Читать книгу The Italian Letters - Linda Lambert - Страница 16

CHAPTER 8

The market in antiquities is perhaps the most corrupt and problematic aspect of the international art trade.

—Marion True

THE NEXT MORNING, Justine lay on her bed in the Hotel Michelangelo, staring at the cocktail napkin in her hand. An hour passed as a kaleidoscope of haunting scenes raced across her mind. The earthquake in Cairo, her disappointing love affair with Nasser, being expelled from her mother’s home country. But Amir is here . . . where do I want that relationship to go?

But it was the story that Andrea had told her in Alexandria that flooded her mind most prominently: the story of Andrea’s fiancé, Francois, landing in Algeria the night before he was kidnapped, tortured, and killed. His Foreign Legion uniform perfect in the afternoon sun, shining buttons and metals. His blinding smile. Francois had written to Andrea that last night. On the letter, he had doodled a sketch of the plane he’d flown across North Africa. So eager was she for news, his voice. Justine was convinced that the plane was a DC-2. The same plane, she’d come to learn, that was flown over Africa by Hal Blackburn, the codex thief’s father. So many questions she’d had for Andrea. But not asked. Had Francois expected Algeria to be like India—safe? So innocent, so unsuspecting he was. Andrea’s only grand passion, and the one from which she still hadn’t recovered.

A wave of guilt washed through Justine. How could she resent Andrea? Her secretiveness; her efforts to find momentary happiness with Morgan. Forcing herself to get out of bed and stop whining, Justine walked unsteadily to the bathroom and stood under the hot shower for several minutes while she made her decision. Oh, those Bellinis! She would go to the antiquities area alone. Andrea didn’t need to know . . . not yet. Although Justine was convinced that Andrea suspected something, she would protect her friend until she was sure.

She quietly opened her door, glanced across the hall to Andrea’s room. No light was coming from under the door; she heard no sound. Justine headed for the stairs, avoiding the noisy elevator.

Light swarmed into the narrow alleys off Piazza Navona. Bicycles wound their way by grocers filling bins with spring squash, carrots, and chard, alongside imported bananas and peaches. Street grocers gave way to shops distinguished by black brick and brass entrances. Justine stepped into a coffee shop and ordered an espresso, which she drank quickly before returning to the alley.

She walked more slowly now, staying in the portion of walkway still shaded from the searching early light, examining each antiquities shop in turn. Unknown to Justine, another figure moved rapidly, running toward her, south across Ponte San Angelo, turning briefly onto Tor di Nona, then continuing south, nearing Via Coronari. The two collided violently. Justine fell on the cobblestones, cutting her left elbow. The runner grabbed a cornerstone and kept her balance.

“What are you doing here?” demanded a breathless Justine, struggling to sit up.

“I could ask you the same thing,” answered Andrea, clearly angry that she was being left out of some adventure, even if concerned about her friend’s injury. “I often run in the early morning too. Just started up again recently. Trying to stay in shape.” Andrea held out her hand to help Justine up. “Weren’t we going to meet for breakfast at the hotel?”

Justine accepted the extended hand, brushed herself off, and examined her bleeding elbow. She pulled a handkerchief from her jean pocket and held it to the wound. “You run with the power of a train, my friend. Don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“People rarely lurk in the shadows on the left side of the street. What were you looking for?” Andrea asked even as she looked up and noted the row of antiquities shops. “Ah.”

“All right. I was looking for Blackburn. His shop, anyway. Thought I might recognize something.”

“Like a codex displayed in the front window?”

“Smartass. Let’s go back to the hotel. I need another shower and a bandage.”

The two women walked silently back to Hotel Michelangelo and entered their separate rooms.

Andrea called back over her shoulder, “Let me know when you’re out of the shower. I’ve got a small first aid kit.”

They chose a table in the hotel breakfast room by a bank of tall windows with lace curtains that overlooked the piazza and fountain. A young woman brought a tray of coffee and hot milk, motioning to a side table with pecorino and cold cuts, hard rolls, butter, and jams. Justine handed Andrea the cocktail napkin she’d found at lunch the day before and told her what she knew about the ancient DC-2. “And, of course, Francois flew . . .”

Andrea stared down, stirring her coffee, listening carefully, occasionally looking out at the Fountain of Four Rivers.

Justine stared at her friend across the table—an adventuress, daring and self-possessed. Capable of getting herself in over her head. “He’ll recognize you,” she said flatly. “I’ll go.”

Andrea grinned, as though she had hoped Justine would be enticed to confront Blackburn.

“One shop particularly interested me. It had many Egyptian artifacts, a bust of Horus, Isis with her sparrow hawk wings, amphora, a gold-plated chair, its back painted with hieroglyphics and poppies. Most of the other shops had Italian period furniture and lamps and an assortment of small Roman and Greek replica statues. However,” added Justine, “it seems too obvious.”

“May I speak with the owner of your shop, signore?” Justine asked a crumpled older man behind the cases of Egyptian jewelry, scarabs, and knives. The gentleman beheld a young woman in a dark gray suit, spike heels, and pearl earrings. Her hair was pulled into a chignon. The overall effect reminded him of Kim Novak in Vertigo. He loved American movies. “I’m Dr. Justine Hassouna with the Medea Foundation.”

The small man bowed slightly and walked to the back room. Calm voices could be heard through the curtain. Shortly, an erect man with long, lanky arms and legs and a wide girth emerged from the back of the cluttered shop. He was probably in his seventies, although his face was surprisingly free of wrinkles. Even though Justine was more than five foot eight, this man towered over her. He looked down, taking her hand. His blue eyes sparkled but revealed the pain that must have accompanied the scars on his left cheekbone and neck. “I am Enrico Lamberti,” he said gently. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Lamberti,” she said, shaking his hand. “Dr. Justine Hassouna. I’ve been commissioned by the Medea Foundation to find a certain codex, recently discovered in Cairo. When I saw your Egyptian displays, I thought you might be helpful.”

“Interesting. A codex, you say? What more can you tell me?”

“According to the acquisitions director of our foundation, the codex may have some connection to the Christian Holy Family. I believe it was found in St. Sergius Church.”

“Cairo, then. Remarkable,” said Lamberti, narrowing his eyes so that his full gray brows nearly touched. “Now that would be quite a find. But I’m afraid I can’t be of help. I do have in my keeping a small codex found near Jerusalem from around 200 CE, but it lacks provenance. A serious problem these days.”

“Indeed it is,” laughed Justine with delicacy. “The authorities no longer turn their heads when a significant discovery is traded. I sympathize with antiquities dealers such as yourself. It makes life difficult.”

“I’m impressed that such an obviously accomplished woman would care. I deeply appreciate your gesture of sympathy.” He bowed and took her hand once again, raising it slowly to his lips. “Is there any way that I can reach you if I come across information of interest?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit that my purse was taken last night, Mr. Lamberti, by Romas in Piazza Popolo. As a consequence, I have none of my cards with me. But I’ve written my cell number on this slip of paper.”

Blackburn grinned, accepting the paper without turning his eyes from hers.

“It was Blackburn all right,” she said, vividly remembering Andrea’s description. “I wasn’t fooled by him, and of course he wasn’t fooled by me. You were right, he certainly is a charmer.” Justine took off her jacket and placed it over the wrought iron chair in the coffee shop near Chiesa Nova. She vigorously rubbed her arms.

“How’s the elbow?”

“Better.” The Neosporin had been cooling.

“How did you come up with the Medea Foundation?” asked Andrea. “I haven’t heard of it.”

“I made it up,” grinned Justine. “This adventure reminds me of a multi-headed monster.” They both laughed. “What will we do with the information about Blackburn? Contact the Carabinieri? Egyptian embassy?” asked Justine, stirring her coffee with unusual vigor.

“What information?” Andrea asked.