Remorseless

by David George Clarke

  He raised his eyes from the desk to Jennifer’s.

  “You don’t look too pleased with my idea.”

  “Oh no, signore, I think it’s a good idea. It’s just that I don’t like those men. They are brutes and made lewd comments about me to each other. I don’t want to be alone with them.”

  Maurizio Cambroni smiled for the first time. “If that’s all you’re worried about, it can be taken care of. I’ll send along two people to accompany you at all times. You’ll never be alone. And at night, one of them will stay on guard outside your room.”

  “Thank you, signore, thank you so much. You are too kind.”

  “You’re a valuable asset, Ginevra, and those men are depraved pigs. They have no respect for women, which disgusts me. Now, the second thing. What do you think will happen once we get the genuine painting back here?”

  “Happen?”

  “Yes, happen. I have no intention of giving it back to them. What they’ll get back will be indistinguishable from the genuine article and it will be properly tagged. But it won’t be the one they gave us.”

  As his eyes bored into Jennifer’s, she saw a different light in them, an emptiness, devoid of all warmth. She felt she was now looking at the real Maurizio Cambroni, not the gallery façade.

  “You have come a long way with us in a short time,” he rasped. Even his voice was darker. “It was not intended to be like this; you were not meant to learn as much as you have learned. Today, you have seen another part of the gallery, a secret part. You are not stupid, Ginevra, so I have no doubt that you understand what goes on there.”

  He paused, watching as Jennifer opened her mouth to speak. But she thought better of it and simply nodded.

  “You are wise not to deny it, signorina,” continued the elder Cambroni, “wise beyond your years. I hope you are wise enough to understand that what you have seen and what you now know is utterly and completely secret. You are to tell no one, discuss it with no one outside these walls, take no personal advantage from it. Whether you like it or not, you are now part of us, a privileged part. Very few outsiders gain this level of knowledge about our organisation.

  “And with this knowledge, there is responsibility, an allegiance. Your loyalty will bring its own rewards, I can assure you, substantial rewards. Rewards that should make you happy enough to want to stay forever. That is important because I think you understand that you can never leave. I have made myself clear?”

  Jennifer suppressed a gulp.

  “Yes, signore, you have. Very clear.”

  “He said that? He threatened you so overtly? And then you went to Russia?”

  Jennifer had returned from her trip to Moscow and was sitting in the safety of Pietro’s apartment along with Paul Godden, Massimo Felice and three of the team. Godden was shocked by her account.

  Jennifer nodded. She had been worried about coming to the apartment, worried that the Cambronis’ surveillance of her would have been stepped up. They were nothing if not cautious.

  She had signalled her concern to the team who had dispatched two people to shadow her to check she wasn’t being followed. Her route was complicated, weaving in and out of the back streets of Florence, jumping in a taxi, stopping it before her declared destination and disappearing down yet another side street. After an hour of this, she felt sure she had not been followed and a message on her phone from one of the team confirmed it.

  She sat back in her chair. “Yes, Russia. It was something of a surprise.”

  “Thank heavens we made a good job of your passport,” commented Felice.

  “And the trip went well?” said Godden.

  “Completely to plan. Tonino was amazing.”

  “That’s Tonino Varinelli, the youngest of the forgers?”

  “Yes. He’s absolutely brilliant. And very sweet. I’ve got to know him quite well and—”

  “Jennifer,” interrupted Godden, “I thought we agreed this wasn’t a good idea.”

  She chuckled. “Don’t worry, Paul, he has no interest in me beyond simple friendship; he’s gay. He’s no more pleased about the hold the Cambronis have on him than I am. It didn’t dawn on him to start with; I think the security of the money was all he saw. However, now he’s realised that for the rest of his life he’s going to be working in the shadows, never to have his skill as an artist recognised, he’s not so happy. He knows the consequences of trying to break free, and he knows the consequences of painting anything outside of the gallery. The Cambronis have absolutely forbidden it.”

  “Can’t expect anything else,” said Godden. “Far too much of a risk for them.”

  Jennifer’s eyes were smiling as she glanced from one of the group to the next.

  “But …?” said Felice.

  “He has a lover, a secret one because although the Cambronis know he’s gay, they want to vet anyone he gets close to. And his lover is not someone they would like. Too extrovert for their tastes.”

  “And …”

  “He showed me a picture of him.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “No, Massimo, you don’t, at least I doubt you do.”

  “A picture,” said Godden. “Do you mean an actual picture, not a photo?”

  “Yes, a small painting. He showed it to me.”

  “Any chance we could get our hands on it?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “None whatsoever. The Cambronis have his apartment searched periodically as well, so he guards the painting very carefully.”

  “So why are you telling us?”

  Jennifer opened her bag. “Because he has also painted one of me.”

  She pulled out a roll of paper about six inches long, unrolled it and held it up to display a brilliant acrylic sketch of her.

  “I thought it might be a suitable candidate for Ced Fisher’s magic program.”

  Paul Godden clapped his hands in delight.

  “DC Cotton, you’re a genius!”

  “All part of the service, guv’nor.” said Jennifer.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  June 2016

  Olivia Freneton stood on the large first-floor balcony of the rented Villa Luisa set in the hills to the west of the Val di Chiana that had been her and Connie Fairbright’s home for the past eight months. It was seven in the evening and although the June sun had only just sunk behind the villa, the east-facing balcony had been bathed in cool shadow for the last hour. Olivia took a sip from her glass of spring water as she enjoyed her favourite spot and favourite time of day. She would stand here most evenings if Connie hadn’t returned, soaking up the view across the nearby town of Monte San Savino and the valley beyond to where, several miles away, Castiglion Fiorentino sat near the foot of a range of rugged hills. And hidden from view in those hills was Connie’s huge new project, the Villa Brillante, now in its final stages of renovation.

  The villa had been carefully chosen by Olivia from several within thirty miles of her own far-more-modest farmhouse. It ticked all Connie’s boxes, making her decision easy. The price had been irrelevant, although Connie still insisted that Olivia drive a hard bargain — it was a matter of principle to her.

  Connie had no intention of letting it be known that once the villa was finished it would contain a collection of paintings worth many millions of dollars, paintings dating from her beloved Renaissance. Most would be portraits, because she adored portraits, and many would have been painted within a hundred-mile radius of her villa. The names of the artists she was actively buying might not roll off the tongue quite as easily as Michelangelo, Giotto or Della Francesca, but the thought that during their lives they had gazed across similar views to those she would be gazing across once the Villa Brillante was finished, visited the same towns, enjoyed the same wines and even witnessed similar pageantry during the many festas still celebrated in the region, filled her with a sense of belonging, a oneness with life five hundred years before.

  While she understood that to exclude her neighbours would be foolish and would set
her apart from the community, she was also well aware that her precious canvases needed protection, and to achieve that protection she was fitting out three windowless rooms within the villa that would be sealed against the environment, hidden climate-controlled rooms where she and her dear companion Diana could enjoy the wonders displayed on the walls. For the parts of the villa where visitors would be allowed, paintings displayed there would be far less valuable, nothing that anyone would be tempted to steal.

  Not that giving into temptation once she moved in would be of much use to any would-be thief. Long before anything of value was reached in the house, long before the house was even reached at all, a symphony of alarms would be alerting both the surrounding countryside and Connie’s armed-response security company, while floodlights turned night into day and an array of hidden cameras delivered gigabytes of imagery to dedicated servers as evidence against the intruder.

  But that day was still at least two months off. While the modifications to the building were complete and the new wiring in place, much of the sophisticated electronics, the backups, the fail-safe devices, and indeed the solar energy installation courtesy of which Connie intended the villa to be totally off the grid were yet to be finished.

  Entrusted with ensuring that nothing slipped behind schedule, Olivia was tasked with overseeing progress, and now things were moving apace, she needed to visit the Villa Brillante site almost daily. In anticipation of this, Connie had leased a luxurious upmarket Audi hatchback for Olivia’s use when they moved to the area from Rome — Connie knew nothing of Olivia’s stolen Golf now rotting quietly in a garage yard in Castiglion Fiorentino.

  Her frequent visits to the site enabled Olivia to give the leering squad of Eastern-European workers the sharp end of her tongue; a necessary release for her continuing frustration with not having completed her disposals in England, although as in most of her confrontations with men, she had to be careful not to let her anger run riot. Visiting the villa also meant she could spend time at her farmhouse checking that everything was in perfect working order should she need to leave in a hurry. She had a small stock of explosive packs hidden away in a secure cellar and she worried that they might deteriorate. However, the house was dry, its walls thick, and as long as she kept everything properly sealed and packaged, nothing seemed to be suffering.

  Above all, the daily chores meant she didn’t have to accompany Connie on her endless trips to galleries in Tuscany and Umbria, or on her increasing forays further afield. Connie’s driver would whisk her in air-conditioned, leather-upholstered luxury to the nearby galleries, but for her more distant trips, she had been making use of the services of a private airline based in Perugia who would pick her up at the small airport in Arezzo. It meant she could cover a wider area and usually still be home the same day to regale Olivia with tales of new portraits found, new purchases, sometimes new artists, and an ever-increasing list of eccentric gallery owners, all of whom were charmed by her now impressive command of Italian.

  Twice a week, both Connie and Olivia would head to Rome for their three-hour language lessons and Connie’s three-hour art lesson from Cesare Contorni. While in Rome they still based themselves in the same five-star hotel where Connie retained a suite for her exclusive use should she decide to stay the night. As always, lunch was taken on the terrace, weather permitting, to the continued torture of Mario, the waiter.

  Connie had widened Cesare Contorni’s terms of reference to include that of advisor on Renaissance paintings she had either discovered or been offered by a number of galleries. Her knowledge in the field had increased immensely over the months and she could now reel off a list of more than fifty lesser-known artists who had been active during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, often recognising previously unseen works by them. Signor Contorni was justifiably proud of his pupil, his eyes glowing with delight when he watched her in action in a gallery. Olivia, by contrast, spent much of the time stifling yawns of boredom.

  While in Rome, Contorni would frequently join them for lunch, spending the time advising Connie on what he knew of galleries elsewhere in Italy. Somewhat suspicious of his motives, Olivia felt he was probably angling for a few trips, especially now Connie was fond of flying around the country. However, even she had to admit that whatever Contorni’s motives, he was of great help in Connie’s decision-making process, and on more than one occasion he had saved her a considerable amount of money by quietly pointing out that the portrait she had just fallen in love with was a modern fake.

  “Actually, Connie, I have no problem with fakes,” Contorni would explain. “A painting should be appreciated for what it is, not because this artist or that one painted it. If you like it, buy it, but don’t pay more than it is worth. And of course no fake is worth much more than the value of the canvas and the paints, plus perhaps a little extra for the efforts of the artist.”

  Connie and Olivia both laughed at his position.

  “Only a little extra, Cesare?” asked Connie. “Surely the man’s time is worth something.”

  Contorni shook his head, his hooded eyes full of sadness at human folly. “You must remember, Connie, that many of these forgers are artists of great talent. If they spent their time developing their own style and producing originals instead of copies, then of course their time should be considered more seriously, and their skill. Copying is what students do when they are learning. They copy the works of the great masters to learn from them. That doesn’t mean they should spend the rest of their lives copying.”

  “Easily said, Cesare,” commented Olivia, “but it’s a cut-throat world out there, one that’s full of highly talented artists. Getting noticed is difficult, and the patronage system of hundreds of years ago is not so common these days. I can fully understand why these people are doing what they’re doing.”

  Contorni bowed his head in submission. The signora Diana was right, in principle, and anyway he was wary of her. There was always something about her tone and the look in her eye he found chilling. She was so different from Connie, who was charming, if a little naïve.

  It was during a lunch with Contorni that Connie asked if he knew of the Cambroni gallery in Florence.

  “I have heard of it, yes, but I have never been there. It is rather out of my league and I believe it is a gallery that does not encourage casual browsing. Having said that, it has a reputation for acquiring some very valuable paintings. Not so much the period that interests you though, Connie, they are normally more modern. Why do you ask?”

  “I visited it last week. You’re right, I had to call to make an appointment, otherwise I’m not sure I would have been allowed in. The huge African man they have on the door is rather intimidating. However, once I’d got past that barrier, the young lady who showed me around was utterly charming, and was quite happy for me to speak Italian even though her English was remarkably fluent, with just the trace of an accent.”

  Olivia laughed. “You’re getting quite superior about other people’s language skills, Connie. It’s unusual to hear a native Italian speaker who doesn’t betray an accent when speaking English. You know, hanging on final consonants and so on.”

  Connie smiled. “I suppose I am, but believe me, this girl was good. However, I digress. What was interesting wasn’t so much the paintings, although there were a couple I fell in love with they are reserving for me, no, what took my attention was a tagging system for paintings the gallery has developed. The signorina — what was her name? yes, Mancini — she was telling me that although it’s expensive, the gallery claims it’s the most secure and reliable system in the world. Apparently once it’s installed, the painting can be traced anywhere on the planet. And it’s impossible to remove.”

  “Installed in the painting?” Contorni’s tone reflected his horror. “Unacceptable, Connie. Such a scheme would be totally invasive. You cannot compromise valuable works of art in such a way.”

  Connie laughed. “Don’t be so conservative, Cesare; it might be a very good system.�
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  Contorni continued to grunt his disapproval, but Connie wasn’t deterred.

  “Apparently,” she continued, “it involves some sort of sub-microscopic technology that’s embedded in the canvas. I can see why museums might not be interested in it, in fact the signorina mentioned that it’s aimed more at the private collector than museums and state galleries. And I have to think about my collection. I want to know that if ever a thief manages to get as far as my paintings and remove them, they will be traceable no matter where they go.”

  She glanced at Contorni whose face still looked as if he had just eaten a lemon.

  “Cesare, Signorina Mancini said that if I was interested, she could arrange an appointment for me to see the gallery owner who would demonstrate it to me. And as it happens, starting next week, there is a new exhibition and sale of Renaissance portraitists at the gallery. I want you to come with me to Florence; you too Diana. We can kill two birds with one stone. What’s on sale will be perfect for enhancing my collection, and at the same time, we can review this tagging system with a view to incorporating it into my existing collection and everything I buy in the future. It’s a very exciting prospect.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Jennifer yawned as she touched the red button on her phone’s screen to end the call. It was ten thirty in the evening and after a busy day at the gallery eavesdropping on more Russians for the Cambronis, and two long Skype calls, one to Henry and the other to Derek, she was ready for some sleep.

  She was still yawning as she headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth when the phone pinged again to signal an incoming text. Displayed on the screen was what appeared to be a rambling advertisement from a telemarketing company, but crucially within the text were five consecutive key words that gave Jennifer the real meaning behind it: an instruction from Paul Godden to go immediately to the watchers’ apartment.