The desk clerk looks me up and down with approval and smiles. “Good evening madam, how can I be of assistance?”
Strange how the word ‘madam’ does not irk me like ‘ma’am’ does.
“A room please – the best.”
“Oui, but of course. How long will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure, three or four days, I would imagine.”
“Then let me suggest the ‘Einstein Suite’”.
“Great idea…” I quip, but I’m not sure he gets it. I complete and sign the guest log at the top of a fresh page –not what I want, so I flip back to the previous one with a disapproving look from the clerk.
“I was wondering how many guests you have staying here.” I explained.
I continue to scan until I see the number of Luigi Marconi’s room – 207 and push the register away with disinterest.
My rooms are decorated in a style reminiscent of the storage basement of the Metropolitan museum so I feel quite at home. Next on the itinerary is to become intimately familiar with the hotel and to this end I walk the corridors and stairs down to the lobby, paying particular attention to the second floor. The fire escapes are like any others and easily accessible. Back at my rooms I sketch the images in my mind to paper and retire with a Sydney Sheldon novel and glass of Johnny Walker Black Label.
It’s easy to spot Marconi at breakfast – guests not used to staying in first class hotels display an uneasiness complex. Marconi appeared at the door and didn’t know what to do – sit or wait to be seated? It’s written all over his face. He knows whatever his decision it will be the wrong one, so he waits while other guests walk past him and seat themselves. A waitress diverts and suggests a table, which he takes with a “Grazie”.
Aha, I am right. He is pretty much as I expected – black slicked back hair, pencil moustache, high cheek bones and a pointy nose. He is dressed in an ill-fitting white suit with black pinstripes, black tie and matching shoes that would look more in place on a golf course. Now, he is off somewhere after eating – so I need to decide whether to follow or check out his room. I’ll follow – it’s likely that he has placed a ‘please clean’ hang tag on his door and I cannot risk discovery by cleaning staff.
He carries nothing when leaving the hotel which means he already found a buyer or has the box secured somewhere. We head south on foot along Bruxelles Boulevard before turning left onto Bath Street and he enters an alley between buildings. I watch from the entrance until he disappears from sight and I continue down. There are two doorways where I lost sight of him and neither looks inviting, but I see cobwebs undisturbed on one of the handles. I crouch to look through the keyhole of the other door and just as I get to peer through I am grabbed by the neck and slammed roughly against the paneling. My karate skills kick in automatically and I seize the wrist and twist under it to reverse the situation and come up behind the assailant. I kick his feet out and drop him to his knees before slamming his head twice into the hefty frame and get out of there before I’m discovered by anyone else. My heart pounds when I enter a shopping mall three blocks away and look for signs of being followed, but I see no-one.
The reason I was attacked is obviously related to Marconi, but why? It would seem that he has made contact with buyers for the books and if this is the case, he hasn’t delivered them yet. I have to get back there and stake out the place and to that end purchase a smock and hat from the store before securing a good vantage point. A man’s head pops out from inside the alley every thirty seconds or so and scans the street but pays no attention to the woman looking in the antique shop window.
Marconi appears after five minutes and I walk ahead but allow him to overtake me. He leads me to the Suisse Bank and reappears with a brown paper wrapped parcel of about the size Roberto described. It’s a good bet that these are the da Vinci books and I quiver with the feeling of being so close. I expect him to return to the alley, but instead he heads to the hotel via a meandering route, being fearful of being tailed. I maintain anonymity by discarding the smock and hat at different locations and donning sun glasses that I picked up surreptitiously from a vendor stand. I pick a magazine and sit in the lobby while I develop a plan.
To this day I kick myself for not being aware of the person that was following me. In retrospect, he was hiding in plain sight – gaudy tropical shirt, tan shorts, white sunglasses and open toed sandals – who would take a second glance at such an obvious tourist? Even when he took the elevator to the second floor it didn’t hit home. I just did not expect to be followed. I was completely focused on Marconi only.
I wait for Marconi to show within half an hour and when he doesn’t I decide to investigate. His door is slightly ajar but not enough to see inside and there are no sounds from inside the room so I gently push it open further. A hand comes into view, palm upturned, lying on the carpet; it doesn’t move. I stick my head in and look around to make sure there is no one else here; the room is empty. Marconi has a knife stuck in his chest. I swallow hard and turn my attention to the area and search for the box, but I know in my mind it’s missing. And it is. I replay events from the time we returned to the hotel and realize that only one person went to the second floor – ‘flower shirt’ has it. He didn’t come back to the lobby and the window is locked from the inside so he’s still in the hotel or he took the stairs. What should I do? I leave the room quietly; making sure nobody has seen me. I do not bother to phone the police. Let room services discover the body as I have more important things to do right now than being interrogated by the police. I will assist them after I have solved the case myself. But I know that I am dealing with a very dangerous man.
On a hunch I go to the maitre de.
“Yes miss?”
“By chance did you see the gentleman in the Hawaiian shirt a short while ago?”
“I see everything here miss.”
“Can you tell me if he is a guest here?”
“Miss, this is the ‘Victoria’ - have you seen any other guest dressed in – ‘that’ – attire?” He asked with utter disdain.
“That’s what I thought, thank you.” A twenty dollar bill passes hands.
Now what? I can take root in the lobby and wait for someone carrying a box, or go looking. I’d better grow roots. Several guests check out with luggage but these are not what I’m interested in – it’s the lone man in a business suit, toting a purple wheeled airline carry-on bag that gets my attention. He could be off to a meeting, but why would a person not have an attaché or brief case? It just looks ‘wrong’.
I follow, and he knows it. He enters a taxi and gives his destination but I’m not close enough to hear – I get a taxi and follow. We arrive at Fiumicino airport at the KLM departure building, but he has already disappeared into the crowd. I look at the departure board – there are three KLM flights scheduled – Amsterdam, Lisbon and Tocumen. All international flights, but only the latter requiring passport clearance, which seems to rule it out. So – Amsterdam or Lisbon? Holland or Portugal? I go with Amsterdam only because of the diamond exchange and make my way to gate B17. Boarding has not been announced and so I get a good look at the passengers. The guy with the purple bag is not among them. The Lisbon flight is at gate B19 and is boarding – my gut says this is not the one. That leaves Tocumen. But why Panama? I check the board and see that the flight leaves from gate D10 – I’ll never make it in time but the elevated concourse will let me see the departure lounge. And there he is - I swear he looks up at me before heading down the embarkation ramp.
I take a deep breath, it always triggers my resolve, he’s gone but I cannot let go and so I return to the hotel and my I-pad. The KLM flight has a stop in Mauritania but there is an Air France non-stop flight that will get me there sooner. Oh I love computers! A couple of clicks and I have an e-ticket reservation; my bags are packed and I’m back at the airport with twenty minutes to spare – enough time to grab a bottle of blond hair color and blaring red lipstick from the duty free shop.
&nbs
p; The looks I got on emerging from the first class lavatory on board told me I did it right – from the red high heeled shoes and clinging dress, to the shoulder length ash blond curls brushing my shoulders, I look pretty darn stunning and I’m sure my quarry won’t recognize me.
I purchase a second bag from the Samsonite store, which I load with heavy souvenirs and secure in locker 117. Now all I have to do is wait for the KLM flight to arrive.
Chapter 9: Panama And One Purple Bag
Forty minutes later its status changes to ‘landed’, so I choose a seat near the baggage collection carousels and watch. Only one purple bag makes the rounds amidst those with colored ribbons attached for easy identification and I walk close enough to read the travel tag. ‘Cesar Montego, 224 Santa Maria Street, San Abajo, Los Santos.’ According to a map on the wall, there is a small airport at Howard – about forty kilometers away from San Abajo, and the next flight scheduled does not leave for three hours. I place my bag on the carousel next to his and wait for him to show. The bags take a turn out of reach when he appears and he stands close to me to wait for it.
“It’s a beautiful day, no?” He asks.
“Yes, it is.” I agree.
“Where you go – from here?” He asks.
“Rio Halo.”
“Ah, beautiful place, I went there once – you live there?”
“No, I wait for my friend’s chauffer.”
“I go the other way – to Los Santos. I wait for another plane.”
“I have to wait also, the limo was delayed.”
We reach for the bags. “We wait together no?”
“I don’t think so.” I decline.
“Why not? We are friends now, no? My I introduce myself to you, I am Montego.”
“Pleased to meet you Montego, I am Sophia,” I lie to him. “Well… I am a little hungry, perhaps a bit to eat.”
“Si, I buy.” He promises.
“Okay, but I want to put my bag in a locker - can’t be too careful you know. I heard there are thieves in the airport.”
He looks at his bag with concern. “Good idea – I do too.”
I choose locker 119 and he takes 123.
We order a ‘Cuban’ pressed sandwich and he suggests a Seco Herrerano to accompany. “This is the national drink of Panama.” He announces proudly.
I take a sip – it’s strong and reminiscent of clear rum. “It’s very good.”
“Two more…” He orders.
“You’ll get me dizzy.” I complain with a giggle.
“S’okay – we no drive – no?”
“No – we no drive.”
I’m surprised the potted plant next to me didn’t wilt with the alcohol I fed it and I estimate that I consumed one drink to his three which made it easy to pick the locker key from his pocket. Now I have to get rid of him.
“This Seco Herr… whatever makes me sleepy.” I giggle more.
“There is a hotel, right here – you want to rest for a while? I wake you up in time.” He offers.
“I shouldn’t.” I say, stroking his chin. “I really shouldn’t.”
“You’re safe with me – you trust me, no?”
Now I don’t know about you, but rule number one I learned as an adult was never trust anyone who says ‘trust me’. “Sure I trusht you.” I slur. “Okay – why don’t you get a room while I purchase some ‘items’ from the pharmacy. I’ll be right there.”
Not believing his good fortune, he positively runs to the hotel entrance while I head to the lockers. It’s an easy job to switch the box from Montego’s purple bag to mine and put the souvenirs in his. After toting his bag to get the weights close I have two iron statues left which I leave in the spare bag and place on the floor. I leave his bag in the locker but take mine with me. On the way to the hotel I draw the attention of a security guard to the unattended bag outside the lockers and meet with Montego in the lobby. I stagger against him to replace the key in his pocket and explain the presence of my bag “I need my nightie.”
His eyes light up with anticipation just as a loud whistle sounds outside.
“Whatsh that?” I ask.
“I go see.”
He is distraught on return. “It’s security – the lockers are cordoned off – I can’t get my bag! They are sending people out of the airport.”
“Oh my God!” I sympathize. “We have to go.”
“I can’t – I must have my bag.”
It is simple for me to hide in the melee and get to gate A11 for departure on the return flight. Sucker! In the airport I phone Interpol. I tell them that I want to stay anonymous but that I know of a dead body in a hotel room and his murderer Montego…
Chapter 10: Back To Rome Meeting The Traitor
Panama is a magnificent country from the air and I wish I could get to explore it, but this time I will be very happy to leave. Somewhere over the Caribbean I use my success in the recovery of the books as an excuse to call Gavin and report my adventure, but what I really want is to hear his voice.
“Sweetheart – well done! Tell you what – I’ll meet you at the hotel tonight and treat you to a night out.”
“We can’t go out – the banks will be closed and I need to keep these books in sight at all times.”
“Okay – dinner in your room then.”
“You’ll fly to Rome again?”
“Absolutely.”
“Gavin…”
“Yes?”
“You understand that we are just very good friends for now…”
“Yes, I get it.”
“Thank you – later on maybe.”
“Okay – see you tonight.”
Gavin is waiting for me with keen anticipation. “Why do you have blond hair? Never mind… that’s them?” He points to my bag.
“I didn’t have time to open the box, but I think so.”
He makes sure the doors are locked and shutters closed. “Let’s see…”
I lift the box out carefully and place it on a bath towel set on the coffee table.
We stand in awe and reverence at what we hope sits inside. There are pry marks on one side which I assume are recent.
“Go ahead…” Gavin prompts, handing me a knife.
“I’m scared.”
“Want me to?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
My fingers shake as I insert the blade between lid and side and lever downwards, just the box itself has immense value so I take great care not to damage it further.
With a slight creak it raises sufficiently for me to finish the removal with my fingers and expose the canvas package inside. It’s tied with a jute cord which alarms me.
“That’s not original.” I determine. “Oh dear.”
“What about the canvas?” Gavin asks.
“Could be.” My magnifying glass reveals fibers that would typically be found in materials of that era.
The package remains firm as I lift it out. “That’s a good sign…”
Picking the knot open with tweezers I become aware that I stopped breathing, so I step away for a moment. I lay open the canvas with my fingers to behold a stack of ancient books - not the hoped for eighty, but perhaps thirty in number sitting on a wooden block.
“Wonder where the others are?” Gavin questions.
“Mmmm.”
“Do you think the guy you ‘procured’ them from took them?”
“I don’t think so – he only had one bag with him when he left the hotel and he went straight to the airport from here.”
“So who?”
“The original thief perhaps – or Roberto…”
“Or his father?” Gavin suggested. “Or, they were never in the box.”
“Oh I think they were in the box – this wooden block is quite modern. There is another possibility though – Marconi went to visit someone or people not far from here – I followed him. – he may have sold them.”
“We should follow on that.” He said.
“We?” I ask, paying hal
f attention while concentrating on the books.
“Why not? I do bring some muscle to the games.”
“Mmmm.”
“What?”
“This seems to be the real deal.” I opine.
“Can you open one?”
“No, this has to be undertaken in laboratory conditions.”
“Yes. Of course – it’s just so…”
“Amazing, unbelievable, incredible… there aren’t words to describe this find.” I complain.
Gavin leans forward to smell the books. “I can’t believe I am this close to something so astounding. It’s like going back in time almost. So what’s this worth?”
“Who knows? Billions of dollars – I’ll have my work cut out for me to buy any of this for the museum.”
“What if just one more of the books vanished?” He hinted.
“I was just joking…”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
“Gavin! What are you suggesting?” I reproach. “I don’t believe you said that.”
“There are thirty one books here. I must photograph and document what I can without disturbing them, then repack them and secure them for the night. I’ll be sleeping with one eye open, that’s for sure.”
“While you do that I’ll order food, treasure hunting gives me an appetite! You must be hungry too.”
“Good idea, not pizza though.”
“Okay.”
I know from the smell before the covers are removed from the plates that we are eating ‘Peking Duck’ – which I love. “Good memory” I complement.
“How could I forget? With a bottle of Mateus Rose, as before.”
“Perfect.”
There is no better place for the box than under my bed and as I have imbibed a few glasses of wine at Gavin’s pouring, I tie a string from it to my wrist – an old trick. The adjoining door is unlocked on his oath that he will stay in his own bed and we retire for the night.
The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts Page 3