Turned to Stone

by Jorge Magano

  “This is Paloma Blasco and Roberto Barrero,” said Clark. “And if you let me kill them right now, you’ll make me the happiest man on earth.”

  46

  “All right, Jaime. How long have you known?”

  Jaime was surprised that Alvino Nascimbene was admitting so openly that he’d been unmasked, but he was even more amazed that he was being given the opportunity to keep talking. “Didn’t you hear what I said? My friends heard our conversation. The police will be on their way.”

  “Do you think the police will believe your ridiculous story? I’m Vicente Amatriaín, the EHU officer with an impeccable reputation in the field of stolen art recovery.”

  “Sure, that’s Amatriaín. But you screwed up in Amsterdam. Admit it.”

  “And you’ve screwed up by coming here. But what do you mean? I’m curious.”

  “It wasn’t difficult to figure out.” Jaime tried to control the trembling in his voice. The man’s cool demeanor, the way he seemed to think he’d beaten everyone else to the punch, made Jaime think he was prepared for any eventuality. “We tracked the history of the Medusa up to the fire at the Leoni Center.”

  “It’s true,” Carrera cut in. “This worm set fire to the center and blew up my yacht. He’s a lunatic and a murderer.”

  “You’re one to talk, Angelo,” Jaime said. The only thing he could think of that might keep the bullets in the clip was for him to keep talking. “I know about the war that’s been going on between you two since Alvino was a boy. He has it in for you, Angelo. Your abandonment, his mother’s beatings, and his time in care left him seriously disturbed, to the point that revenge became his purpose in life. That’s why he burned down the Leoni Center: because he knew there was something there that you’d been obsessed with ever since Paloma Blasco went to visit you in Rome.

  “After your conversation with Paloma you began making your own inquiries, and you too concluded that the sculpture was much more valuable than the catalogues reported. Nascimbene realized the same thing. He knew that the most important thing in the world to you was the Medusa, so he decided to strike where it would hurt you most and burn down the gallery, hoping that the bust of Medusa would be destroyed. Fortunately the sculpture survived, and the Petrarca Gallery acquired it soon afterward. Now that I think of it, a guy would have to be a bit shortsighted to attempt to destroy a marble statue with fire.”

  “Not bad, Azcárate. Have you thought about opening a private detective agency?”

  “What for? I’m a journalist. You know what they say: the media is the fourth branch of government, or something like that.”

  “Go on with your story. I was finding it quite fascinating.”

  That’s what worries me, Jaime thought. But he had no option but to keep talking. “Carrera remained interested in the statue until he decided to buy it for the museum where his daughter worked as director. His interest was such that he was willing to pay a huge sum of money for it, and not long after he transferred it to Verona, his yacht sank under mysterious circumstances. Or maybe not so mysterious.

  “You, Alvino, caused the explosion on the boat, and like everyone else, you assumed Carrera had died. Mission accomplished. But one thing kept nagging at you: the Medusa. Why had Carrera paid so much for that lump of marble? The whole thing smelled fishy to you, and you took your suspicions to an old university friend: Vicente Amatriaín. And don’t tell me you’re the real Vicente Amatriaín, because no one’s buying it anymore.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “So much the better. A year later, Angelo determined that the Medusa could become the biggest deal of his life if he could find the right buyer. And he found Dr. Galliano, an eccentric collector from Bergamo who was obsessed with Greco-Roman mythology. As it happened, he also had been the best customer of the Pole’s gang. Galliano knew that a sculpture and reliquary linked to the legend of the blood of Medusa would be the jewel of his collection, but he needed to be sure it was the genuine article. Angelo decided he’d deal with that later and first asked his daughter Rosa to return the bust. But she refused and left the museum to come back here and run this gallery with her fiancé. Then Angelo planned the robbery and sent his son to carry it out.”

  “Leonardo.” Carrera made a groaning sound. “This bastard killed him, too.”

  “That was self-defense,” Nascimbene argued.

  “We’ll get to that,” said Jaime. “We know that you, Angelo, needed to persuade the doctor that the sculpture was what you’d been told it was. So you watched Paloma, discovered my relationship with her and our university essay, and sent your daughter and that mercenary with the mustache after us. Meanwhile, the EHU launched an investigation led by one of their most distinguished officers: Vicente Amatriaín. But you, Alvino, had other plans for him. Here I admit I don’t fully understand the details. What made you kill Amatriaín and steal his identity?”

  “Are you expecting a full confession, Azcárate?”

  “I’m curious. But it’s not important. I imagine you met up with Amatriaín at some point, and he told you that he was on deck to join the new EHU. You hoped that would put you on the trail of the most notorious art thieves. Maybe you even suspected that Angelo Carrera was still alive, and that he and his son and daughter were behind some of the more spectacular robberies, so you didn’t think twice. Or maybe you thought long and hard about it. You figured you’d kill Amatriaín and assume his identity in order to get to the Carrera family and finish them off. You wanted to see them rotting in jail or massacred in a firefight. Whichever it was, you wanted to be responsible for it. That was the extent of your bitterness toward the man who abandoned you to a psychopathic mother. So you told your family you were going to take a training course in Paris, but, before you left, you went to ask your adoptive mother for money. Money that would help you pay for an operation to transform you into a carbon copy of your friend Amatriaín. Dr. André Fournier obviously did a first-class job.”

  Alvino Nascimbene had listened to Jaime’s suppositions, guesses, and stabs in the dark with quiet interest, but this last sentence seemed to take him aback. “André? How—?”

  “Your wife mentioned him.”

  “You spoke to Isabel?”

  “I sure did. She told me André Fournier was a regular customer at the Leoni Center. I looked him up on the Internet and learned that in the early nineties, he opened a plastic surgery clinic in Paris. I also made inquiries with the private security firm where you worked: there was no required course held in France or anywhere else that year.” The rage that flashed in Nascimbene’s eyes told Jaime he had guessed right again.

  “The physical similarities between you and Amatriaín were striking,” Jaime continued, “and that suited your plan in two ways. First, it ensured the cosmetic surgery was a success, and second, it meant that when you killed Amatriaín, you could put his body in your car and set fire to it, faking an accident in which you supposedly died. As far as anyone was concerned, the charred body belonged to Alvino Nascimbene, the security guard. As Amatriaín, you were in charge of the investigation, so you were able to switch DNA samples and close the case. You involved yourself in various operations, including the one in which you managed to conveniently lose your fingerprints so that you couldn’t be identified. A person would have to be pretty sick in the head to go to such lengths to get revenge—which you clearly are.”

  “Incredible,” Angelo Carrera exclaimed. “Did he really do all that?”

  “Believe it or not, Angelo, he did. When it comes to revenge, this guy makes the Count of Montecristo look like an amateur. After all this, the fake Amatriaín reappeared: ready to lead the mission despite his gloved hands and a face covered in scars as a result of an accident with acid. But the truth is, he wasn’t interested in finding the sculpture. He wanted the man he suspected of stealing it: the despised Angelo Carrera. The only thing I don’t understand is why you came to me.
Why did you need me to help you?”

  “I believe you’ve answered your own question.” Nascimbene’s voice betrayed hints of both fury and admiration. “Your sharpness, audacity, and recklessness suited my purposes perfectly—though it was my superiors who wanted you to write the report. I came here today to recover the Medusa and arrest these thugs so you’d make me out to be a hero. Instead, your big mouth has just ensured that you’ll have to share the same fate as this son of a bitch in the wheelchair.”

  “That’s why you saved my life on the Artemis. You’re the one who hired those second-rate mercenaries to steal the artifacts and blow the ship.”

  “My son Leonardo.” Carrera groaned again. “He betrayed me to help a miserable rat like you.”

  “The idiot took the bait.” Nascimbene couldn’t resist bragging. “Not only did he do my dirty work for me, he also served up the perfect chance to eliminate another Carrera. You should’ve seen his body,” he said to the man in the chair. “He looked like a stuck pig.”

  “You set up the whole thing,” Jaime to Alvino. “There wasn’t a single stolen work of art on the ship and you knew it. It was all a trap that you laid to eliminate almost the entire team—emphasis on the ‘almost.’ After our full day of work, you kindly took the team to dinner so that Leonardo’s men could hijack the ship and lay the explosives. When we returned, the show began, and that’s just what it was: a show fueled by smoke bombs that, for one thing, created an eerie atmosphere and tied the events to the Medusa and, for another, ensured there was virtually zero visibility on the ship.”

  Nascimbene smiled. “That wasn’t too hard to guess. No one in their right mind would believe the story of the curse.”

  “I never did. I assumed the attack had been organized by someone on the outside until I understood the meaning of the words spoken by the man in the handkerchief: when he arrived at death’s door, he said the name of his murderer. He understood he’d been tricked, and knew the person who’d done it could only be Alvino Nascimbene. You killed him, just like you killed the ship’s crew, and the EHU team, and Kraniotis. And for what? So they wouldn’t get in the way while you conducted your own search for the Medusa. The only reason you saved me was so you could use me as a friendly witness, and so I’d write a report that would make you look good. You were just another dumbass who figured the key to everything was in my university essay and Arcadia article. That’s why you tried to stop me going down to help the poor people who were burning to death down below: you hoped I might lead you to the Medusa. I bet you’ve been keeping an eye on me ever since. That’s why you’re here today.”

  “You’re right about almost everything.” Nascimbene aimed his weapon between Angelo Carrera’s eyes. “All right, old man. Let’s get to it. I couldn’t give a damn about the junk you’ve been gathering over the years. I just want to know one thing. Where’s the Medusa?”

  “The Medusa’s not here.” Carrera managed to sound calm.

  “Bullshit! You’re not going to trick me again. Tell me where the sculpture is or I’ll blow your head off.” Nascimbene’s eyes were burning and the hand in which he held the gun trembled. He was so determined to frighten an answer out of the man in the wheelchair, he didn’t even realize that he was about to lose control of the situation. His index finger applied slight pressure to the trigger, but he stopped halfway, before the gun fired.

  “There.” Carrera gestured with the only hand he had left. “In that room.”

  “Good. I’ll still kill you, but first I want you to see what I do with your precious statue.”

  The words confirmed Jaime’s suspicions. Nascimbene’s search for the Medusa had nothing to do with its material, artistic, or historical value. This was a quest for vengeance, an elaborate exercise whose purpose was to cause his adversary as much pain as possible. These two men had lost control of themselves a long time ago, and all either of them desired was to see the other destroyed, to inflict the maximum amount of suffering.

  Rage had blinded Nascimbene, so much that he didn’t notice a figure appear at the end of the hallway. “Open that door, old man,” he ordered Carrera. “Open it right now or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  Angelo Carrera was beginning to show signs of fear. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead and face and onto his pajamas.

  That was when the first gunshot rang out, and the situation took an interesting turn.

  47

  Jaime didn’t know where the sound had come from, but he didn’t hang around to find out. He leapt into the nearest room, hit his head on something hard, and rolled onto a mat. As he sat up, he realized that the object was a washbasin, and he was in the bathroom.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Alvino Nascimbene had turned and fired two rounds at the new arrival. But the gunman was quick and threw himself to the floor even before the trigger was pulled. Two bullets found Nascimbene’s chest. A third passed through his throat and he dropped to the ground, a pool of blood expanding around his body.

  Someone stepped out of the shadows, strode toward the body, and gave it a kick to make sure its owner was dead. Persuaded that this was the case, he approached the wheelchair, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dried the elderly man’s face.

  “Clark, what took you so long?” Carrera was panting.

  “I was downstairs, with Rosa. We found some intruders going down in the elevator.”

  “Intruders?”

  “Roberto Barrero and Paloma Blasco. Don’t worry, Uncle Angelo. Rosa’s watching them.”

  “Thank God you showed up. We have to be quick. Load the truck and let’s get out of here.”

  Clark turned to the bathroom door and looked inside. “If you don’t mind, I have some unfinished business with this guy.”

  “There’s no time, Clark! Get the sculpture on the freight elevator and—”

  “Right away, Uncle Angelo.” Clark reloaded his pistol. “This won’t take long.”

  Down in the basement storeroom, Roberto and Paloma felt their hearts thump when they heard the shots. Rosa, who was standing guard, felt the same thing. The two captives were bound together around the waist with some packing twine Clark had found in the storeroom. There was also a bruise on Roberto’s forehead, the result of a blow he’d received when he tried to defend himself.

  “What’s that shooting?” Rosa asked in alarm. “Was anyone else with you?”

  “There sure was.” Roberto glared at her. “Captain America, Iron Man, Hercules, Perseus, and the X-Men. Your daddy and cousin should be pushing up daisies by now.”

  Anxiety got the better of Rosa. She couldn’t believe that the night she had waited so long for was going to be stained with blood. The possibility she feared most was that the shots had come from the trigger-happy Clark. She had asked him to go upstairs only because if she’d left, he would have blown the two captives’ brains out. Now she regretted not going herself.

  “It’s Jaime Azcárate, right? He’s the only one up there.”

  “Don’t underestimate Jaime. I hear he wiped the floor with you up in that village near Soria.”

  “I’m not underestimating him.” Rosa sounded concerned. “Now keep quiet, and you might just make it out of this alive. Unless you want me to tell Clark he can do whatever he wants to you.”

  “Who’s going to hear us?” Roberto said. “Anyway, between the music playing out there and the gunshots happening upstairs, all we have to do is wait for the carabinieri.”

  Rosa looked around in desperation. From the half-open cupboard where Clark had found the twine, she took a handful of thick paper that she wadded into a ball and shoved in Roberto’s mouth, in the process receiving a bite to her hand that she repaid with a loud slap. About to repeat the process with Paloma, she noticed the woman’s frightened expression and hesitated. “Do I need to do this?” she asked.

  Paloma shook her head.


  “Good. Now stand up. I can’t leave you here.”

  Rosa took Paloma by the arm and helped her to her feet, forcing Roberto, who was bound to her like a conjoined twin, to also stand. She led them to one side of the storeroom and opened an old trunk. “In there! Come on, do it!”

  Paloma rushed to obey first, and as a result, had to suffer Roberto’s weight on top of her.

  Rosa closed the chest and headed to the elevator. Having given up as lost her plans to start a new life, the best she could hope for now was that it wasn’t too late to prevent a massacre.

  As soon as Clark started toward the bathroom, Jaime Azcárate slammed the door shut and bolted it.

  “What are you doing to do now, journalist?” Clark called from the other side. “Throw yourself into the toilet and flush?”

  Jaime didn’t answer. Clark was out there with a loaded gun and a venomous desire to take revenge on the person who’d repeatedly thwarted him. A simple door lock wouldn’t stop him for long. He glanced around, then made a dash for the shower. On one wall, a small rectangle of frosted glass allowed the light from the streetlamps to filter in. Jaime opened the tiny window and looked out. The opening was too tight for him to pass through, and, at any rate, the fall to the street was three floors. If he jumped, he’d break more than a few bones.

  A gunshot rang out and a bullet passed through the door. Jaime ran out of the shower, knowing he was a sitting duck there, though the bathroom offered no better options. A second bullet made a hole just above the lock and Jaime threw himself to the floor. He stretched his arm out to grab the edge of the washbasin and his fingers found a cylindrical object. He took hold of it and dragged himself back to the shower.

  He had just closed the opaque shower screen when the bathroom door opened with a violent crash. Clark appeared in the doorway with a sadistic expression on his ruined face. The plaster cast on his nose was filthy, a monstrous snout that went with the blood and grime on his face and hands.