by Seb Kirby
It took Heller just one week. No one died. The Rossellini henchmen were quieted. No one knew what Heller said or did but the fear he’d instilled in the Rossellini men was plain to see. Their leader came to Matteo to apologize for what was being done against him. Matteo found no difficulties after that in rising up the ladder to the top of the prison hierarchy. As he progressed, he was able to make arrangements for the Rossellini henchmen to be moved elsewhere in the prison. He owed all this to Heller. He thanked him and paid him well. They kept in contact after Heller’s release came through.
It was natural that Heller was the man he chose to ward off the threat to his mother and to the wider family. He could think of no one who would serve him better.
Alessa provided the names of the targets. Matteo’s informer in the FBI provided the information needed to track them down. One of those targets was the cause of the threat to the Lando family. He didn’t know which but it didn’t matter. The solution was to silence them all. That would end the story once and for all. There would be no loose ends.
Except he still couldn’t decide what to do about the English policeman who was saying he could find James and Julia Blake.
It was personal. Matteo blamed the Blake woman for the death of Emelia. If she’d not attempted to smuggle Emelia away from Florence, Emelia would still be alive today. If her husband had not alerted the police, Matteo would not be here in prison.
A million for each of them was cheap at the price.
Chapter 26
When Martin Reid called back into the Lamb and Flag an hour after the first meeting, Smith was waiting.
Reid ordered two pints and they sat at a table away from the cluster of drinkers at the bar.
The sergeant was edgy. “You have the money?”
Reid handed over the envelope. “As you wanted it. In cash.”
Smith glanced inside. “Not that we need to check.”
He pulled a similar-looking envelope from his pocket and gave it to Reid. “I hope you get your man.”
He pocketed the money and turned away. “I’ll be getting back.”
“No time for your pint?”
“You know how it is, Martin. It’s all about efficiency these days.”
“What are you going to do?” Reid glanced at the envelope. “About the names?”
“What can we do? It’s not as if they’ve committed any crime, is it? All that efficiency has left us short-staffed.”
Smith stood up and was gone before Reid could say anything more.
It was time to open the envelope. Inside was a print out from the police station database with the names of twelve couples registered in the past twenty-four hours at Central London hotels where the hotel manager had pointed to suspicion over their status.
The Blakes would know better than to use the Harrington name and they would not want to go by their real names either, which meant they would have a problem with proof of identity. Reid searched through the stated reasons for suspicion, looking for those mentioning issues with ID. The list of possibles reduced to four.
He stretched out his legs beneath the table.
Time to enjoy his pint.
Smith had told him there was no risk of anyone from the station following up on the listed names. Reid had the scene to himself.
It would not take long to check out all four hotel addresses.
All were in a one-mile radius.
Chapter 27
It wasn’t going to be easy but Julia knew she had to do this.
She’d met Peggy Westland many times in her work as a conservator. Peggy had often called in at the Clinton Ridley Restoration Studio. She had a genuine interest, not just because her husband Richard had been one of the most important abstract painters in the land but also because she was a perceptive art critic in her own right.
Julia had no idea how Peggy might be coping with the loss of Richard. Though she must be taking it hard, Julia had to overcome any restraint. Finding James was her overriding priority.
She got the number from the enquiry company and prepared to dial. It was best to sound untroubled, she knew. Given how she felt, this wasn’t going to be easy, either. She dialed.
The call was picked up straight away. Peggy Westland sounded angry. “If this is a cold call of any kind you’re out of luck.”
“It’s no cold call, Peggy.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“It’s Julia. Julia Blake.”
It was the first time she’d used her real name in three years. It sounded strange. Yet if the cover was blown, if the new identity had been cracked, it would be no safer calling herself Mary Harrington.
“Julia, I’m sorry. You must know how I am. Losing Richard.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Peggy. Please accept my sincerest condolences.”
“It’s been a while.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t make the funeral. My recovery…”
“I know. I know what you went through. It’s good to have you back.”
Julia needed to move the conversation on. “Look, Peggy, I know this will be difficult for you, but I need to ask you some questions about Richard’s work.”
“You already know how important he was. You’ve already seen most of his work. You can read my critical articles on the paintings. They’re all online. What more could I tell you?”
“I need to know about his relationship with Alain Bellard.”
Julia could hear the intake of breath on the other end of the line. “That name means nothing to me.”
“It’s from when Richard was a young struggling artist, the best part of thirty years ago. Perhaps you could cast your mind back.”
Peggy’s voice became hostile once again. “Why are you doing this? Don’t you have any sensitivity? Raking over the past at a time like this.”
“I know it’s hard for you, Peggy but…”
“But nothing! Tarnishing Richard’s reputation before he’s cold in the ground. I don’t need this.”
“I need to know.”
“What, so that brother-in-law of yours can publish another of his investigative articles? I’d have thought even he wouldn’t have sunk as low as to put you on to me to flesh out a story.”
Julia bit her lip. “I’m not working for Miles. I’m trying to save my husband.”
“James?”
“I think they have him.”
“They?”
“I don’t know who they are, but he’s missing and the only thing I have is this connection to Bellard and your husband. You have to help me. I’m sure his life’s in danger.”
There was a long pause. Peggy Westland was thinking long and hard before making her next reply. “I understand. But I can’t be a part of destroying Richard’s memory. His legacy. You know, it took years of hard work and dedication for him to be recognized as the great artist he is… He was. I can’t do or say anything to imperil that. It’s what I have left.”
Julia knew she had to get this right. “I promise you, nothing you say will be used to tarnish your husband’s memory. I’m only interested in getting James back. Did Richard ever know Bellard?”
There was a further long silence, broken by Peggy in a voice that was almost a whisper. “He knew him. He confided in me. He told me it was the only way of getting out of his money troubles. Bellard was a bad influence. He introduced him to people who were making money out of art in an illegal way. He told me all he had to do was to paint like Picasso. And he could do that without having to think about it.”
“And what good was that to Bellard?”
Peggy Westland sighed. “He never told me. But I don’t think Bellard was the brains behind it.”
“Who, then?”
“I really don’t know. It was a long time ago now. It’s a part of Richard’s life buried in his past. One I was sure would remain that way.”
“You don’t have another name? Anyone else your husband may have been associated with back then?”
“It
really was so long ago. The only other name I can give you is Pugot. Marcel Pugot. He was an art dealer with a gallery in Ghent. Richard went out there to meet him on a few occasions. He was somehow involved along with Bellard but that’s all I can tell you.”
“You say ‘was’?”
“Pugot died. Just three weeks before Richard. Though he tried to hide it from me, it had a bad effect on Richard. But that’s all I know. He wouldn’t confide in me any further.”
Julia realized she’d pushed Peggy Westland as far as she could. “Peggy, you’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I hope I won’t have to bother you again. Please accept my condolences once more.”
After Julia ended the call, she looked over towards Miles who’d been listening. “She pointed me to an art dealer named Marcel Pugot from Ghent in Belgium. He died three weeks ago. What can we find about him?”
Miles replied, “I’ll ask Weston to get onto it.” He paused. “Look, I have to leave. You have my number. Keep the door locked. If you need anything, just call. I’ll call back here tomorrow at nine.”
Julia phoned room service and ordered her evening meal. It would seem strange eating without James.
Chapter 28
Miles returned to Adam Weston’s apartment and was let in.
“You have something?”
Weston looked contrite. “I don’t have much to tell you. But you need to know right up front, I haven’t been able to crack the alpha coding.”
Miles wanted to make sure. “The FBI encryption is too strong?”
“It’s too complex. I might as well be straight with you. I can’t stay in there long enough to get a decent crack at it, not without getting caught. I need to be ultra-careful. It’s going to take much longer than I thought. Sorry.”
“Time is what we don’t have.”
“I know that. I’ll push on as hard as I can.”
Miles thanked him. “We have another lead. Something that could be easier. Marcel Pugot from Ghent.”
“How do you spell that?”
“Ghent in English. Gent if you’re Flemish.”
“No, the name.”
Miles spelled it out. “Marcel Pugot. An art dealer.”
“I can try. What do you need?”
“As much as you can find. Anything linking him to a British painter named Richard Westland.”
“And the connection?”
“That’s what we’re looking for.”
“Anything else to go on?”
“Just that both have died in the past weeks.”
Weston’s screen was filling with scrolling code as he typed in instructions to his computer at great speed. “I guess the best place to start would be the Belgian national police database. Let’s see.”
“Nothing as difficult as the FBI database?”
Weston smiled. “Maybe not. I’m in. What do you want to know?”
Chapter 29
They drugged me and put me on a military ’plane out of RAF Brize Norton.
It was a kind of rendition.
I shook myself awake. I had no idea how much time had passed since we’d left London.
Craven was somewhere up front. The men he introduced as Agents Michael and Jones when I was questioned at the lock-up were traveling with him. They were huddled together, talking as a team, no doubt making plans that concerned me but I couldn’t hear what they were saying above the drone of the aircraft.
Others had joined them – I counted eight, including the one they’d left to watch over me. He said his name was Philips.
He was making a point of not answering my questions.
“How long was I out for?”
“Long enough.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t worry, buddy. It’s not that far.”
“So, where?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Philips was lying. It didn’t feel like we were anywhere near London. In fact, from the appearance of those around me, it looked as if we’d been traveling a long time. That meant, in all probability, we were no longer in Europe.
I was having trouble understanding how these people could have this much power over me and have such disregard for the law. I knew what Craven would say if I asked him. “We are the law.”
My thoughts were centering on how Craven and his men could command such resources – the use of military transport to fly me out of London, the covering up of the Franks killing. They must be who they say they are. They must be FBI.
This meant only one thing. They must be black ops. No straight FBI operation would be carried out like this.
Could I believe what Craven said before we left London?
Could I believe anything he told me?
All the time, with every mile the ’plane traveled, I was being taken further away from Julia.
That meant more than my own safety.
Since I couldn’t trust what Craven had told me, there was no way of knowing if Julia was safe.
The thought would not go away.
Day 3
Wednesday August 21st
Chapter 30
Julia came round from disturbed sleep.
It was early morning. The baby was kicking. This must be what had woken her. She hugged her belly. It is going to be all right. Pretty baby, there’s nothing to worry about.
She’d been dreaming – a nightmare. Painful though it would be she knew it was important to recall it all.
The dream had taken her back to Florence, a place she did not want to see again, to the house in Lucca where she’d worked on the Lando painting collection, all the time unaware of what was to come. How natural and satisfying and uneventful it had all seemed then, searching through the paintings, deciding which ones to investigate.
She shuddered.
Seeing Alfieri Lando coming towards her, dressed in the mask and cape that he wore to defile Emelia and then defile her, came as a shock. There was a glimpse, too short, of Emelia’s face. The sister she hadn’t known for all her life and who was lost to her so soon after she’d found her was taken away from her all over again.
Next came a fractured image of a woman’s face. Julia felt the anguish of imagining the woman’s grief at what she’d seen and saw her tears. Tears that told of the suffering of the whole of humanity, ice white against green, yellow, blue and red primary colors. The woman’s hands held up to her face as if to say she should not look at the horror before her any longer. Her features etched out in broad lines of black while the eyes continued their icy stare, unable to look away. There would be no relief from the necessity of testifying to the horror. In her dream it was a face not unlike a distorted version of her own.
Yes, it was a nightmare, one that had not ended even though she was now wide-awake.
The simple wonder of being here in the bed in the hotel with her baby moving inside her was what she knew she must hold onto as a way back from the terror that pervaded her.
Her prime sense of purpose returned. Her baby. She knew she must eat again. Room service would take too long. She decided to brave the hotel restaurant.
She washed, dressed and put on her face.
It was never easy eating alone and less easy when pregnant. Unlike the day before when she’d been with James, the waitress made a great show of making her comfortable when on any objective account she was finding the best way of making Julia less noticeable, seating her at a table in a corner on the furthest side of the restaurant from the door.
Breakfast was slow in coming, and poor, yet Julia was grateful for the anonymity of the place. When she began to eat she realized how hungry she was and how her baby must have been waiting for the rush of nutrients he so needed.
The meal was interrupted by the arrival of the hotel manager. He sat opposite without being asked and spoke in too-quiet tones. “Mrs. Meredith. Do you have the identity documents I requested when you checked in?”
Julia lied. “My husband has them.”
“And where is your husband? He’s not been seen in the hotel since a few hours after you arrived.”
“He’s been called away. On business.”
“Then how can he provide me with the proof of identity?”
“He’ll be back later tonight. I’ll send him down to you with them. You said forty-eight hours.”
“OK, this evening at the latest.” The manager left Julia to finish the meal. She was angry with herself that she had not found a way past this.
Julia went back upstairs and was alone again in the room. Though she tried to place her mind elsewhere, she was drawn back to recalling the nightmare that had woken her and the terror of being back in Florence again. The fractured-face woman weeping for the tragedy around her in the world returned and she couldn’t get the image out of her mind.
Julia could see it clearly. The image of the woman was not a distorted version of herself as she’d supposed when she first recalled the dream. It had come to life from a painting. It was a picture she could now identify. It was Picasso’s Weeping Woman, his representation of his lover Dora Maar, revealing to the world her grief at the mutilation of souls at Guernica.
There was something more, something she’d seen while in the Lando house and was now repeated in the dream, something important that she’d blocked out along with so much more she’d attempted to forget on the long road to recovery.
It was one of a number of paintings she’d seen when selecting the pictures from the Lando collection for her studies. It had been hidden behind a panel that had opened to her touch. It was something she was not supposed to have seen.
She closed her eyes. The painting she’d seen was Picasso’s Weeping Woman. It was in the dream because she’d seen it for real in the Lando house in Lucca.
It was a near-perfect copy of the original. You could almost believe it was the real thing.
Those memories that Julia had buried were now rushing back and with them came questions that had remained unanswered for three years as she’d been drawn into the trap set for her by Alfieri and the darkness that had entered her life then and remained with her now. Why would Alessa Lando allow her vanity to go beyond the mere collection of valuable artworks and into the realm of believing she owned such a masterpiece?