by Lyn Hamilton
Seven o'clock came and went with no sign of Lake, and soon a slight breeze caused the mist to swirl. Rather than thinning, it became thicker, as the valley mists started to lift with the sunrise. Soon I could see no more than a few feet around me. Olive trees that had been quite distinct a few minutes earlier became ghostlike wraiths that hovered about me. Sounds became muffled, and I couldn't discern the direction they were coming from.
I had a sense of unreality, of being in some netherworld where alien beings, malignant in intent, lurked.
I thought I heard footsteps, but then I wasn't sure. Next I thought I heard voices, whispers almost, but it could have been the wind in the cypresses or early morning birdcalls.
A minute or two later, I was certain there was someone nearby. A foot slid in the mud, and a slight cough pierced the silence.
"She's not here," a voice said. I think that's what I heard.
"She'll be here," another voice said.
"Then we wait," said the first. Utter silence followed. I sat on the wet ground, wondering whether to announce myself or wait until the mist rose and I could see who was there.
All of a sudden, there was a great flapping of wings and a shriek. Was it a bird? A person crying out in terror? I didn't know.
I simply could not sit there another minute. I got up, and without worrying about how much noise I was making, tried to make my way back to the road. I could just see a few feet in front of me and had only a vague sense of whether I was heading up the hill or down. I kept telling myself that, because of the switchbacks, I had to come out to the road at some point. Just when I thought I should have reached safety, I found myself back at the Tanella. Mist swirled about the stones, and what just a few minutes before had been an interesting architectural novelty was now cold and menacing. For just a second, I could have sworn I saw a man on the downside of the hill, his back to me, but then he disappeared, if he existed at all, into the fog.
The Tanella had given me my bearings, so I went uphill, away from the man I might or might not have seen. There was a path of sorts, and I took it, keeping my eye on the ground ahead of me. A bump appeared on the path. It took only a second or two to ascertain that the bump was a man, that man was Pierre Leclerc, and that Pierre Leclerc was dead, garrotted. The wire was still around his throat. I stumbled the remaining few yards to the road and, scratched and frightened, got into my car and fled.
As I headed back down the slope, a police car, blue light flashing, came up the road from below. In my agitated state, I debated about flagging them down and telling them about Leclerc. Fortunately, I didn't have to. As I rounded the next turn, I saw the car pull over at the bottom of the path that led to the Tanella, and two carabinieri get out and head up the hill.
I went back to the hotel, packed, and checked out, and moved again, this time to a hotel in Cortona. I left only my cell phone number on Antonio's voice mail.
EIGHT
CORTONA
The dark figure, face hooded against the rain, stared for a moment at the osteria's window display, then walked past it and turned the corner down a tight little cobblestoned street. A few yards along the way, a door was checked, then the end of the street surveyed. As I watched, the figure turned right, then right again, and went into a church, reappearing a minute or two later, finally retracing the route back to the osteria.
"Hello, Lola," I said. "You have something of mine that I would like back, please."
She started and turned as if to flee, but I had blocked her escape route.
"You have no business with something like that," she said, obviously deciding that the best defense was a strong offense. "I may not know antiquities the way you do, but I bet that hydria is real. I have no idea how you got it, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that you think it's legal, even though you made up that ridiculous story about an art student. I saw the way you looked at it, and kept looking at it. It's Etruscan, and it should be in a museum, not in the hands of a collector!"
"Lola," I said. "Believe me, you do not want to have that hydria. It could be dangerous. If you would give me a—"
"People blame the tombaroli" she said. "But they are usually just poor farmers. If there wasn't a market for what they loot, they wouldn't do it. Who said that collectors are the real looters?"
"Ricardo Elia," I said. "But Lola—"
"I'd say he would have been more accurate if he'd said collectors and dealers like you! People who buy the treasures, or even steal them, then smuggle them out of the country—"
"Lola!" I exclaimed. "Shut up for a minute." She was waving her arms about, and speaking louder and louder, and people were beginning to stare at us. "I am not planning to smuggle the vase out of the country," I whispered. "I smuggled it in."
"Oh, right," she said. "What kind of idiot do you take me for? Smuggling an Italian treasure into Italy!"
"Well, it's true," I said. "I have a client who wants to return it to the museum it was stolen from. Now, where is it?"
"Why should I believe you?" she said.
"That's a very good question, Lola. I don't know quite what to believe about you, either. Why should I be standing here in the rain trying to reason with someone who leaves hotels without paying, thereby attracting the attention of the polizia, and who steals something from someone she's been sharing a picnic dinner with only moments earlier? Answer that one for me, will you?"
"Because I have something you want?" she said.
We stood glaring at each other, rain dripping off our noses. My jeans were wet up to the knees, my shoes soaked through to my socks. "Let's go in and get something to eat and discuss this somewhere dry," I said at last.
"I'm not hungry," she said.
"Yes, you are. I saw you doing your little match girl impersonation at all the food store windows, and just now you were checking out an escape route, weren't you? You chose this restaurant because it's on a corner, and has a back door. You were planning to eat and run, weren't you? Maybe duck into the church and hide in the confession box?"
She didn't answer, but she couldn't meet my gaze. I suddenly felt very sorry for her. "You won't have to, because lunch is my treat."
"I don't need charity," she sniffed. I couldn't tell if it was the rain or tears on her face.
"You can buy next time," I said. "Now, let's eat." I took her by the elbow and led her into the restaurant. It was a tiny little place, with a rather gruff proprietor, but it was warm and dry, the food was delicious, and the house wine just fine. For awhile, we stuck to neutral subjects: the weather, the relative merits of Cortona versus Arezzo, her ongoing search for Lars Porsena's tomb.
"It was nice of you to offer to lend me the money to pay my hotel bill," she said suddenly. "I did hear you, down in the lane, but I didn't say anything. I will pay it off, you know. I have found myself some work, a little freelance bookkeeping for a lawyer. I start next week, just a few hours a week, but I sent the hotel all the money I have and told them the rest would come as soon as I was able to send more. I hope that takes care of the polizia thing. I'd have paid off the restaurant with my first paycheck, too, if you hadn't come along."
"The offer still stands, Lola," I said, thinking that there were still a few dollars left in my now rather emaciated Swiss bank account. "But we need to talk about the hydria."
"You're not going to tell me again that you smuggled it into Italy, are you?"
"Yes. I found it in France," I said. That was true. I wasn't going to tell her I found it in the trunk of my car in France. That would be too much for just about anybody. "I have, as I said, a client—I'm not at liberty to reveal his name—who wants to return it to the museum it was stolen from."
"Where might that be?" she said.
"Vulci," I said.
"That makes sense," she said. "Vulci, or Velc, was a center for the production of Etruscan pottery. Some of the greatest Etruscan artists, like the Micali painter, were based in Vulci. ,It looks like the Micali painter, by the way, or one of his follow
ers. Did you know that?"
"I thought it might be, but it would take an expert to ascertain that," I said. It was Micali school, the Interpol database said as much. I was afraid if she knew that, she'd never take a chance on returning it to me.
"You do know what you've got here, don't you?" she said. "Or at least what I... we've got."
"I think so," I said. I assumed she was talking about Micali. I liked the idea of we, though. It sounded promising in terms of my getting it back.
"Would I recognize the name of this client of yours? Given that you can't reveal it?"
"Probably," I said. "Where's the hydria?"
"It's safe," she said. "You have to tell me the name of the client."
"I really can't."
"Then you'll not get the hydria back."
That was progress of a sort. At least she was considering returning it to me.
"You'll have to promise not to tell," I said. There seemed no way around this, despite Lake's requirement for anonymity.
"I promise," she said. I looked at her carefully. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said.
"You haven't got your fingers crossed behind your back, or anything, have you?" I said.
She grimaced, placed both hands on the table, and said, "I promise."
"Crawford Lake," I said.
"The Crawford Lake?" she said. I nodded. "Wow," she said. "Have you met him?" I nodded again. "In person?"
"Yes," I said.
"Where?"
"In his apartment in Rome. Why does this matter?"
"I'm not sure I believe you. I've heard no one gets to see him."
A cell phone was ringing somewhere in the osteria. It took me a minute to realize it was mine.
"Hello," I said.
"What happened?" Lake said.
"Why don't you tell me?" I replied.
"I'm told there were other people there. Did you bring them with you?"
"I did not. What do you mean by 'I'm told'? Were you there?"
"Of course not," he said. "I sent one of my people. Did you tell anyone about this meeting?"
"No!" I said. "Did you?"
"Where are you staying?" he asked, ignoring my question. "I called your hotel, and they said you'd checked out. You know you are supposed to let me know where you are at all times. Why didn't you tell me you'd moved?"
"I'm in the general area," I said cautiously. "And I left a message for Antonio, telling him I was on the move and letting him know you or he should call me on my cell phone, which is what you're doing."
He sighed loudly.
"And about Leclerc?" I said, waiting for his reaction.
"Leclerc who?" he said. "What are you talking about?" I said nothing. There had been nary a word in the papers or anywhere that I could find about a body found near the Tanella. I was beginning to think I'd been hallucinating in that fog.
"Where are you staying?" he said. "I'll contact you there later and set up a rendezvous place and time."
"Why don't we set it up right now?" I said. The man was beginning to annoy me.
"Today, then. I must have that vase," he said.
"Fine. Just tell me where and when. Please make it somewhere I can see you; that is, not in a fog bank, and not at night. Right out in the open. And come yourself this time."
"The Melone di Sodo," he said.
"Just a minute," I said. I put him on hold. "Do you know a Melone di Sodo?"
"Sure," Lola said. "Melon-shaped tombs here in Cortona. Is it him?"
"Yes."
"Ask him which one."
"Which one?" I said to Lake.
"The big one. Melone two."
"Melone two," I said, so that Lola could hear. She nodded.
"Five o'clock. Melone two. It's Sunday, so there'll be no one working there. It will be private. Bring the vase."
"Okay, Lola," I said, putting away my cell phone. "Here's the deal. You come to that Melone tomb at five this afternoon. With the hydria. I introduce you to my client. If you believe him and me, you hand it over."
"Okay," she said. "I guess that's fair. Do you want directions to the Melone? It's actually just across the Arezzo-Cortona road from where you turned up toward the town to get to the Tanella."
"Yes. Do you want me to pick you up and take you there?"
"No," she said. "I'd like to meet Lake. I'll be there."
“I hope you will, I thought.
"Here," I said, handing her a hundred thousand lira note. "A loan to tide you over. You can take a taxi from town if you want."
She looked at it for a minute. "Is it a loan or a bribe?"
"It's a loan," I said firmly. After a moment's hesitation, she took it.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll pay it back."
At four o'clock, I was at the Melone. It was a huge mound, melon-shaped as could be predicted from its name, surrounded by fencing. It was under excavation, and on the eastern side, below ground level, there was a large staircase, ceremonial in nature, that had been uncovered. Around the back, to the west, were two very long and narrow shafts, which I presumed were tombs of some sort.
I carefully scouted the site, not wanting a repeat of my awful experience at the Tanella. Lake had acceded to my wishes for a more open spot. The main road was clearly visible from the site. To the south of the mound was a slight incline, and beyond that, a narrow road, then a grassy area. I found a spot where I could see, but once again, hopefully not be seen until I was ready to be. It had stopped raining, and the sun was low in the sky, so I was careful to have my back to it. I'd brought a sheet of plastic to sit on this time, so I settled down reasonably comfortably to wait.
At about quarter to five, I heard a motor scooter approaching, and a man clad in jeans, tan jacket, and a helmet, appeared. I was worried it was someone checking the site, and that we might be interrupted, but when he took off the helmet, I saw, with some surprise, that it was not Lake, as might be expected, but Antonio. I was about to stand up and wave to him when he wheeled his motor scooter, a rather dashing purple number, around the corner where it couldn't be seen by anyone approaching from the highway. Then he, too, hid from view. It seemed a little peculiar, so I decided to remain hidden.
About five minutes later, Lola hove into view, walking along the edge of the highway and turning down the dirt and gravel lane that led to the site. She was walking rather slowly, indeed limping a little, and she looked vulnerable and tired. She must have walked a fair distance carrying a large wicker picnic basket, not by the handle, but in her arms as if it was a baby, or, given current circumstances, a priceless treasure. I hardly dared hope. As she came nearer, I could see the corner of a bright pink blanket protruding from the basket. Thank you, Lola, I thought.
I was just about to stand up when, from out of nowhere, three police cars appeared, blue lights flashing, sirens screaming, streaking down the hill from the town across the main road. They crossed it and bounced down the dirt road toward us. Lola stumbled and started to run, but she was immediately surrounded by six carabinieri, guns drawn. One of them grabbed the basket, opened it, and with a triumphant gesture held the hydria aloft so that the others could see it. Lola stood there, completely stunned, her mouth moving, but no sound that I could hear coming from her. In a matter of seconds, she was handcuffed, roughly pushed into the backseat of one of the police cars, and the three backed up the road to the highway, then sped away.
I sat there, absolutely aghast, until the cough of a motor scooter springing to life brought me back to my senses. It was too late. As I stood up, Antonio roared away and soon was a mere speck on the horizon. I sat on the plastic sheet, watching the sun set, until my cell phone rang.
"Something very bad has happened," Antonio said. He was not bothering to practice his English anymore, and was speaking so rapidly in Italian I was having trouble understanding him. "It is fortunate that you were not at the Melone. I believe you're in danger. We both are. Get away from here. Go home. Don't tell anyone about this."
"I
know what happened," I said.
"How could you know? Are you, too, part of this?"
"Part of what?" He didn't say anything, but I could practically hear his brain working. "I was hiding out the same way you were."
"I don't believe you," he said.