by Seb Kirby
He spoke clearly with a mid western drawl. “I’m Agent Nate Craven. My colleagues are Agents Michael and Jones. We didn’t want to have to bring you here like this but I want you to know we had no choice. You know about Agent Franks?”
“I was told he’d died. Is that true?”
Craven nodded. “A tragic accident. We’re doing all we can for his family.”
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
“We need to know why he came to see you.”
“You don’t know that already?”
“We need to hear it from you.”
I told them what I knew about Agent Franks. It wasn’t much and they weren’t fazed by what I had to say. “So why is there nothing in the media about it?”
Agent Craven was firm. “That’s something you can leave to us. We’re taking care of it.”
“Like you’re taking care of me by bringing me here against my will?”
He was trying to sound reasonable but each word he spoke concealed a threat. “Sometimes these things are necessary. For the greater good.” He paused and looked over at his colleagues. “That’s what we do.”
Agents Michael and Jones, standing behind me, just out of my peripheral vision, remained silent.
Craven placed his hands behind his head and linked his fingers to support his ample neck. “Look, James, what Franks said to you still holds. We want your help.”
“And, like I told Franks, I can’t believe you don’t have people more able than me.”
“We need you.”
“There’s nothing you could say that would get me to agree, you must know that.”
He smiled. “Nothing?”
“Nothing in this world.”
He signaled to Jones who thumped a large paper file onto the tabletop. Craven pushed it towards me. “Take a look at this.”
It was about Miles. I leafed through the pages. There were several hundred documents all marked: Secret – Not for Disclosure.
Craven spelled it out. “Your brother’s been acquiring information illegally from the State Department. From someone you would call a whistleblower. Top-secret information about US intentions in Mexico and Latin America. Stuff he’s been using in his so-called investigative journalism.”
Oh, Miles. Where was this leading?
I was suspicious as I cast my eyes over the large volume of material in the file. “If you know all this, I assume you’ve not wasted time in arresting the informer?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“You mean you got all this evidence on Miles from a sting?”
Craven smiled. “If that’s what you want to call it. Yes, the informer was one of our own, feeding brother Miles non-sensitive information. But you know it makes no difference, don’t you? The crime has still been committed.”
“How long?”
“What do you mean, James? How long has he been doing this? Or for how long will he be put away? On the first of those questions, he’s been at it for over two years.”
“You’re going to prosecute?”
“That depends on you.”
“I have a choice?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“He’s a British subject.”
Craven sat up straight and leaned closer. “There won’t be a problem with extradition. The US/UK treaty we signed a few years back has already delivered more than once. Those documents your brother has been involved with threaten the security of the State. There’s a cast iron case for extradition. We’ll try him in Texas. That’s the relevant jurisdiction. He’ll be lucky to get less than thirty years.”
“And if I go along with you?”
“The charges go away.”
“This must mean a great deal to you.”
“It does.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You can trust the FBI.”
“You need to do better than that.”
“If this thing works out, if you help us as we wish, it will become clear to you why the charges won’t need to be laid.”
I wanted to help Miles. The thought he could spend that time in a Texas prison was hard to bear. If he came out alive, he would be a broken man.
But Craven had another ace to play.
He was trying to sound conciliatory again. I knew there was worse to come.
“Look, James. I know you’re worried about your wife. Who wouldn’t be? With the baby coming along so soon.”
I could feel rage growing inside me. What right had he to talk about Julia like this and invade my family’s privacy? But I knew I had to stay in control.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“But it is our concern, James. Since it affects the way you feel about the proposition we’re making to you. I mean we know how concerned you are about your wife’s safety and the wellbeing of your son. Why else would you have run to London?”
I was in no position to protest, but protest I did. “You might think you have the power to do anything you want, but threaten my family and I’ll stop at nothing to find a way to stop you.”
He held up his hands. “Whoa, James. We’re not threatening here. Think about it. So long as Julia stays where she is, we could have her protected twenty-four seven. You wouldn’t have to worry about her safety. And you’d have no reason not to agree to help your brother.”
“You’re offering to protect her?”
He nodded.
They had the two most important people in my life right where they wanted them, three, if you counted our son. There was the direct threat they could get Miles arrested at any time they chose and there was the more than implied threat to Julia if I didn’t go along with what they wanted. I knew they could make a move on her at any time. It was the other side of the protection Craven said he was offering.
I determined to stay strong. “I don’t buy it.”
Craven was disappointed. “I’m not sure I heard that right.”
“I don’t buy it.” I was shouting now. “Look, there’s no way I can be certain you’re FBI. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not a US citizen. You don’t have jurisdiction here. Tell me why my best course of action isn’t to go to the British police? And why I shouldn’t then tell Julia and Miles what you’re doing.”
Craven made a point of showing me his FBI shield. He asked his two colleagues to do the same. “Don’t ever doubt we are who we say we are, James. That would be a mistake.”
I had to admit the ID looked genuine.
Craven continued. “And as for going to the local police. Well, I would have thought the two million dollars Matteo Lando has offered for you would be a problem.”
I still wasn’t convinced. “I’ll take my chance. Julia and Miles need to know what a twisted situation this is.”
Craven had no need to shout. “James, there’s one other thing I didn’t mention. What makes you think we’re planning to let you go anytime soon?”
Chapter 24
Miles returned to the Allegro Hotel and sought to reassure Julia. “I have a good man, Adam Weston, on the case.”
Julia had just one question. “Where’s James?”
Miles looked away. He had nothing to say.
“The FBI?”
He looked her in the eye for the first time. “They’re covering up the Franks killing. But I need more time to find out why.”
“But Franks was FBI?”
“He was, just as he told you. He was involved in some kind of special operation.”
Julia could feel a new weight descending on her. It couldn’t be coincidence, she was clear about that. The last time their lives had been under threat, Miles had been involved. Now the same threat had returned and here he was, James’ ever so helpful brother. If she was ever to see James again, she knew she’d have to go against her instinct to avoid this man at all costs. She knew she would have to enter into his world.
They fell as quiet as two chess players pondering their next move. There was only the distant
sound of traffic and the occasional whirring of the hotel elevator to break the silence.
Julia summoned up the courage to speak first. “James told me you’ve been investigating Alessa Lando?”
“Yes, I told Jim about it, but he wasn’t interested. He said it was best left in the past.”
“The past. I wish it was just that.”
Miles looked away and would say no more.
“How do I know your investigation hasn’t led to this?”
Miles took time to reply. “I don’t think it has.”
“It’s down to coincidence, then? You’re investigating the Landos and FBI men show up at my house and here I am in London with James missing.”
“That’s not the connection, Julia. Don’t you think I haven’t turned it over and over in my mind? The possibility that I might be the reason why harm is being brought to you and Jim again is never far from my thoughts. As if I could ever forgive myself for what happened in Florence. But this is not it. I’m sure of that. Look, I’ve been investigating Alessa Lando ever since she walked free from the Florence court. That was almost two years ago. If my investigation was the cause, don’t you think the Landos would have made a move before this?”
Julia was puzzled. “Then what? Why now? Why the price on our heads?”
Miles looked away. “All I can say is that at a time like this you have to look at what’s changed. Something recent must have set this off. It’s what all my journalism experience tells me.”
“And?”
“There’s a line of investigation that I’d discounted. Something I did some work on before deciding it was a dead end. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Tell me.”
He did not meet her eyes as he looked up. “I was approached by a man who came up to me when I’d just finished speaking at the Investigative Media Congress in San Tropez last month. He knew about me from the publicity surrounding my articles on the Lando’s waste dumping. He told me I should be looking into the death of Richard Westland.”
Julia cut in. “The Richard Westland?”
Miles nodded.
“He’s like a god to a whole generation of young painters. You know he was a key influence on the second Brit Art wave?”
Miles agreed. “So I discovered.”
“I know his wife and I met him more than once. He could paint anything. It was my dream that one day I’d get the chance to curate one of his exhibitions. He was a real talent. It was a huge loss when he died in an accident.”
“The man at the Congress told me Westland’s death was no accident. I asked him why he was telling me this, but he wouldn’t reply. On reflection, I think he was scared. But at the time, I took him to be just another one of those types that read what you’ve written and then invent something to attract attention. He melted back into the crowd. That could have been it, but I had a piece of luck. One of the journalists there recognized the man. I was told he was Alain Bellard. The journalist had covered a court case in France in which Bellard was accused of a string of art thefts.”
“He went to prison?”
“No, he was acquitted despite the evidence that he was behind numerous thefts over a thirty year period.”
“He must have had a good lawyer.”
“Or he bribed the right people.”
“So why did he tell you that about Westland?”
“Well, while I wasn’t impressed by Bellard, I still did some digging back into the court case, and guess what? Westland was named as an associate of his. There was nothing proven to be illegal but I discovered there was a connection between them going back over thirty years. At the very least there is evidence that the two men moved in the same circles, at least for a while. As you know, Westland was ultra-respectable and well-regarded on his death but back then it may have been different. Thirty years ago, Westland was a struggling artist, as all artists are when they’re starting out. The temptation of making some quick money by associating with the likes of Bellard may have been too much for him.”
Julia wasn’t convinced. “But he was no thief. Why would he have been at all useful to a man like Bellard? Any involvement with art theft and he would have risked his whole future. His career as an artist would have been finished. It would have been unthinkable. And look where his career finished. He became one of the most influential painters of his generation.”
“Unless back then he was really desperate. Another contact told me there were rumors Westland had been on the point of bankruptcy at one time but received a last minute bail out. He had no money problems after that.”
“But it still doesn’t amount to proof.”
“Julia, I don’t know a single good investigative journalist who works on cast iron proof. There’s instinct in this game. And my instinct was telling me to look further.”
“So?”
“I looked into Westland’s death. It happened just days before Bellard approached me at the convention.”
“The crash was an accident.”
“I got hold of the coroner report. Westland’s vehicle had just been serviced. The garage records showed that the vehicle was passed as being in good working order. Yet the cause of the accident was brake failure. Perhaps the vehicle was tampered with.”
“That would be an assumption.”
“Unless you’re working on cui bono.”
“Who benefits?”
“And there’s something I haven’t yet told you. The reason why Bellard approached me at the conference was that he knew the identity of the person responsible for Westland’s killing. I’m sure of it. He wanted to tell me, but something stopped him.”
“You didn’t take the investigation any further?”
Miles looked away again. “No, Julia. That’s the other thing you learn in journalism. When you’re trying to crack a story, don’t get diverted from the main path. However important it looks, put it on one side if it’s not taking you there. And, don’t forget, I’m trying to break the Landos over their drugs operation. That’s my goal. So, what Bellard might have wanted to say had to wait for another day.”
“Until now.”
“As I said, Julia, it’s one of the things to have changed.”
“But you’re still not sure?”
“It’s there, nagging away. It doesn’t fit. I don’t like facts that don’t fit.” He paused. “And, there’s something else that doesn’t fit. I’ve just learned that the case Franks was investigating has a political connection.”
“What kind of connection?”
“I don’t know yet. But believe me, we’re doing everything we can to find out.”
Julia knew she would not be able to trust Miles again with anything important to her, yet he’d been open and straightforward. She was grateful for that.
She made a decision. “I need to call Peggy Westland.”
Chapter 25
No one knew or cared about what happened in Sollicciano, unless you were here for life.
That was Matteo’s fate. He’d been born and raised to complete his destiny by killing his father and spending the rest of his days in here.
If only he’d realized soon enough how much Emelia had meant to him. If only he’d been able to dig himself out from under the influence of his father before she’d been killed.
That was in another life. He had this life now and he had a problem to solve – what to do about James and Julia Blake.
He was getting ahead of himself. The key to his problem was to recall how the current situation had come into being. His mother, Alessa, had been placed in danger by actions taken many miles away. She’d told him this related to events thought to be a long way in the past, before she became a Lando. She’d come to him as head of the family for help, even though he was in this place, and he’d known the right man to help in this task.
Wolfgang Heller was the best of Sollicciano. When Matteo was in danger of being killed by those who helped the Rossellinis, Heller had been at his side. Emelia was a Rossellini and they had not
forgotten how Matteo had lured her to Florence. How he’d corrupted her. It did not concern them that he’d been acting on his father’s instructions because they hated Alfieri as much or even more than they hated Matteo. It had been Alfieri who had driven them out of Florence in the turf war between the two families when Matteo was just a child and it had been Alfieri who would not let matters rest, who had pursued Emelia. Alfieri was gone. They couldn’t touch him now. Yet Matteo was here, in Solicciano and a suitable target for vengeance.
They had driven him down by not killing him at once, though they could have killed him any time they wished. They wanted him to experience a long and fearful death and that had been their mistake.
Heller wasn’t known as a compassionate man yet a bond had formed between the German and Matteo. While he was at his lowest and fearing he was about to be killed, Heller had befriended him. When Matteo asked the German why he would put his own life in danger he told him it was a matter of standards and he’d seen enough of Rossellini’s hired men to know they were not reliable people. They had insulted him for being German and for talking the way he did. He would do this as much for Germany as for Matteo. Yet it was said by many that Heller had been sent into the prison to protect Matteo out of loyalty to Alfieri Lando, but when asked the German would not admit or deny this.
No one knew much more than that Heller was in Sollicciano for a minor offence. It was said he’d worked as a mercenary in Indochina, had been captured there, imprisoned and tortured before escaping. He’d spent time in Tibet, taking instruction in one of the secret Hindu sects. When asked about that time, he’d not said much other than a few words Matteo couldn’t understand about learning to be true to a higher cause. Whatever it was had hardened the man, had given him this sense that people should do right the way he saw it. Matteo didn’t know much more about the German’s take on life, nor did it matter. Here was a man he could trust. In the world in which Matteo lived that was a rare thing.
Few in the prison thought Heller would do anything other than play the good inmate and wait out the time to his upcoming release at the end of his sentence but Matteo made careful arrangements. He paid good money to the prison officers on their cellblock to ensure no reports were made that might threaten the release.