“That’s a terrible—” Moto tried to break in, but she wouldn’t let him.
“I’ve already called a reporter at Corriere della Sera—”
“Reporter?” Now the professor was objecting.
“—and left a message saying I have a hot tip for him. Murder and scandal.”
“You are going to get yourself killed.”
“No I’m not. I’m going to be an anonymous witness who can give him inside information about the murders and the missing painting. Secret messages. He’ll love it. He’s a reporter.”
Moto’s eyes narrowed. “Lucia, you can’t do this. It’s crazy.”
Lucia remembered running through the dark streets after she’d left the party the night before, and her lips tightened. She wasn’t going to tell them about what had happened—they might doubt her, and she wasn’t in any mood to be challenged. She felt brittle and she needed to feel strong. So she took the challenge to Moto.
“You have any better ideas? Because I don’t.”
Moto looked determined. It was that new Moto who kept emerging when he was pressured. “Give me a day.”
“Lo so. Sì, lo so, ma . . .” I know. Yes, I know, but . . .
Standing in a darkened doorway, Moto glanced around as he muttered into his cell phone.
“Qualcosa è successo ieri sera. Non sta parlando. Ma lei ha paura. Io la conosco. Qualcosa la spaventava.” Something happened last night. She isn’t talking about it. But she’s afraid. I know her. Something scared her.
Moto listened for a long time.
Finally, he burst out, “Ma dobbiamo fare qualcosa. Loro sono qui. Questo è.” But we have to do something. They’re here. This is it.
He listened for a moment, started to speak, then shrugged and put the phone away. Then he stood for a long time in the darkened doorway, staring up into the night, across the tiny piazza, keeping watch on Lucia’s apartment.
The last time they had spoken, they were together in a darkened room in the hills of Sicily while the women prepared a feast in the kitchen above. Now they were separated by hundreds of miles, but the conversation was still more silence than speech, as if—one still in Sicily, the other in Rome—they could see each other’s shrugs and gestures over the telephone.
Plans were made. Details were checked and confirmed. Doubts expressed and set aside. And yet someone listening in would not have understood any of that. Which was as it should be—because it was assumed someone was always listening in.
Then a final question:
“E appui, quannu timminamu?” And then we’re done?
“Quannu timminamu, timminamu.” When we’re done, we’re done.
And the call ended.
Three days had passed since Lucia had announced her plan to lure their unknown enemies into the open with a story in the newspaper. Tonight, she and Moto made their way across the piazza toward her apartment. They shared a slight unsteadiness, evidence of an evening of drinking. And the silence between them was evidence that the drinks had not dissolved the tension.
Their conversation had ended when Lucia had said, “Tomorrow I’m calling that reporter.”
“But it’s—”
“No! You said one day. And it’s been three. I’m calling him.”
On other drunken evenings, they had enjoyed clinging to one another for support, even if they hadn’t really needed it. Now they could have used support, but each walked carefully alone.
Lucia was determined not to stumble. And so determined not to let herself invent unseen watchers in the shadows that she was startled when a figure suddenly emerged from a dark doorway—an unseen watcher she had been determined not to see.
But it was only Vittore, the parking enforcer.
“Buonasera, mia signora.”
“Buonasera.”
Vittore stared for a moment at Moto, then he said something about keeping watch all night, but that was more than she could deal with, so she kept heading toward home, leaving Vittore standing alone in the dark.
At the door to her building, Lucia fumbled with the key, managed to get the lock open, and started to go inside without saying good night.
Moto grabbed the door and kept it from swinging shut. “Let me come up. One more drink.”
“Really? You’re not drunk enough?”
“One more. To cheer you up.”
“Cheer me up?”
She turned and wobbled toward the stairs, but she hadn’t said no. Moto followed.
Inside the apartment, Lucia headed into the bathroom, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You know where it is.”
When the bathroom door closed, Moto hurried to the kitchen, his gait steadier than it had been. He got down two glasses and a bottle of red wine. The toilet flushed, the bathroom door opened, and Lucia walked across the living room and collapsed on the couch. Moto was out of sight in the kitchen. A moment later, he walked into the living room with two glasses of wine.
“I didn’t say I wanted a drink.”
“Come on, Lulu.” He handed her the glass. “A toast.” He smiled. “To better ideas. May we have some very soon.”
She shrugged and drained the glass.
Moto stood for a long time, looking out the window.
When he turned back to the room, Lucia was asleep on the couch, snoring lightly.
“Tesoro,” he said, and gently woke her just enough to help her to the bed.
In the darkened car, the driver read the text message:
“Lei è là. Lui è andato.” She’s there. He’s gone.
He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, and headed into the night, accelerating sharply. The man in the back seat, shaken awake, grumbled. The man in the passenger seat muttered, “Sempre a correre.” Always the racer.
The driver didn’t care. He drove fast and smooth through the dark, a smile on his face. This was where he belonged: behind the wheel, foot on the accelerator, eyes on the road. Despite what some might think, not every Italian was born to drive fast cars. But he was. This was his gift.
The road unspooled ahead of him into the night. For a moment he allowed himself to think ahead—to the end of this little journey, only a few kilometers away, where the joy of driving would blend into the joy of violence. The word had been passed down: Seize the painting at all costs. “Collateral damage” was of no concern. His smile widened. Then, respecting his gift and his responsibility, he narrowed his focus to the blacktop road that twisted and turned, rose and fell, within the cone of the headlights as it cut through the hills of Chianti.
He steered through a sharp curve, his hands light but firm on the wheel, feeling the tires hold the road, and suddenly there were bright lights in the road ahead. Headlights. An instant later he could see through the glare that it was a massive American-made SUV stopped in the middle of the narrow road, blocking the way. An attack! No time to think!
He jammed on the brakes, slowing sharply. The man in the passenger seat beside him lurched forward—no seat belts, they were true Italians—and smashed his face against the dashboard. No time to worry about that. The driver turned the wheel sharply and yanked on the hand brake, just for an instant. The rear wheels locked up and the car skidded in a perfect pirouette, reversing direction in an instant, and then his foot was back on the accelerator and he let out a shout of pure joy as they raced away from the roadblock.
Beside him, his passenger cursed, blood streaming down his face. There were curses from the man in the back seat as well. But the driver didn’t care. He had escaped the trap. He was skillful. He was heroic. He was born to drive.
He glanced in the mirror. The SUV was trying to catch them, but it was falling farther and farther behind. A car that big was worthless on roads this small. And whoever was foolish enough to own such a behemoth could not possibly match his driving skills. He laughed. Exultant.
The road began to rise gently, cresting a small hill, but he kept his foot firmly on the gas. To the left, a small patch of woods; to the
right, a short, steep slope down into an open field. And then suddenly there was a tree, fallen across the road, blocking the way. It hadn’t been there when they’d passed just a few minutes before. His foot was heavy on the brakes, but there was no room to stop. He swerved hard, but there was nowhere to go. The left front wheel hit the tree. The car lurched, tilted, started to roll, and went off the edge of the pavement onto the soft dirt of the shoulder. Then it did roll, onto its roof and then down the embankment, rolling again into the open field below, glass exploding, doors flying open, rolling one more time and then slamming down onto its wheels.
And then there was silence. One body lay motionless a short distance off the road. A second was in the middle of the field, thrown free and then crushed by the rolling car. The driver was still in his seat, his chest torn open by the shattered steering wheel, his face shredded by flying glass.
And then four men came running out of the woods, across the road, and scrambled down the embankment into the field. One stopped for a moment beside the body closest to the road, prodded it with his toe, then ran to catch up with the others. They didn’t bother to stop beside the second body. When they got to the car, the driver might have been alive. If so, he wasn’t for long.
Three of the men turned and started back toward the road. The fourth lingered a moment longer. He dug something out of his pocket, then leaned through the shattered driver’s window and reached out carefully, poking his hand into the dead man’s bloodstained clothing. The stains obscured the red Maltese cross and the embroidered R above it. Then he stood back, pulled a small, half-full bottle of whiskey out of his pocket, and tossed it into the wreck. The glass shattered.
“Chi sprecu!” he muttered. What a waste. Followed by a Sicilian obscenity.
Up on the road, the other three men were struggling to lift the tree. He strolled in their direction. No need to hurry if they could manage without him. The enormous SUV pulled up, its headlights illuminating the scene, and four men piled out to help with the tree. In a matter of moments, they had stood it upright and then let it topple back into the underbrush, one more fallen tree in the forest. The last man, still mourning the wasted whiskey, reached the road in time to stand with the others as the tree crashed back down.
Then they all climbed into the SUV. Big as it was, it was crowded for eight large men, and one of them complained that this had been too easy, there was no need for all of them. He could have done it by himself.
The one who had thrown the whiskey bottle looked back into the dark and laughed. “Monici ‘mbriachi.” Drunken monks.
“Nan veramenti ‘mbriacu,” said the man crowded beside him. Not really drunk.
“Nan veramenti monici,” said another. Not really monks.
And they laughed as they drove off into the night. Quickly, but quietly, smoothly. No need to hurry.
And behind them, in the field, the bodies sprawled, blood still soaking into their black robes, darker than the blood-red crosses on their chests.
And a few kilometers away, even as the black SUV was slipping away from the field, a man stood in the shadows at the edge of a tiny piazza. He glanced down at his cell phone and hurried toward a car idling in an alley.
He nodded to the driver. Nothing was said.
Together they unloaded a large, awkward package from the car and carried it through the shadows.
From the far side of the piazza, a young man in a black leather jacket watched, keeping carefully out of sight.
A chill winter breeze tousled his thick black hair.
Chapter 40
Valletta, Malta
1608
“It is magnificent!” pronounced Grand Master Wignacourt. He came closer to the canvas and then took two steps back. He studied the cavaliere’s likeness, the enormous cream-colored Maltese cross emblazoned across his black tunic.
“Ha! Cavaliere Martelli in the flesh! The sunburned nose . . . a tribute to his years at sea.”
Caravaggio nodded.
“The furrows of his brow . . . and those folds of loose skin at his collar,” said Wignacourt. “An old knight and a venerable one. This is a painting befitting the Order of Malta. It is unflinching . . . as real as he stands in real life.”
“I am honored, Grand Master,” said Caravaggio, bowing.
“You have not only captured Cavaliere Martelli’s physical likeness to perfection, but you have captured his soul as well. Look at his eyes! The raw-edged rims, the sage determination—”
Caravaggio nodded. “He was a good subject.”
“Good subject!” said the grand master. “I should say so.”
“But you, Grand Master Wignacourt, will provide an even better inspiration,” said Caravaggio.
Wignacourt raised his hand to his beard, stroking it like a cat. “You believe so?”
“Yes. I have some ideas already. I’d like to paint you in your armor.”
“My armor?”
“As if preparing for battle, Your Excellency.”
“I see,” said the grand master. “Hmm . . . I like the idea of battle. The Order of Malta and its defense of Christianity and Europe.”
“That defense and the stalwart bravery shall be integral to the painting,” said Caravaggio.
“Ah! Perhaps along the lines of Scipione Pulzone’s portrait of Marcantonio Colonna? I’ve admired that portrait in the Palazzo Colonna myself,” said the grand master.
Caravaggio’s mouth puckered with distaste. “It will be far more dramatic and better executed than Pulzone’s, I assure you, Your Grace.”
Wignacourt raised an eyebrow. “You are certainly confident in your skill, Maestro.”
Caravaggio stared back at him. His mouth turned hard, his eyes narrowing. “If I were not, I could never attempt to pick up a brush. Your portrait will be magnificent.”
“May I see some sketches?”
“No,” said Caravaggio.
“No?”
“I do not sketch my work. I see it here.” He tapped the side of his right eye.
“No sketches? Ever?” said the grand master, raising an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not. I would find them distracting. I paint what I see in the moment, not before . . . not after.”
“Most extraordinary. But I cannot argue with the genius you have shown here with Cavaliere Martelli.”
Caravaggio said nothing.
“In fact, my confidence in your genius is already so strong that I want to begin discussing a far greater undertaking.”
Caravaggio lifted his chin. “That is?”
“Once you have succeeded with my portrait,” said Wignacourt, “I want you to paint a commemoration of our patron saint of the Order of Malta.”
“Saint John the Baptist,” said Caravaggio.
“Yes. His martyrdom. Something that will stir hearts from Malta to Roma. From Roma to Paris, and Paris to London. I want an extraordinary work that will unite all of the eight languages of our knights under one banner, one heart . . . that of our holy patron saint. I want the moment of his martyrdom.”
“His beheading.”
“Of course, Maestro Caravaggio,” said the grand master, his voice changing, somber with respect. “At the whim of the harlot Salome.”
Caravaggio’s immobile face quivered. Muscle by muscle, his face drew up in a smiling grimace, an expression the grand master had never seen on another human being.
“He is an artist of the highest caliber,” said Cavaliere Ippolito Malaspina, admiring Wignacourt’s portrait. “A stroke of genius to have the page looking out from the edge, directly into the viewer’s eye.”
“Sì,” said the grand master. “I wasn’t sure I liked it at first, the boy crowding in on me. It is my portrait, after all.”
“It gives the painting depth and intimacy, despite the darkness. Perhaps because of the darkness. The light on the page’s face—”
“Sì, sì. I think Caravaggio captured strength in my pose.”
“Of course,” said Malaspina, a tw
inkle in his eye. “Grand Master, have you discussed the idea of painting John the Baptist?”
“We have discussed it,” said Wignacourt.
“No contract yet?” said Malaspina. “Aren’t you afraid he will bolt? Leave Malta?”
“Caravaggio?”
“Sì! There is nothing holding him here. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“If you were able to convince the pope to instate Michelangelo Caravaggio as a member of the Cavalieri di Obbedienza—”
“The order is defunct by the pope’s command,” said Wignacourt. “And Caravaggio is wanted for murder.”
“Anything is possible. Explain the circumstances but simply don’t mention his name. If Caravaggio leaves our shores, he will never return to Malta. He is pursued not only by the law but by art collectors all over Europe.”
Wignacourt looked from his friend’s eyes to the painting of himself. He rubbed his finger back and forth across his mustache. “The pope is very worried about North Africa and the Muslim invaders. He does owe me some favors.”
Malaspina clapped his old friend on the back. “Of course he does.”
“I will write to him immediately,” said the grand master.
Grand Master Wignacourt summoned Caravaggio to his study.
“Maestro Caravaggio. I want you to commence on the painting we discussed earlier. For the oratory.”
“A painting of the execution of Saint John the Baptist.”
“It must be striking—and large enough to encompass the entire wall behind the altar.”
Caravaggio tucked in his chin like a turtle. He had studied the oratorio for exactly this moment. “A canvas twice the height of a man. And a full ten paces wide. Maybe wider. That will be a vast work. Difficult. Demanding.”
“Can you do it, Master Caravaggio?”
“Of course I can.” Caravaggio frowned. “But I have given thought to returning to Roma.”
“Caravaggio!” said Wignacourt, throwing up his hands. “You are a wanted man. You are under a death sentence, a bando capitale. The pope will have your head.”
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