“You’ve kept yourself well informed on the scientific investigation.”
For a moment, the professor stopped scanning the traffic for a taxi. “Our friend Moto has been in touch on a regular basis. He’s kept me informed.”
Lucia had expected that, but she wasn’t quite sure what to say in response. The professor filled the silence.
“I understand the two of you had a . . . falling out.”
“He lied to us!” She started to fill in the details, but Professor Richman stopped her.
“Lucy, I realized who he was a long time ago.”
“When? How did—?”
“When that, um, gentleman at the hotel in Siena refrained from killing me, I started thinking. With everything that had happened, it suddenly became obvious.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t seem like something that one would talk about. For all I knew, you were part of it too. And as long as he was keeping thugs from slitting my throat, I saw no need to complain.”
With that, the professor lurched out into the street and flung his arm in the air. As a taxi pulled to a halt, Professor Richman added, “Moto wasn’t lying, Lucy. He was keeping a secret that wasn’t his to tell. And he was trying to protect us. Protect you, really. You’re the one he cares about. I was just along for the ride.”
He opened the door and waved for Lucia to get in, but she paused and said, “No, thanks. I think I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
Chapter 50
ROME
Fra Filippo Lupo struggled to control his emotions. He knew he had done well in his investigations. Still, he was careful to erase any trace of pride from his face before he entered the office. He knew he could not betray any emotion—most particularly pleasure. He would not give his commander any reason to question his presentation. He could almost hear the snarl in that deep voice: “Pleased with yourself, Fra Lupo?” No, he would not chance that reception. Particularly today. His presentation was going to be two-edged and more than merely difficult. The good news of his own work, followed by much more painful information. It almost scared him to think of it.
His commander was demanding, harsh—and still beloved. It had been that way for decades since Lupo (though he hadn’t yet adopted that nom de guerre) had been a college student in a class led by Gran Comandante Militare Pantera (then calling himself Gustavo de Roero) during the single academic year before the uproar over the comandante’s thesis had resulted in his banishment from academia.
The years since then had been challenging, often enough painful, but certainly thrilling, as the comandante’s curious charisma had drawn followers to his cause. Some had become fanatically dedicated. Others had fallen along the way. But their ranks had grown steadily—and Fra Lupo had been by the comandante’s side through it all. He had accepted discipline when it was merited and he had refrained from any self-congratulatory excesses—most certainly in the comandante’s presence.
And so he banished all emotion—pleasure or regret—as he entered the office and snapped to attention in front of the enormous desk and the tiny man behind it.
“Pleased with yourself, Fra Lupo?”
Damn.
“No sir. Pleasure or regret rests entirely on your decision, sir.”
“Fra Filippo Lupo! Report!”
“Comandante! Following up on your own excellent work, sir, I was able to determine that the ragazza was born in a tiny village called Cuoremontagna. As far as I could discover, it no longer exists. It was abandoned almost twenty years ago after most of the inhabitants were killed in several years of combat—more a series of vicious assaults than real warfare—between two Mafia families seeking control of the worthless territory.”
“Sicilians,” hissed the comandante. “Sometimes I wonder if they aren’t really all Turks.”
Lupo paused to be certain his commander was finished. Then he continued.
“The girl’s entire family was killed in one such assault. She alone survived, although there is no record of how she escaped. There are only reports of those who once lived there and those who were found dead. But with assistance from my own contacts in America—you have indeed taught me well, sir—I was able to determine that the elderly couple who raised her were her nonni and were from that same village of Cuoremontagna, and they were driven out following an earlier outbreak of similar violence.”
“Interesting.”
“Sir. And although firm answers are elusive, it seems clear that her family—grandparents, parents, and several uncles—played an important part in one family’s victory in that war. If any result of such petty violence could be called a victory. And she is the only survivor of her immediate family line.”
“Is that your entire report?”
“No sir. I have also learned that Father Antonio—”
“Ah! The meddlesome priest.”
“Yes sir. Father Antonio was from that same village. He had been part of the violence, but he left to join the priesthood at about the same time the girl was sent to America.”
“Ha!” Comandante Pantera’s hand slammed down on the desk, but this time—for the first time in a long time—he was definitely smiling. “Brilliant work, Lupo. Brilliant. We’ve got it.”
Lupo’s brow was furrowed. “Thank you, sir. But I’m not sure how it all fits together.”
“That’s the brilliant part, Lupo. It doesn’t matter exactly how the pieces fit—we just know that they do fit somehow. It’s all connected, and that’s all we need to know.”
His smile was actually warm.
“Fra Lupo. Filippo. Figlio mio. You have justified the faith I have put in you. You have made me proud.”
Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and raised his fingertips to his temples. He sat that way for a long minute, and then the blue eyes flashed open again.
“Yes! It will be perfect. Not easy, but easy enough. And perfect.”
Fra Lupo shifted uneasily. “Sir, I . . .”
The gran comandante didn’t even bother to reprimand him. He just kept talking, his excitement rising.
“The carabinieri have turned the painting over to the academics. That will make it almost too easy. They are having a symposium in Palo. The painting will be there. Certainly the girl will be there. We will grab them both. Both! And . . . yes! We will be disguised as Muslim terrorists. We will issue threats in the name of Allah, declaring we will kill the girl and destroy the painting unless they grant us . . . whatever. And then, then we will announce as ourselves, as the Roero Brigade, that we have rescued the girl and we will set her free. We’ll be heroes.”
Fra Lupo was looking increasingly unhappy, but the comandante didn’t notice.
“By rescuing the girl, we will have the mafiosi on our side. They apparently feel some sort of obligation to her and they will appreciate her rescue. Then we can destroy that cursed note. Cavaliere Roero’s reputation will be safe and we can let the mafiosi sell the painting. They will certainly be pleased with that arrangement—and we will only ask for half the proceeds. That’s enough to fund our mission for years to come.”
He leaned back in the chair. “All thanks to the meddlesome priest.” He smiled, and as if welcoming Lupo into his club of scholars, added, “You know, of course, that Henry the Second didn’t actually say ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest.’ The best history we have tells us that—”
“Sir! Stop!”
There was a moment of silence, as if neither man could believe that Lupo had actually dared to interrupt so recklessly.
And then, before the gran comandante could speak, Lupo rushed ahead.
“It will not happen. It cannot happen.”
“What!” Puzzlement and outrage mixed.
For an instant, the man sitting behind the desk seemed about to explode out of his chair and launch himself at the throat of the much larger man, who still stood straight and tall, nothing in his expression expressing fear or regret. But that explosion never occurr
ed. The smaller man’s supreme self-control kept him sitting. He leaned back in his chair, seeming almost relaxed.
“I do not understand what you are trying to tell me,” he continued.
The other man’s posture relaxed just perceptibly. He was going to be allowed to explain.
“Comandante, it pains me deeply to have spoken as I have. But out of my deep loyalty to you and to our cause, I had no choice.”
“No choice?”
“Sir, we do not have the men for this mission.”
“Really?” His tone was relaxed, simple curiosity.
“After the latest . . . incident—the car crash, sir—there are very few of us left.”
“The mission I have described does not require more than a handful of men.”
“Sir, we do not have a handful. Not even that.” A brief pause. A breath. Out with it. “They have all abandoned us. They have deserted. There is no one left. Except myself. And you. Just we two. And we cannot do this alone. It is madness to think otherwise, sir.”
There was a long silence.
Then Comandante Pantera spoke.
“So, after all we have done, all we have sacrificed, all we have achieved, now with victory in reach, we are forced to turn back, to betray our cause, to betray the man whose glorious memory has inspired us, just because a pack of cowardly dogs have turned tail and run!”
Fra Lupo said nothing. The other man, still seated, nodded slowly.
“It would seem I have no choice. I must accept this new state of affairs.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Shook his head slightly. “I have loved you like a son. I have favored you above all others. I have trusted you.”
The other man still said nothing.
Fra Pantera’s eyes snapped open, white showing all around the icy blue. His fighting-dog’s ears somehow tucking even more tightly against his skull.
“I thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”
“Sir.” With military precision, he turned on his heel and walked slowly to the door, limping slightly, knowing that once through that door, he would breathe easily for the first time in longer than he could remember.
As Fra Lupo reached for the doorknob, the man at the desk drew open a drawer and without hesitation raised a pistol and fired a single shot into the back of Fra Lupo’s head.
Then he set the pistol gently on the desk and sat for an endless moment looking down at it.
“Figlio mio?” There was contempt in his voice. “Cowardly fool! I will take care of it myself.”
Chapter 51
Napoli
1610
Caravaggio carried his rolled canvases under his arm. As he stepped down from the Colonna carriage, he called to the coachman.
“Drop my trunk off over there—that brown-and-blue boat, the Gabbiano. See that no one meddles with it and don’t leave until I return to see it loaded. I want to stretch my legs before the sail.”
The coachman muttered something and drove on to the hitching posts, looking for a strong-backed workman to wrestle with the heavy trunk.
Caravaggio took a sip of salt air into his lungs. Soon enough, he would be at the seaport of Civitavecchia and then on to Roma. His eyesight was still compromised, but he saw busy hands weaving something a few paces ahead on the rocky pier.
“Are you leaving us, Maestro?” said a burly fisherman, his skin wrinkled as an elephant’s hide. He stopped mending his nets. “I thought Napoli suited you.”
Caravaggio stopped to look at the fisherman’s gnarled hands, crisscrossed with scars and lacerations from hauling nets over the years.
The fisherman jabbed his finger at the artist’s face. Caravaggio noticed the tip of his finger was missing.
“Don’t hold it against us what some foreign cutthroats did to you,” said the man.
“How do you know they were foreign, fisherman?” asked Caravaggio.
The man spat into dirty foam ebbing against the dock. “You think a Napoletano would cut you? Ecco! You, Maestro, you who gave Napoli the Seven Acts of Mercy? Next to Faccia Gialla, you are Napoli’s favorite son! For a foreigner . . .”
“Faccia Gialla . . . ah, the yellow face,” said Caravaggio.
“Our patron saint, Gennaro, Maestro,” said the fisherman, bowing his head in reverence.
“Whose blood liquefies each year as a blessing?” said Caravaggio. “Pescatore, I cannot claim such miracles.”
“Your paints are liquid. They dry into miracles. Your gift to Napoli is the Seven Acts of Mercy,” said the fisherman. “The most magnificent painting!”
“He’s right,” said another fisherman next to him, sorting his catch. Beside him were piles of shellfish, sea urchins, small silverfish, and a good-size branzino. “They are foreign bravi who attacked you, not one of us, no matter how desperate. No Napoletano would lay a hand on you.”
Caravaggio nodded. The morning light glinted bright off the water. The artist squinted at the fishermen crouched over their nets.
“A foreigner. I’ll consider that,” he said. He turned back and walked toward the bobbing felucca moored to a massive stone pylon.
The captain, slit-eyed with sun-bleached hair, nodded to his passenger as he approached. “You are the last,” he said. “This carriage driver wouldn’t let my crew load your trunk. What do you have in there, Maestro? Gold?”
“None of your business,” said Caravaggio. “Put that trunk next to my bunk.”
“I’ll put her down in the hold,” said the captain. “No water will seep in there.”
“Do as I say,” said Caravaggio. “Next to my bunk.”
“All right. Don’t blame me if it flies loose in a storm and knocks you senseless,” said the captain. “Emilio! Get some help and carry that trunk down to Signor Merisi’s bunk.” The captain looked at the heavy lock on the chest and snorted. “Won’t have anybody trying to pry her open either. She’ll be good and safe. You can ride sitting on her if you want to.” The captain winked at one of the sailors.
“Don’t act the arse with me, Captain,” said Caravaggio. “Nothing but sickness in the hold. I’ll stand my ground up on deck.”
“Not your first sail, then, Maestro?”
Caravaggio said nothing. He made an agitated gesture with his hand for the crew to load the chest.
The felucca was loaded with cargo and a few passengers. Among those already on board was a scruffy, long-haired man with a carelessly groomed beard. He wore a crimson scarf around his neck in a loose knot. He stared at Caravaggio.
“You’re the artist—Caravaggio,” he said.
“What business is it of yours?” said Caravaggio, turning to watch his locked chest carried down into the hold. “Be careful how you handle that trunk!” he shouted.
“Sì, signore,” grunted the two sailors struggling to move the coffer down the hatch.
“Put it by his bunk,” said the captain. “He can watch over it there.”
“Aye, Captain,” said the sailors.
“Why are you leaving Napoli?” said the stranger with the red scarf.
“Again, what business is it of yours?” said Caravaggio.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mario Fenelli, by profession a poet. Perhaps you have heard of me in Spaccanapoli?”
“Why should I have heard of you?”
“I’ve recited poetry at the Cerriglio. You are a frequent visitor.”
“I keep company with real poets, signore,” said Caravaggio. “Giambattista Marino—”
“You know him?” said Mario, his eyes widening.
“He is an intimate friend. I painted his portrait.”
Fenelli fingered his dirty scarf. “You don’t by chance have it in that chest, do you?”
“You are a colossal fool, ‘poet’!” snarled Caravaggio, walking away.
Hour after hour, the sailboat bobbed along the coast of western Italy, heading north to Civitavecchia. Caravaggio shaded his eyes with his hand, scanning the rocky cliffs and sunlit villages clinging to land’
s end.
“We’ll make Palo by Tuesday, midnight,” said the captain. “You’ve got your papers in order? We’ll shove off as soon as we pass customs.”
“Palo?” said Caravaggio.
“The papal guard keeps the fortress there. We must show our papers before sailing to dock in Roman territories.”
Caravaggio pressed his lips together, making his mustache buckle.
“You have your papers in order, do you not, Maestro?” said the captain.
“Certo,” said the artist, looking out to sea. Of course.
The small bunk room was empty except for the two passengers occupying two lower beds. Mario Fenelli sat on his bunk, pulling items out of a carpetbag.
“You might be interested in the art supplies I’m bringing my brother, a monk in Piemonte,” said Fenelli.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be,” said Caravaggio, unfolding the linen sheet to make a bed.
“Look. Horsehair paintbrushes. This one is made from ferret hair. And I have pigments. Madder root and the finest lapis lazuli.”
Caravaggio looked over his shoulder at the nugget of lapis lazuli.
“See! This cost me dear,” said the poet. “I—”
“I can see you are a fool with your money,” said Caravaggio, taking the nugget in his hand. “Too much ash and not enough pigment.”
Fenelli frowned. “And this,” he said, pulling out a steel hammer and chisel. “My brother is interested in sculpture.”
“A sculpting monk,” muttered Caravaggio. “Where did you say your brother’s monastery is?”
“Roero.”
Caravaggio grunted. Roero!
“That’s where?” he asked.
“In Piemonte. Way up north.”
“I know where Piemonte is. Put away your toys, poet, and blow out your candle. I want to sleep.”
“Sì, signore,” said Fenelli.
With the candle extinguished, the bunk room was dark except for the guttering light of the single sconce bolted to a timber. Mario Fenelli stared from his bunk at the tar-sealed trunk strapped in leather.
Giambattista Marino. Europe’s most acclaimed living poet! For Mario, who spouted poetry to anyone who would listen—more often those who wished not to listen at all—Giambattista Marino was a god. This artist, this Caravaggio—he paints masterpieces, worth hundreds of scudi! If I could only glimpse—
Light in the Shadows Page 36