saw the man who a few moments earlier had been eating and working at the back table. Now, he was standing as stiff as the asparagus still quivering on Jaime’s fork. The man smiled with perfect teeth, and his bronzed skin was covered in tiny scars, like furrows on a sown field. The graying roots of his blond hair suggested he was in his fifties, and the body under the brown suit appeared strong and fit. His computer tablet was now tucked under his arm, and he wore an expensive-looking pair of leather gloves despite the warm temperature in the restaurant.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said, “but are you Jaime Azcárate?”

Jaime did not know what to say. If he said no, he’d be lying, but if he said yes, he would be forced to talk to the man. The last thing he wanted right now was someone pestering him.

Curiosity won out. “Yes. And you are?”

“My name’s Amatriaín. Vicente Amatriaín. I’m with the EHU. Do you mind if I sit down? You can eat while we talk.”

Jaime did not need to be told he could eat while another person sat at his table, but out of politeness he merely gestured at the empty chair in front of him.

“Thank you,” said Amatriaín.

“Who did you say you’re with?”

“The EHU—the Europol Heritage Unit. Europol is the European Police Office. I’m sure you’ve seen us in the news.”

“I filled the TV with water and turned it into a fish tank long ago. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, not really. But I wouldn’t mind, given the crap they put on TV nowadays . . .”

“Allow me to explain. The Europol Heritage Unit was set up six months ago. It’s like the Narcotics or Homicide Department—but more sophisticated, shall we say, and operates throughout Europe.” Amatriaín showed his perfect teeth again. “It’s comprised of investigators and officers from all the security forces in the European Union. As you well know, a fanatical artifact thief can be as dangerous as any drug trafficker. Could you bring me a
café solo
, please?”

This request was directed at the waiter, who had used so much gel and hairspray, his head appeared shellacked. He had positioned himself near the table, making it impossible for them to speak privately. At this request, however, he nodded and withdrew, leaving Jaime and Amatriaín alone.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for disturbing you,” Amatriaín said, with a concern that seemed genuine to Jaime. “But I need to speak to you about a case we’re investigating.”

“How did you find me?”

“Your boss told me you were here on a trip.”

“Really? How discreet of her. I must remember to post my naked photos of her on Facebook.”

“I had to lean on her a little,” Amatriaín confessed. “She’s a tough woman.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you here alone?”

“People say a joy shared is a joy doubled, and a problem shared is a problem halved—but if you ask me, having the freedom to travel without considering anyone else is a problem joyfully solved.”

Amatriaín looked down at Jaime’s salad as if meditating on what he’d just heard.

“You said Graciela told you I was here,” Jaime prompted him.

“Yes. When I contacted the Center for Historical Research a few days ago, Dr. Isidro Requena confirmed that he and some of his researchers are prepared to cooperate with us. When I explained the case yesterday to your employer . . . sorry, what was her name?”

“Graciela.”

“Forgive me, but I thought
Arcadia
’s editor was named Laura.”

“And forgive
me
, but I had no reason to believe you’d actually met her. Now I do.”

Jaime popped a slice of boiled egg into his mouth while Amatriaín processed what had just happened. Glancing at him sideways, Jaime thought the white-toothed blond appeared annoyed.

“You’re quite clever,” said Amatriaín.

“And you’re beating around the bush. Why don’t you tell me what your problem is and why Laura let you come and find me on my weekend off?”

“A well-deserved break, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’ve been reading your articles, and the one you wrote a few years ago on the Brotherhood of Saint Fructus and Solomon’s Table was an excellent piece. It’s a shame you had to leave out everything related to the Mossad agents’ involvement in the operation.”

Jaime’s knife and fork fell onto his plate with a sharp metallic ring. At the table with the silent couple, the girl turned around and looked at him. Jaime gave an awkward smile by way of an apology.

“How do you know about that?” he asked.

“That’s not your concern. Anyone who works at the EHU knows these things. And remember that yesterday—”

“Yes, yes. I imagine Dr. Rodríguez embellished the story.”

In fact, Jaime knew that Laura Rodríguez never exaggerated; on the contrary, she tended to play down the adventures of her most zealous contributor. That was the only way she could stay out of trouble with her superiors—and with the law. Jaime felt certain that she would not have told this man half of what had happened to them at that accursed finca—an episode he would just as soon forget.

He made an effort to calm himself as he picked up his cutlery again. Amatriaín reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper that he placed in front of Jaime. “Do you know this work of art?”

Jaime identified the subject of the pencil drawing the moment he picked it up. It was a bust of Medusa, the creature from Greek mythology best known for being cursed with snakes in place of hair, and for turning to stone anyone who looked her in the eyes. The drawing itself had quick, precise strokes; it showed that the artist had a good command of volume, shade, and perspective.

“Very nice,” Jaime said after a while.

“It doesn’t tell you anything?”

“What’s it going to tell me? It’s a drawing. Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. It’s very good.”

“Thank you. But you don’t know the piece?”

“At first glance, no. It looks like a bust of Medusa. The sculpture is baroque—Italian, I’d guess.”

“I don’t know if I believe you. Are you telling me this particular piece doesn’t ring any bells?”

“Señor, it’s obvious from the way you’re insisting that you know I’m familiar with it. Why don’t you just hurry up and tell me what you want?”

“Let’s see,” a voice broke in. “One peppered tenderloin here. And one café solo there.”

The waiter with the impressive hair had arrived just in time to ease the tension. Amatriaín seemed to realize that he was going about things the wrong way, because when the waiter left he cut straight to the chase. “Two years ago you wrote an article about this statue, attributing to it a curse that has caused many of its owners to die under strange circumstances.”

“What’s wrong with that? Readers go crazy over wild stories.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. But the article’s bibliography included an essay you wrote with someone named Paloma Blasco, published in the
Revista Complutense
in 1999. In it, you attributed the work to the Italian sculptor Andrea Bolgi.”

“An essay, you say?”

“An essay on classical iconography in Italian baroque sculpture. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Laura Rodríguez—”

“Laura Rodríguez may look like an alien, with that red dye she puts in her hair, but she’s actually a human and she does make mistakes. Sorry, but if you don’t mind I’m here for a few days’ relaxation and—”

“Just one moment.” Amatriaín turned on his iPad. “You claim you have never written an essay on Italian baroque architecture—”

“Because it’s true.”

“Then can you explain this to me?”

Jaime froze when he saw the PDF document shown on the screen: “Gods and Monsters in Italian Baroque Sculpture.” By Paloma Blasco and Jaime Azcárate.

Hit and sunk by damn technology. “All right,” he conceded. “Am I supposed to feel guilty about this?”

“I suppose not. But I’d like to know why you lied to me.”

“Because my tenderloin’s going cold.”

“It’s a serious question.”

“And a serious answer. I’ve had a tough few days, and I’m trying to unplug from work.”

“I understand. But what can you lose by giving me a few more minutes? I’m sure you already know the bust of Medusa disappeared last month from the museum where it was on exhibit.”

Jaime admitted that he’d seen it in the news. The Pontecorvo House Museum in Verona. A robbery in the middle of the night, a security guard killed, and the statue gone. Amatriaín gave him a look. “Didn’t you say you don’t watch TV?”

“I get my news on Twitter.” Jaime realized right away that he’d put his foot in his mouth. What if this bore decided to follow him online? He sliced off a piece of tenderloin and tried it. Immediately, he regretted not ordering the pickled partridge. What part of “medium rare” had that chump with the haircut not understood?

“Both the plundering of archeological sites and thefts of works of art are on the rise,” said Amatriaín. “Since 2004, the number of cases has risen fivefold. While there have been isolated cases like the remarkable robbery at Oslo’s Munch Museum, most of the thefts have been from houses. This incident at the Pontecorvo is one of the rare occasions when thieves have been bold enough to break into a museum.”

“The Pontecorvo House Museum is hardly the Louvre,” Jaime pointed out. “Force a door, load the sculpture onto a wheelbarrow, and breeze out of there the same way you came in. It doesn’t seem like a particularly spectacular feat.”

“That’s the thing: there wasn’t even a broken window. No forced door. Nothing. The morning after the robbery, everything except the statue and the poor security guard were in their places.”

“What happened to the security guard, exactly? The press was vague on that point.”

“The girl in charge of opening up the museum found him on the floor. His back was broken from a fall. He was still alive when they took him to hospital, and en route he kept muttering something about being attacked by a woman with snakes for hair. He died two hours later.”

“How many security guards were there?”

“Just him. It’s a small museum, so they don’t need more than one.”