Remorseless

by David George Clarke

  “All five,” said the contessa, with a dismissive toss of her head. “One for each of my great grandchildren. Not that they’ll be allowed anywhere near them until many years after I’ve gone. But they’ll have gained in value by then. Pay for their education.”

  She turned to Jennifer. “My account with these rogues goes back so far, my dear Ginevra, that I doubt your parents were born, let alone you. Such a lovely name, always liked it. Contact my office, they’ll sort everything out.”

  She held out a regal hand.

  “Now, perhaps you’d be so kind as to escort me to the lift. We can continue our little chat on the way down. My car’s waiting in the street.”

  “Little chat?” asked Maurizio Cambroni, raising a silver eyebrow. Jennifer had returned to the gallery and was heading for the accounts office.

  She stopped and walked over to him, smiling. “A rather one-sided chat, Signor Cambroni. The contessa was telling me all about the lovers she’s taken since the conte died.”

  “Hah!” barked Cambroni scornfully. “Her imagination is considerably more athletic than her body. She’s eighty-six, you know.”

  Jennifer nodded. “She told me. She’s very proud of it.”

  The corners of Cambroni’s mouth lifted in what passed with him for a smile. “You’ve done well today, Ginevra. Extremely well. The old girl normally ends up buying what I reserve for her, but it always takes several visits and endless haggling. I’ve never known her buy on a first viewing. Excellent work. There’ll be a good bonus coming your way, I promise you.”

  “Thank you, signore,” said Jennifer, her deferential tone hiding her indifference to the payment. As an undercover police officer, any payments she received for anything, including the salary from the gallery, would eventually end up in the Metropolitan Police coffers, not her own. All she was permitted to receive was her normal salary plus a special duties allowance.

  Jennifer’s comfortable and relaxed relationship with the Cambroni’s, Ettore in particular, was in sharp contrast to how she had felt during her early days at the gallery, four months previously.

  Following a probing interview, the pair had accepted her as the most qualified by far of the three candidates for the vacant post, after which they kept their distance, leaving her training to the ailing Maria Renzo while they cautiously awaited reports from the two faceless investigators assigned to follow her and to examine her apartment while she was at the gallery.

  Renzo herself was guarded in her acceptance after her experience with the dreadful Gabriella Panella. However, within a few days, Jennifer had charmed the woman with her knowledge and with the refined Milanese manners she could turn on when required.

  The first note of a thaw from the Cambronis came two days after the team of watchers sequestered in Pietro’s Florence apartment reported to Jennifer that her apartment had been searched. Although a professional job from the two Cambroni investigators, they failed to notice the carefully hidden array of micro surveillance cameras: the team had watched the entire operation as it happened. The outcome, reported back to the Cambronis by the senior of the investigators, was as it had been planned. Ginevra Mancini was a studious young woman with a love of art. She had all the normal photographs and mementos from her youth and childhood, with nostalgic shots of her now-dead parents. Her wardrobe indicated nothing wild or extreme in her leisure activities, while her music collection was a mainstream selection of classics and casual, inoffensive pop. She didn’t smoke, there was no alcohol and there were no drugs hidden anywhere. All in all, she was exactly what the gallery wanted: a conservative young lady with no ostentation. They simply needed reassurance.

  Nevertheless, the Cambronis were taking no chances. Jennifer’s apartment was searched twice more in the next three weeks and the investigators continued to follow her. However, rather than being concerned by the attention, Jennifer welcomed it as an opportunity to fine-tune her tradecraft.

  Her first real conversation with the elder Cambroni was the day after the third search of her apartment.

  “I seem to remember you saying in your interview that you have only recently moved to your present address, signorina. How are you getting on?”

  “Very well, thank you, signore. I like the apartment a lot. It’s large, airy, and surprisingly quiet. And it’s so convenient for the gallery.”

  “What about security? This city is not without its burglaries.”

  “It’s not bad, although the locks are all ancient. I don’t know how good they are.”

  “I know an excellent locksmith if you want one. He could update your apartment’s main door lock; give you peace of mind.”

  And give you a spare key, thought Jennifer, although her face registered no reaction to Cambroni’s unsubtle suggestion.

  “How kind of you, signore. Thank you so much.”

  Two months on and the thaw had continued. In the ‘public’ part of the gallery, sales were up for both walk-in and existing clients, all of whom were impressed by Jennifer’s knowledge and professionalism. She was careful to avoid expressing any interest in the other areas of the gallery, although she took a careful note of clients who were whisked directly to the upper floors. On the one occasion she mentioned recognising a well-known politician to Maria Renzo, she was put severely in her place.

  “Ginevra, under no circumstances do we talk about anyone who visits the gallery, you never know who’s listening. That applies both inside its walls and outside, where such indiscretion is absolutely forbidden. And,” she added in a discreet whisper, “never let Signor Maurizio or Signor Ettore hear you making such comments.”

  Jennifer’s first sight of the private gallery was forced on the Cambronis in late April by a long-time client, an ageing Italian movie star known for both his womanising and his connections with the underworld. Sergio Gianpietro Zaccaro was being escorted by Ettore Cambroni through the first floor gallery to the internal lift when his eyes fell on Jennifer who was working at a desk about thirty yards away.

  “Ettore!” cried Zaccaro, marching down the gallery to the confusion of Cambroni, “You have employed an angel to work here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Cambroni was too slow to prevent the actor gliding up to Jennifer, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

  “Bella signorina,” he gushed, his face and bad breath far too close for Jennifer’s liking. “I am in awe. You eclipse the normally unrivalled beauty of the enchanting paintings on this gallery’s walls.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it again. “Let me introduce myself. I am Sergio Gianpietro Zaccaro.” He paused, giving her time to be impressed before turning to Ettore Cambroni. “My dear friend, I insist this goddess be my guide to the collection you have waiting for me. Come, signorina, take my arm, escort me upstairs to show me what they have prepared.”

  Jennifer glanced at Ettore Cambroni. His face was set in disapproval, but he was in no position to refuse. The actor had money and was prepared to spend it. He let the gushing continue as they took the lift to the next floor.

  Knowing the gallery’s security cameras were probably following her every move, Jennifer had never ventured this far, given she’d been told it was out of bounds for her. She therefore had no idea what to expect. What she found was a modestly decorated space, smaller than the gallery below, the natural light from the high windows muted by plain curtains, the works on display lit by well-placed, unobtrusive spots. As Ettore Cambroni switched on some supplementary lights, Jennifer took in the twenty paintings on display, five of which she recognised immediately.

  She guided Zaccaro towards them. “As I’m sure Signor Cambroni has told you, signore, these portraits by Philippe Laurent are very special and their sale a rare opportunity. You are familiar with his work?” As she spoke, she glanced at Cambroni, noting with amusement the look of total surprise on his face.

  “They are new to me, bella,” said the actor. “When were they painted? They are divine.”

  Zaccaro matched every o
ne of Jennifer’s steps, ensuring their shoulders remained touching.

  “Laurent worked mainly in Marseille in the late seventeenth century,” replied Jennifer, quickly noting each work as she tried to ignore the invasion of her space. “Mainly portraits like these. He had a wonderful touch.”

  “I particularly like this one,” said Zaccaro, pointing across Jennifer’s body and letting his hand brush lightly over her breasts. “What do you think?” he added, his tone radiating innocence.

  I think I’d like to break your arm, thought Jennifer, but instead, we’ll just take you to the cleaners.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, as she moved away from his reach. “However, this one on the right is far better. Look at the brushwork. It stands out from the rest, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Zaccaro didn’t have a clue but he was prepared to be led. “Indubitably,” he declared as he turned to Cambroni. “That one, Ettore, I’ll definitely take that one and let you know about the others.”

  “I’m intrigued to know why you chose that particular portrait over the others, Ginevra,” said Ettore Cambroni once the sale was complete and Zaccaro had been sent on his way, disappointed not to have a dinner appointment with Jennifer.

  “It’s quite simple, signore,” said Jennifer with a careful nonchalance. “I strongly suspect it’s a fake, and yet the price is the same as the others, which I’m sure are genuine. He’s paid way over the odds for it, which is all he deserves after his groping.”

  “A fake?” Cambroni affected surprise although he knew full well. “How could you tell?”

  “There’s just something about it,” she said. “A freshness the others don’t have.”

  She shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I could be wrong of course; I’m no expert.”

  “I’ll have it checked,” said Cambroni. “If it is, it’s slipped through the net. However, I’m impressed by your knowledge, Ginevra, very impressed.”

  Jennifer smiled to herself. It had been a stroke of luck. The original of the Laurent in question was owned by Pietro Fabrelli and was hanging in the living room of the villa in Sardinia. Jennifer had seen and admired it every day for months.

  In early May, Jennifer’s campaign to win over the Cambronis took another significant step forward when Ettore Cambroni summoned her on an internal phone to go to the upper gallery to keep an eye on two clients while he made preparations for them elsewhere.

  “Of course, signore,” said Jennifer, putting down the catalogue she was reading and hurrying to the stairs. She was puzzled. No one had passed through the main gallery on the way to the private gallery on the floor above, so whoever the clients were, they must have accessed it through stairs or a lift she was unaware of. And Cambroni’s mention of another location, ‘elsewhere’ as he put it, was the first direct reference she had heard to further hidden galleries or studios Massimo Felice had suspected were in the building.

  She hurried up to the private gallery where she found Cambroni talking to two large, squarely built men in black suits, their faces both set in permanent snarls. Their whole demeanour spelt mob, but not the Italian one. One of the pair, dripping in gold bracelets and rings, was clearly the boss. His minder was trying to work his way through Cambroni’s attempt to simplify his Italian. They all turned as Jennifer came in, the visitors’ eyes unsubtly roaming her body.

  “Ah, Ginevra,” said Cambroni. “These two gentlemen are from Moscow. Perhaps you could speak English to them, answer any questions they have about these paintings while I check things for them upstairs.”

  As he walked past her, his voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Watch them like a hawk,” he said, shifting into a strong Florentine dialect the Russians would never understand even if they spoke some Italian. “Make sure they don’t steal anything; I don’t trust them an inch.”

  Jennifer turned to the Russians, who were still undressing her with their eyes.

  “Is there anything I can get you, signori?” she said, in English. “Some coffee or tea. Perhaps I can tell you something about these landscapes.” She took a step forward and pointed to the display which comprised five modernistic Florentine cityscapes.

  “You can get on that table and spread your legs,” the shorter, rougher looking man drawled in Russian, his mouth a lascivious snarl. “I’ll soften you up for my boss; he likes them warm and moist.”

  Jennifer fought to control her anger; it was imperative that they didn’t know she understood.

  The boss waved a dismissive hand. “You can keep her, Vasili, she’s far too bony. I don’t want splinters. And her tits are too small, nothing to get my hands round.”

  He turned away, seemingly more interested in the paintings. There was a silence as the first man continued to stare at Jennifer, his black eyes malevolent.

  Jennifer held her breath. She could almost smell his lust. She was sure she could put up a good fight if they went for her, but their sheer size and weight was intimidating. One good strike from that handful of rings could do her serious damage.

  The man snorted and turned to his boss. “You’re right, I’d probably snap her in two. And we don’t want to upset that twat Cambroni, not with the pile of paintings he has waiting for us.”

  The senior man chuckled harshly as he cracked his knuckles.

  “You know, the security’s not up to much here. Just that ape on the door. We could get the boys to call in another day, take him out, have their fun with this one, then go through the place, take the good stuff.”

  He turned towards Jennifer and frowned. She was making a point of looking towards the CCTV. She glanced at him and smiled. “Sorry, while you were talking, I was checking the security cameras are all responding; it’s one of my responsibilities. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Hearing a door open, she spun round.

  “Thank you, Ginevra,” said Cambroni as he strode towards them. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Jennifer walked up to him, intercepting his path. “I think it might be better if I accompany you, signore,” she said, her voice a barely audible whisper.

  Cambroni shook his head. “I don’t think so, Ginevra, I’ll—”

  “I speak Russian, signore,” she interrupted. “And I can assure you, they mean trouble.”

  Once the Russians had left, Jennifer was summoned to Cambroni senior’s office along with Ettore. The old man looked pained as he struggled with conflicting emotions. While he was angry that Jennifer had seen so much, he was at the same time delighted to have learned the Russians’ plans. His main interest now was ensuring the Russians were beaten at their own game. Ginevra Mancini could always be dealt with later if they decided she was a risk.

  “You are sure about what you heard, signorina?” he said to Jennifer.

  “Quite sure, signore. They made no attempt to disguise what they were saying since they assumed none of us understood. They want to have a quite valuable Russian painting tagged with your security system, but they plan to send a fake version and when it’s returned, accuse you of substituting the real one with a fake. After that, they intend to leverage what they called your dishonesty by taking control of your reputation among the other newly rich businessmen in Russia, many of whom are old-style crooks. They’ll keep quiet so long as you provide them with valuable paintings at bargain prices.”

  “Blackmail,” spat the old man, his face screwed in anger. “They don’t know who they are dealing with.”

  “They are playing it carefully, Babbo,” said the younger Cambroni. “They want us to go to Moscow to show us the real painting so we know we’ve seen the real thing, and then swap it for a fake before it’s sent here.”

  The old man stared at his son as his mind processed the problem. “We need the genuine painting to come here,” he muttered.

  “May I make a suggestion, signori?” asked Jennifer.

  Both men turned their heads to her.

  She took a breath. Two hours earlier, as far as these men were concerned she knew n
othing about the forgery side of their operation. Now here she was offering advice on how to go forward.

  “When I was in the workshop on the top floor,” she said, “I met two of your, um, restorers.”

  She looked for any reaction, but their faces were impassive.

  “The younger one, Tonino, was demonstrating the security tagging to the Russians, although he was careful to keep what he told them to a bare outline. I know this because I was translating what he said into English for them.”

  “Good,” muttered Ettore. “The less they know the better.”

  “It occurred to me, signori,” continued Jennifer, “that if Tonino went with you as your security expert, when they show you the genuine painting, he could examine it closely in front of them, make a great play of it, in fact, and once he’s sure that it is the genuine article, before they could stop him, he could spray the back of the canvas with a watered-down version of the tagging medium. He can claim he’s doing it for security while the painting is being shipped. He can even demonstrate it using the geotagging software on a laptop. Once that’s done, they won’t be able to swap the painting since any fake won’t be tagged. They’ll have to ship the genuine painting here.”

  Maurizio Cambroni placed his elbows on the desk in front of him and leaned his chin into his hands, his eyes darting as he thought through the proposal. He nodded. “A good suggestion, Ginevra. Clever. You’re a clever girl. However, you’ve left one thing out. No, two things.”

  Jennifer waited, knowing she wasn’t expected to speak.

  “Firstly, you must go too, signorina. To Moscow. These men are not to be trusted. You will be our ears when our eyes aren’t enough. You will listen like you listened earlier and learn anything and everything they might be planning. It’s important in case they come up with some way of foiling the plan. We know they are stupid enough to discuss their ideas in front of you.”