Goddess of Death (7 page)

‘Just what exactly are you trying to say?’ Carmela asked, the bitterness fading, a true curiosity emerging in her voice.

Peter Steiner glanced at Arnold, and smiled. ‘One should never make assumptions when not all the facts have been placed on the table. Yes, I forged release notes, but retaining the items in my home, that was not theft, not the kind of theft that had been going on for years, theft committed by the directors of the museums, the auction houses, the supporters of the
tombaroli
, the faceless men of the
cordata
who benefited most from the ongoing
depredations … The fact is, as an administrator in the museum I soon became aware of what was going on. And when I realized the scale of the operations I knew that I would be well advised to keep even more careful records of what was happening. Personal records, if you understand what I mean.’

He drained the glass, placed it on a table at his elbow, leaned back in his chair and stared stonily at Carmela. ‘Yes, I forged release notes. Yes, I set up a couple of bank accounts to supplement the measly salary that was paid to me at the museum. But the so-called thefts … I merely wanted the items at my home to enjoy them, to have the glory of their presence and their antiquity beside me in the long, lonely evenings … But I had taken precautions. In the course of my work I obtained much documentation, and I copied those documents. Transactions, payments, names, places, items. I photocopied them because I knew I might need them. And need them I did when I was accused of theft.’

Carmela glanced at Arnold then turned back to Steiner. ‘What photocopies are you talking about?’

Steiner’s lips curled bitterly. ‘Copies of documents that I handed to my lawyers, during the pre-trial negotiations.’

‘Negotiations?’

‘With the directors of the museum.’

‘You tried to cut a deal?’ Arnold asked, realizing what the scenario describer by Steiner might mean.

Steiner nodded. ‘I had a strong hand. My lawyers saw the documents. They put a case to the directors. I agreed to move on. They would drop the accusations. We would go our separate ways. Nothing would be exposed.
Nothing
.’

Carmela frowned. ‘So how did these negotiations break down?’

Cynicism entered Steiner’s tone. ‘The way of the world. My lawyers suddenly discharged themselves. The new legal team assigned to me stated that no documentation had been turned
over to them. My cards had been quietly disposed of: I had no bargaining position. So I faced charges of theft. The false accounting, on the other hand, the prosecution quietly dropped those charges. It made sense. To bring them in would have demanded evidence being produced in court which would have proved … interesting.’

‘You didn’t raise these issues in your trial,’ Arnold surmised.

Steiner shook his head. ‘I would have gained nothing by doing so. The proofs were no longer in my possession. It was better to take the theft charges as proved. Make no mention of the documentation filched from me by lawyers who had been corrupted by the directors. I could prove nothing. So I had to stay silent. Accept the prison term. Sit out the years, and wait.’

‘But now …’

‘I repeat. The time has come for revenge.’

Arnold sighed, looked out of the window. A container ship, far out at sea, was negotiating the cape. A light breeze had risen, soughing through the pine trees, rippling the surface of the pool below the terrace. Somewhere in the house an open door slammed.

‘How can you obtain this revenge?’ Carmela demanded.

‘The papers, the documents I had copied, I had given them to my lawyers. When they left the case they took them, or more probably handed them over to my persecutors for destruction. But they were not the only copies I had. I was not that big a fool. Further copies had been deposited by me in a bank vault. I could not get access to them while I was on trial. But my trial and imprisonment are now in the past. I have freedom. I have access to the papers. And I can get my revenge on men who made far worse depredations than I. Which is why I called you, Signorina Cacciatore. I am prepared to hand over these documents to you. So that you can achieve the revenge for me. Your committee will have the ammunition: I assume you still have the organization and the incentive, like me, to make these men pay.’

Carmela was still wary. She was silent for a little while, breathing hard, tempted by what Steiner had said. At last she murmured, ‘You want more than mere revenge.’

Peter Steiner smiled. He rose from his chair, walked across the room to a drinks cabinet. He poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and added some soda. He made no further attempt to offer them refreshment. He turned, sipped at his drink and eyed his two visitors. ‘You are right, of course. I am sure that in order to undertake your considerable investigations into the world of art looting, certain funds have been made available to you.’

‘You want payment.’

Steiner grimaced. ‘The word is crude. Let us say, rather, compensation.’

‘Compensation for what?’

Steiner waved his glass in a deprecating manner. ‘I am a reasonable man. My imprisonment, one could argue, was deserved. I had offended. I was jailed. But you see, while I live here in some luxury I have little behind me now, financially. When I was at the museum I was in receipt of a salary, I had pension arrangements, and, shall we say, opportunities to enhance my earnings, albeit in an unconventional manner. All that is now lost to me. But I am not a greedy man. If we can reach an understanding on a level of compensation that would enable my … comfortable retirement, I would be prepared to hand over to your ISAC group information that I am sure you would find most useful.’

‘The copies of documents you have hidden in a bank vault.’

‘Exactly. On condition I would be no further involved in the matters. I have already felt the weight of the powerful men who caused me to be imprisoned. I have no further desire to expose myself to them. But the document copies will be enough to allow you to identify them, pursue them. I assure you.’

Carmela took a deep, thoughtful breath. ‘I don’t have
authority to agree to … compensation. I would have to obtain agreement of my committee, and probably my superiors.’

Steiner nodded. ‘I understand your position. But be careful to whom you speak,’ he warned.

Carmela was silent for a little while, considering the matter. ‘You’ve told me you have papers. I suppose you would not agree to giving me sight of them before compensation was agreed.’

Steiner humphed. ‘I am no fool. And I have been betrayed once already, by apparently respectable lawyers.’

Carmela bridled at the implication, but held her temper. ‘In discussing this offer with my colleagues, I would have to give some details, more than the broad outline you have given us. I would need names, or transactions, or the identity of looted artefacts….’

Steiner was silent. He returned to his chair, stared out at the distant ocean beyond the white-sanded cove below. At last, he said quietly, ‘I could give you one name. As an earnest of good faith.’

‘Such as?’

‘Nunza.’

Carmela drew in her breath. ‘Gabriel Nunza? Of the museum in Madrid?’

‘The same.’ Steiner eyed her narrowly. ‘But if you spoke to him immediately, he would tell you nothing. On the other hand, with details of some transactions also, you could probably persuade him….’

Carmela was breathing more quickly. ‘All this is … tenuous.’

‘A name, Nunza. And, from a different field, certain transactions. Such as the fate of certain pottery, some ancient vases that were …
acquired
in a robbery at a castle museum in the mountains of the Basilicata some twenty years ago.’

Carmela stiffened. A new tension had been added to her voice when she spoke. ‘The Basilicata robbery?’

Steiner nodded. ‘A man died there.’

Carmela turned away. She paced around the room, hands locked in front of her, caught in a suddenly powerful emotion. She glanced at Arnold in uncertainty, then looked away as though she was afraid of somehow exposing herself. Then she reached a decision. ‘We must leave,’ she announced. ‘I must talk to my colleagues.’

Steiner nodded and sipped his drink. ‘And then you will talk to me again. But do not wait too long. There are other ways in which I might be able to obtain my compensation. Certainly, at more risk to myself. But, there are other ways.’

Arnold could make an educated guess. Blackmail.

‘We will be in touch,’ Carmela said and turned on her heel. Arnold hesitated, nodded to Steiner, then followed her out onto the terrace, and down the steps to the car. Carmela slipped behind the wheel, and drove them back down to the gates. They were already in the process of opening silently as they approached. As they turned into the roadway Arnold looked back. Peter Steiner had left his seat and was standing on the terrace, glass in hand, watching them leave.

A moment later he turned away, and was lost to view.

T
HAT
EVENING
, C
ARMELA
met Arnold in a restaurant over-looking the river. She had said little during their return to Albi, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Even over dinner she seemed distracted, less ebullient than usual. She seemed disinclined to refer to their recent meeting on the Costa Blanca. It was left to Arnold to raise the matter.

‘So do you think the information Steiner has will be as important as he claims?’ Arnold asked eventually.

She shrugged in sudden irritation. ‘Who knows? It depends on how firm it is. Names … that may be enough to commence investigations, but we will need more than that.’

‘You are still inclined to disbelieve him?’

‘I don’t know. He has … how do you say … he has an axe to grind. Perhaps he tells us things that cannot be supported by facts….’

Carefully, Arnold said, ‘I got the impression that you were going to be dismissive of what he had to say, until he mentioned certain items of pottery….’

Carmela was silent for a little while, toying with the white fish on her plate. She sipped at the glass of Sancerre before her. Finally, she murmured, ‘The items he was talking about have not emerged in the markets since they were stolen twenty years ago.’

‘Why are they so important?’

‘As Steiner said, a man died during the robbery. He died
unnecessarily. But he was a proud man, who had been brought low by politics. Yet a man who knew what was his duty. He should not have confronted the robbers. But he believed in honour and responsibility.’ She paused, almost dreamily, a faraway look in her dark eyes. ‘In a way, it was because of him that I was drawn to the work I do.’

Arnold raised his eyebrows. ‘You joined the
carabinieri
because of a man’s death?’

‘He had been an officer in the
carabinieri
at Rome. He had achieved rank, but had crossed the wrong people, been demoted, sent away to an unimportant post in southern Italy. His name was Tomaso Gandolfini.’ She glanced at Arnold and smiled sadly. ‘Colonel Gandolfini … he was my grandfather.’

Hesitatingly, as the meal progressed, Carmela explained how although he had died when she was very young, and her memories were vague she had almost hero-worshipped the image of her grandfather, his uniform, his proudly bristling moustaches, his rigid code of conduct, his stiffly-controlled behaviour ameliorated only by the indulgent attitude he showed towards his close family. As a child she had played in his office; as a young teenager she had visited his castle museum and felt the hurt he held inside him at what he saw as his humiliation, and she described in muted tones the grief she had experienced when he had been murdered. Later, after she and Arnold had left their table to sit on the restaurant terrace overlooking the river, to sip their coffee, she explained that while it had not been a conscious decision at the time, she had on reflection realized that underlying her commitment to join the
carabinieri
art squad there had always been the memory of her grandfather and the manner of his death.

‘So are there others in your family who have felt the same?’ Arnold asked.

Carmela smiled faintly, and shook her head. ‘No. I have two brothers but they work in the north of Italy: one in marketing,
the other engineering. I am the only one to have been touched by obsession.’

‘What about your cousin Colonel Messi?’

Carmela flickered a disturbed glance in his direction. ‘He is a second cousin only. I do not think he was ever close to the family, or my grandfather. He knew him, of course; I believe Arturo Messi sought some form of patronage from him at one time, when Colonel Gandolfini was still a man of consequence.’ She sighed. ‘My cousin, Colonel Messi, has made his own way, in a different branch of the service my grandfather worked in. The
Guardia di Finanza
.’

‘But like you he is involved in the hunt for looted antiquities,’ Arnold suggested.

Carmela shrugged. ‘Interested, rather than involved. It is not part of his mainstream work. And I do not believe his motivation is the same as mine.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But enough of this. We must now look forward. I must consult my colleagues on the committee, make arrangements, before I contact Steiner once more. This could be an interesting time, a breakthrough for my group. And you, Arnold, if you are still interested in joining the ISAC group, there is one thing you must do. I will give you a telephone number. It will be the contact you must make on your return to England.’

She scribbled a number in the pocket diary she took from her handbag, ripped out the page and handed it to him. ‘You will be required, I believe, to go to London.’

Arnold looked at the number. He felt a stirring of the blood. The interview with Steiner had raised excitement in his mind. It was all a far cry from the drudgery of his office work in Northumberland. He glanced at Carmela, and nodded.

He would make the call.

James Hope-Brierley was a tall, thin, middle-aged man whose balding, earnest appearance belied his years. His soft-brown
eyes and pink-fleshed mouth gave him a babyish, almost pleading expression but Arnold had no doubt that he would be a hard-headed administrator: he would have risen to the position of Assistant Secretary in the Culture Department on the basis of his ability, though there was something in his cut-glass accent that led Arnold to suppose that his background would also be impeccable. He preceded Arnold down the long carpeted corridor with a curiously crablike walk, his head turned over one shoulder to address Arnold the more conveniently.

‘We’ll use an office along here, Mr Landon. Should be all right. My own room is being refurbished. Sorry for the inconvenience. Decorators can be an awful nuisance, but there it is.’

He paused at the entrance to an office at the end of the corridor, hesitated, tapped lightly on the door and waited for a few moments. When there was no answer he smiled at Arnold, opened the door and stood aside to allow his guest to precede him into the room.

The broad table was dominated by piles of papers, scattered in some disarray: behind the desk wall to wall shelving was lined with volumes whose spines were edged in gilt. Arnold realized some of them were sets of statutes of the realm; others were official reports, blue books, bound copies of pamphlets, a few legal tomes. Hope-Brierley moved behind the desk clucking a disapproving tongue, and tentatively shuffled aside some of the papers to place his own file in front of the leather chair. He gestured to Arnold, intimating he should take the hard-backed chair placed directly opposite.

After a moment’s hesitation Hope-Brierley went back to the doorway, closed the door quietly. ‘I’m sure Alan won’t mind us using his office,’ he murmured as he returned to the leather chair. ‘I believe he’s around today, somewhere in the building, but he’ll be in some meeting or another. Now then, let’s get down to business.’ He paused, eyeing Arnold uncertainly. ‘You wouldn’t like some tea, or a coffee, would you?’

Arnold shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Hope-Brierley seemed relieved and sat down. He opened the file in front of him, cast his eye over the first few pages, frowned, then settled back, placed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his fleshy lips. ‘Right. This request we’ve had, about your representing HM Government on this committee thing, you’re up to scratch with the kind of work they’re involved in, I gather.’

Arnold nodded. ‘I’ve just got back from France, where I met the ISAC group. And I’ve known its chairman, Miss Cacciatore, for some years.’

‘Chairperson,’ Hope-Brierley murmured almost automatically. ‘Tell me, how did you come to be involved with her?’ He used the word
involved
in a slightly deprecatory manner.

‘I came across Miss Cacciatore when she visited the UK in her role as a member of the art squad of the Italian
Carabinieri
. We worked together thereafter, on two occasions. In Italy, and in La Rochelle.’

‘The first being the matter of the
calyx krater
,’ Hope-Brierley commented, making Arnold aware he had already consulted the file in front of him in some detail.

‘That’s right. And last year we got involved, as you put it, once more when she sought my assistance in the matter of the search for an ancient manuscript. It had been looted from Iraq after the fall of Saddam, and thereafter had quite a history.’

Hope-Brierley nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes … I have heard something about that matter. I believe one of my colleagues worked with you on that occasion.’ He smiled, stretching his fleshy lips to allow Arnold a glimpse of his pink tongue. ‘He speaks well of you. But having worked with him, you will already be aware of the restrictions that can be imposed when one gets involved with the activities of a government department.’

‘Official Secrets Act.’

‘Well, yes, there is that. You’ll be aware that you will be required to sign up, as we all have to, if you work as an official
representative of the government.’ The civil servant paused, eyeing Arnold carefully. ‘But tell me, why exactly are you interested in this particular work?’

Arnold shrugged. ‘I’ve been involved with antiquities all of my working life. My father was an enthusiast: he used to take me walking in the Yorkshire hills, searching for industrial archaeology remains. Later, it seemed only natural for me to take a job in a related field: not directly, in the first instance, because I began work in the Planning Department at Morpeth, before moving to the department of Museums and Antiquities. And there, I suppose, I discovered my real passion. It’s work which fascinates me, and always has.’

‘But this is rather different,’ Hope-Brierley observed. ‘The activity in which Miss Cacciatore and her colleagues is involved, it’s of an investigative nature. Not simply the search for and preservation of ancient artefacts; rather, the pursuit of criminals, no less.’

‘I’ve already been involved in that kind of work, as I’ve explained,’ Arnold replied somewhat testily. ‘Apart from the Iraqi manuscript, I worked with Carmela in the unravelling of the international trade in antiquities, the
cordata
, the
tombaroli
—’

‘Of course,’ Hope Brierley interrupted. ‘Even so, it was in a rather amateurish manner, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I’m not clear what you mean by that comment.’

Hope-Brierley raised a pink hand. ‘Please, don’t take offence. I merely meant that we have
professional
contacts in our
department
who act as advisers, and who have considerable experience in matters such as those which attract the attention of the Cacciatore committee.’

‘I believe you have already submitted the names of these advisers to Carmela.’

Hope-Brierley swallowed, wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘We have. And it seems they have been rejected.’ He frowned. ‘You know, the government has already taken steps to deal with
spoliation 
of antiques: the Holocaust Act in 2009 spelled out our interest and intentions. We have had experts working on matters such as the recovery of stolen artefacts for return to their original owners. Admittedly, the Act covers only matters arising from the Second World War, but nevertheless our people have experience, which Miss Cacciatore seems to distrust. She insists that she would like
you
to join the committee. As our representative. The problem is … well, we don’t usually work along those lines. If we are to fund a position such as the one on this investigative committee, this International Spoliation Advisory Committee …’ He paused, as though weighing up the name and finding it wanting in some way dismissed it mentally with a grimace of distaste. ‘If we fund such a position, we would like, indeed it’s normal practice, that we put in place people who are already known to us. The powers-that-be don’t care to have nominations thrust upon them.’

A short silence fell. Arnold felt in no position to comment. While he was attracted to joining Carmela’s committee work in Europe: he had deep roots in Northumberland, he had invested a great deal of time in the department at Morpeth, and although he was presently dissatisfied with the position to which he had been promoted it was nevertheless a wrench to even think about leaving the department, and working from a base in Italy. He waited, edgily. While they sat there in silence, Hope-Brierley had turned over several more pages in the file in front of him. He was drumming on the desk with the fingers of his left hand. He looked up at last, and was about to speak when the door behind Arnold was flung open and someone entered the room. Hope-Brierley shot to his feet, almost overturning the chair.

‘Minister! I must apologize. I was told you were unlikely to be using your office this afternoon, and the decorators are in and I needed to talk to—’

‘Don’t disturb yourself, James. I’ve only called in to pick up a few papers.’ The man who had entered turned to Arnold, and
smiled. Arnold recognized him immediately: the booming, confident tones were familiar; he had heard him speak, and seen him work the room in Stanislaus Kovlinski’s country residence.

‘Mr Stacey,’ Arnold said, rising to his feet.

Alan Stacey seemed pleased to be recognized, and he was wearing his professional politician’s smile. At Leverstone Hall Arnold had not got physically close to the man, seen him only at a certain distance. Now, as Stacey held out a hand, he was able to observe him more closely. Alan Stacey had the kind of handsome appearance which would have guaranteed him easy success in public life: a flashing smile, sharp, determinedly honest eyes, a classical profile and a thick mane of dark hair. But Arnold could also see that the minister’s handsome features were beginning to display evidence of over-indulgence: tiny broken veins in the patrician nose, the beginnings of a jowl, a clouding of the eyes. Too many late nights, a surfeit of expensive dinners. Even so, the smile remained imbued with professional charm, the attitude was still one of casual ease, and Arnold could appreciate how Kovlinski’s daughter might be swept off her feet. The handshake was surprisingly firm for a politician.