Читать книгу The Heist - Daniel Silva - Страница 11

THE REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE Carabinieri, Italy’s national military police force, was located in the sestiere of Castello, not far from the Campo San Zaccaria. General Cesare Ferrari emerged from the building promptly at one. He had forsaken his blue uniform with its many medals and insignia and was wearing a business suit instead. One hand clutched a stainless steel attaché case; the other, the one missing two fingers, was thrust into the pocket of a well-cut overcoat. He removed the hand long enough to offer it to Gabriel. His smile was brief and formal. As usual, it had no influence upon his prosthetic right eye. Even Gabriel found its lifeless, unyielding gaze difficult to bear. It was like being studied by the all-seeing eye of an unforgiving God.

“You’re looking well,” said General Ferrari. “Being back in Venice obviously agrees with you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

The general’s second smile lasted scarcely longer than his first. “There isn’t much that happens in Italy that I don’t know about, especially when it concerns you.”

“How did you know?” Gabriel asked again.

“When you requested permission from our intelligence services to return to Venice, they forwarded that information to all relevant ministries and divisions of law enforcement. One of those places was the palazzo.”

The palazzo to which the general was referring overlooked the Piazza di Sant’Ignazio in the ancient center of Rome. It housed the Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, which was better known as the Art Squad. General Ferrari was its chief. And he was right about one thing, thought Gabriel. There wasn’t much that happened in Italy the general didn’t know about.

The son of schoolteachers from the impoverished Campania region, Ferrari had long been regarded as one of Italy’s most competent and accomplished law enforcement officials. During the 1970s, a time of terrorist bombings in Italy, he helped to neutralize the Communist Red Brigades. Then, during the Mafia wars of the 1980s, he served as a commander in the Camorra-infested Naples division. The assignment was so dangerous that Ferrari’s wife and three daughters were forced to live under twenty-four-hour guard. Ferrari himself was the target of numerous assassination attempts, including the letter-bomb attack that claimed his eye and two fingers.

The posting to the Art Squad was supposed to be a reward for a long and distinguished career. It was assumed Ferrari would merely follow in the footsteps of his lackluster predecessor, that he would shuffle papers, take long Roman lunches, and, occasionally, find one or two of the museum’s worth of paintings that were stolen in Italy each year. Instead, he immediately set about modernizing a once-effective unit that had been allowed to atrophy with age and neglect. Within days of his arrival, he fired half the staff and quickly replenished the ranks with aggressive young officers who actually knew something about art. He gave them a simple mandate. He wasn’t much interested in the street-level hoods who dabbled in art theft; he wanted the big fish, the bosses who brought the stolen goods to market. It didn’t take long for Ferrari’s new approach to pay dividends. More than a dozen important thieves were now behind bars, and statistics for art theft, while still astonishingly high, were beginning to show improvement.

“So what brings you to Venice?” Gabriel asked as he led the general between the temporary ponds in the Campo San Zaccaria.

“I had business in the north—Lake Como, to be specific.”

“Something got stolen?”

“No,” replied the general. “Someone got murdered.”

“Since when are dead bodies the business of the Art Squad?”

“When the decedent has a connection to the art world.”

Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face the general. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Why are you in Venice?”

“I’m here because of you, of course.”

“What does a dead body in Como have to do with me?”

“The person who found it.”

The general was smiling again, but the prosthetic eye was staring blankly into the middle distance. It was the eye of a man who knew everything, thought Gabriel. A man who was not about to take no for an answer.

They entered the church through the main doorway off the campo and made their way to Bellini’s famed San Zaccaria altarpiece. A tour group stood before it while a guide lectured sonorously on the subject of the painting’s most recent restoration, unaware that the man who had performed it was among his audience. Even General Ferrari seemed to find it amusing, though after a moment his monocular gaze began to wander. The Bellini was San Zaccaria’s most important piece, but the church contained several other notable paintings as well, including works by Tintoretto, Palma the Elder, and Van Dyke. It was just one example of why the Carabinieri maintained a dedicated unit of art detectives. Italy had been blessed with two things in abundance: art and professional criminals. Much of the art, like the art in the church, was poorly protected. And many of the criminals were bent on stealing every last bit of it.

On the opposite side of the nave was a small chapel that contained the crypt of its patron and a canvas by a minor Venetian painter that no one had bothered to clean in more than a century. General Ferrari lowered himself onto one of the pews, opened his metal attaché case, and removed a file folder. Then, from the folder, he drew a single eight-by-ten photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It showed a man of late middle age hanging by his wrists from a chandelier. The cause of death was not clear from the image, though it was obvious the man had been tortured savagely. The face was a bloody, swollen mess, and several swaths of skin and flesh had been carved away from the torso.

“Who was he?” asked Gabriel.

“His name was James Bradshaw, better known as Jack. He was a British subject, but he spent most of his time in Como, along with several thousand of his countrymen.” The general paused thoughtfully. “The British don’t seem to like living in their own country much these days, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“You’d have to ask them.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph and winced. “Was he married?”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“Significant other?”

“Apparently not.”

Gabriel returned the photograph to the general and asked what Jack Bradshaw had done for a living.

“He described himself as a consultant.”

“What sort?”

“He worked in the Middle East for several years as a diplomat. Then he retired early and went into business for himself. Apparently, he dispensed advice to British firms wishing to do business in the Arab world. He must have been quite good at his job,” the general added, “because his villa was among the most expensive on that part of the lake. It also contained a rather impressive collection of Italian art and antiquities.”

“Which explains the Art Squad’s interest in his death.”

“Partly,” said the general. “After all, having a nice collection is no crime.”

“Unless the collection is acquired in a way that skirts Italian law.”

“You’re always one step ahead of everyone else, aren’t you, Allon?” The general looked up at the darkened painting hanging on the wall of the chapel. “Why wasn’t this cleaned in the last restoration?”

“There wasn’t enough money.”

“The varnish is almost entirely opaque.” The general paused, then added, “Just like Jack Bradshaw.”

“May he rest in peace.”

“That’s not likely, not after a death like that.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to contemplate your own demise?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve had several. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about the collecting habits of Jack Bradshaw.”

“The late Mr. Bradshaw had a reputation for acquiring paintings that were not actually for sale.”

“Stolen paintings?”

“Those are your words, my friend. Not mine.”

“You were watching him?”

“Let us say that the Art Squad monitored his activities to the best of our ability.”

“How?”

“The usual ways,” answered the general evasively.

“I assume your men are doing a complete and thorough inventory of his collection.”

“As we speak.”

“And?”

“Thus far they’ve found nothing from our database of missing or stolen works.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to take back all the nasty things you said about Jack Bradshaw.”

“Just because there’s no evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

“Spoken like a true Italian policeman.”

It was clear from General Ferrari’s expression that he interpreted Gabriel’s remark as a compliment. Then, after a moment, he said, “One heard other things about the late Jack Bradshaw.”

“What sort of things?”

“That he wasn’t just a private collector, that he was involved in the illegal export of paintings and other works of art from Italian soil.” The general lowered his voice and added, “Which explains why your friend Julian Isherwood is in a great deal of trouble.”

“Julian Isherwood doesn’t trade in smuggled art.”

The general didn’t bother to respond. In his eyes, all art dealers were guilty of something.

“Where is he?” asked Gabriel.

“In my custody.”

“Has he been charged with anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Under Italian law, you can’t hold him for more than forty-eight hours without bringing him before a judge.”

“He was found standing over a dead body. I’ll think of something.”

“You know Julian had nothing to do with Bradshaw’s murder.”

“Don’t worry,” the general replied, “I have no plans to recommend charges at this time. But if it were to become public that your friend was meeting with a known smuggler, his career would be over. You see, Allon, in the art world, perception is reality.”

“What do I have to do to keep Julian’s name out of the papers?”

The general didn’t respond immediately; he was scrutinizing the photograph of Jack Bradshaw’s body.

“Why do you suppose they tortured him before killing him?” he asked at last.

“Maybe he owed them money.”

“Maybe,” agreed the general. “Or maybe he had something the killers wanted, something more valuable.”

“You were about to tell me what I have to do to save my friend.”

“Find out who killed Jack Bradshaw. And find out what they were looking for.”

“And if I refuse?”

“The London art world will be abuzz with nasty rumors.”

“You’re a cheap blackmailer, General Ferrari.”

“Blackmail is an ugly word.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “But in the art world, perception is reality.”