The Seven Stars

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘Flora… Flora,’ Lombardi’s voice jolted her back to the here and now. ‘We’re there, they want to see your passport.’

  Mechanically, and with a sense of detachment, tinged with disbelief that she was back at the very building where she had worked for eighteen months, she scrabbled in her handbag. The security guard barely glanced at it before handing it back and waving them into the embassy compound.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  Flora was still only half with him. ‘Like what?’

  ‘The building. It’s very different.’

  ‘Very ugly if you ask me.’ she answered in a monotone.

  Lombardi caught the change in her mood and looked at her intently. ‘Something the matter? Not nervous are you? I’m sure it’s just routine.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I was just wishing I was back in Oxford, that’s all. I miss my cat.’

  They followed the signs to the left hand side of the building into a car park shaded by trees and as they drew to a halt, a pink-faced young man, barely out of his teens or so it seemed to Flora, appeared from a side door to greet them.

  ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ said Lombardi. ‘I’m sure they won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Glad to know one of us is so well briefed,’ she replied, climbing out of the car. The young man introduced himself and led the way up the steps.

  ‘First time here?’ he asked as they made their way to the piano nobile.

  ‘No I’ve been to Rome before.’

  ‘But not to the embassy?’

  It could have been small-talk or he could be sounding her out, she wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t think anyone could forget a building this ugly,’ she said with a laugh, hoping the answer was ambiguous enough.

  Not pressing the point any further, he guided her along a marble-floored corridor. A cleaning lady was half-heartedly steering a mop along the skirting and looked up at their arrival – Flora recognised her but the woman made no sign that she remembered Flora. At last they arrived at a light oak door marked “Meeting Room 1D and he showed her in. It was sparsely furnished but elegant and the pink-faced young man invited her to take a seat. ‘Mr Smith will be with you shortly,’ he said, closing the door behind him.

  Flora got up and crossed to the window, gazing down on the shaded inner courtyard – a view she knew well. Was it really only four years ago? Maybe she was reading too much into this: the young man was probably just trying to be friendly and after all, her past had nothing to do with this.

  A discreet tap at the door broke her reverie and she turned to see a tall, silver-haired man in his early sixties. The suit was of a local cut and spoke of good taste and expensive tailoring. His shoes were definitely Jermyn Street: old habits die hard, she thought.

  He smiled and crossed the room, hand extended. ‘You must be Miss Kemble. I’m Giles Smith from the consular department. Very good of you to come.’

  Neutral sounding name, vague job title, I don’t like this one bit, thought Flora but her expression remained neutral and friendly. ‘I thought I was going to the Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale offices. It seems there’s been a change of plan.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Smith. ‘We just thought it wise to ask you to pop in and see us first.’

  Flora chuckled at this. ‘I didn’t actually get much choice in the matter.’

  ‘Again, we thought it best to limit the number of people who knew. News travels fast in southern Italy.’

  ‘So Lieutenant Lombardi tells me.’

  Smith shifted his gaze from her and hesitated for a moment as though weighing up what to say next. ‘We know you worked for the Rome Station for two years.’

  Flora immediately tensed and folded her hands in her lap. Her training kicked in: after the eyes, the biggest give-away are the hands. Don’t shift your gaze, don’t move your hands.

  The corners of Smith’s mouth turned almost imperceptibly upwards into what could almost have been a smile. ‘Please relax, Miss Kemble, you’re not under interrogation, we just need to get one or two facts straight.’ And while Flora was wondering who “we” might be, he reached down into his leather briefcase and drew out a file with a blue cardboard cover. ‘This is an extract from your personnel file,’ he said, placing it on the low table in front of them. ‘Heavily redacted but it’s only fair to tell you that we’re aware of your work for The Firm.’

  Flora maintained eye contact, waiting for him to look away. ‘And does that change anything? I hope that file of yours tells you I resigned four years ago and that I’m now a dusty old academic.’

  This time, the smile looked more genuine. ‘Hardly old, Miss Kemble and Professor Braithwaite speaks very highly of you.’

  Now it was Flora’s turn to smile. ‘Stephen Braithwaite,’ she said with a shake of the head. ‘I should have known.’ The Professor, who was Flora’s faculty Dean at Oxford had talent spotted her for the SIS and had been present at the restaurant when she had agreed to try for the FCO exam.

  ‘He’s very upset about the robbery.’

  ‘I think we all are,’ said Flora.

  ‘And after you phoned him, he called me. He thought you might be able to help.’

  At this, her eyebrows went up. ‘I retired four years ago. This is police work.’

  Smith nodded. ‘It is indeed but there are complexities.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Smith drummed his fingers on the table. ‘There’s an international twist. The Cousins have evidence that the ultimate destination for the Josephus finds may be the USA. The FBI’s Art Crime Team are on the case but this is the first time they’ve handled a case involving documents of this age.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Flora. ‘You’ve lost me. I’ve told the TPC everything I know and my old job’s got nothing to do with this.’

  Smith looked at the file once more. ‘It doesn’t say why you resigned.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t give a reason.’

  ‘I’m assuming there was one.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I take it by that you mean you’re not telling me,’ said Smith, closing the file once more.

  ‘No I’m not. I don’t want to be found in the woods with my wrists slashed.’

  ‘Point taken,’ said Smith. ‘As I said, the FBI and the TPC think there’s an American connection. The ACT – apologies for all the acronyms, but that’s the FBI’s Art Crime Team. Well they want to set up a sting but they don’t have the specialist knowledge to carry it off.’

  ‘And let me guess. You think I do?’

  ‘We know you do, Miss Kemble.’

  ‘I resigned, don’t forget,’ said Flora.

  Smith regarded her intently. ‘We haven’t forgotten. It’s just that we, well Stephen Braithwaite and I, thought you’d be well placed to advise them. That is, assuming you’re willing to, of course,’ he added.

  Flora shook her head. ‘No, this isn’t right. It’s not the sort of case The Firm would bother itself with and there are plenty of palaeographers in the States who could help. There’s more to this than you’re telling me.’

  ‘Let’s say we owe one or two favours.’

  ‘And I’m the favour. Should I be flattered? Do I have to jump out of a cake?’

  Smith laughed at this and the tension eased a little. ‘I don’t know about flattered and certainly no cakes, but we wanted to sound you out first and also to put your mind at rest that all the diplomatic niceties have been squared. The TPC and the FBI representative you’ll meet have been told that you have helped in enquiries of this sort before, but purely as a subject matter expert. They know nothing about your work for HMG so you will need to play the innocent abroad.’

  Flora sighed, turned away and gazed out of the window. ‘Every instinct tells me to say no,’ she said.

  Smith’s disappointment was palpable. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘If it was “for Queen and Country” you kn
ow I’d tell you to get stuffed.’ The silence hung heavy between them. At last Flora continued. ‘But this is different. The Josephus finds are something I care about.’

  He brightened at once. ‘Really? You mean you’ll help.’

  ‘Yes, I want those codices back. I couldn’t care less about The Firm, nor about the Special Relationship for that matter, but this goes beyond all that.’ He made to speak but she cut him off. ‘Now listen, I don’t trust The Firm, nor its political masters any further than I can throw them. I’ll help you, but there are strings – things I want put in writing.’

  ‘Very well. Name them.’

  They spoke for another five minutes, with Flora doing most of the talking and Smith taking notes. When they had finished he reached into his briefcase once more and took out a sealed envelope. ‘Take this with you to the TPC,’ he said, handing it over. ‘You’ll be told when to open it.’

  ***

  Five minutes later, Flora was back in the car park. Lombardi put down his newspaper and reached to open the door for her. ‘Everything ok? he asked.

  ‘Probably not but that’s my look-out.’

  He made a puzzled frown. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, let’s get moving before I change my mind.’

  They set off into the organised chaos that is Rome’s traffic system and turned into a maze of narrow side-streets, mid-way between the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain, until at last the Alfa’s tyres rumbled to a halt on the cobbles of the Piazza di Sant’Ignazio.

  Opposite the basilica of the eponymous saint stood a three-storey baroque building, painted in Tuscan yellow and white, with light Prussian blue iron-work and shutters. Two wings jutted slightly forward from the central façade giving it a concave appearance, and over the front door, which bore the oval badge of the Carabinieri, flew the Italian and the European Union flags. Around the front of the building stood robust earthenware urns, each containing an evergreen shrub, forming a protective square. Inside this palisade were two black Mercedes with diplomatic plates and Flora was about to ask how they’d got in there when Lombardi reached down to the central console and picked up a small remote control which he pressed. As if by magic, two of the urns lifted up on hydraulically-operated steel platforms and pivoted gracefully outwards to allow the car to pass through.

  ‘I just love doing that,’ said Lombardi, with a small boy’s grin.

  ‘So I can see,’ replied Flora, shaking her head indulgently.

  With the sun almost directly overhead there was little shade in the square and the buildings seemed to focus the heat down onto their heads so she was grateful to get into the cool, dark interior of the headquarters of the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale.

  ‘Not bad for a police station, eh?’ he asked, leading her up the marble staircase to the second floor.

  ‘I think it’s gorgeous.’

  ‘And don’t worry, the natives are friendly, you’ll see.’ He tapped at a delicately carved door and went in, with Flora following behind. The meeting room was wood panelled to half height and around the walls marched oil paintings of bewhiskered military men in parade uniforms of a bygone age. As they entered two men rose from their seats at the highly-polished table which dominated the room. Lombardi presented Flora to each in turn. First was the commanding officer of the TPC, Colonel Andretti, a tiny man with a pointed nose and a small moustache, which gave him the air of an inquisitive mole. The second introduced himself as Michael Hayek from the US Embassy’s Legal Attaché’s office.

  They sat and Colonel Andretti gave a short speech, thanking her for her efforts to date and willingness to help.

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re expecting me to do,’ said Flora, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and hoping the act was working. ‘I don’t know the first thing about detective work.’

  ‘Miss Kemble is being modest as usual,’ said Lombardi. ‘She is one of the most highly thought-of palaeographers in the world and the work she’s done on helping date and read the codex fragments has been of enormous value to our search for a motive.’

  ‘It has?’ said Flora, who was growing ever more puzzled with each passing moment. That was clever of me, and I didn’t even notice, she thought.

  The colonel then nodded towards Hayek, who leaned forward and caught Flora’s eye. To her he looked every bit the streetwise, hard-bitten downtown lawyer but surprised her by speaking grammatically-perfect Italian with a slight Piedmontese accent.

  ‘Miss Kemble, first let me add my thanks for offering to help us. Let me explain why I’m here. My department, like all our overseas “Legat” teams is part of the Office of International Operations and I report straight into the Director of the FBI. Because we believe the break-in at the lab as well as the attack on the dig were financed by US-based criminals, together with the fact that fragments from the missing codices have turned up in our country, that makes it a problem for us as well as for our Italian colleagues. We know you’ve provided expertise in cases like this before and we’re grateful you’ve agreed to help.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Hayek continued. ‘I can’t yet reveal why, but we believe all the artefacts stolen from Pompeii are in the USA. We also believe there was a falling-out between those who did the job and those who financed it, and that the collection has been at least partially broken up and is being offered for sale.’

  ‘So where do I fit in?’ she asked.

  ‘The market for ancient documents is extremely lucrative and is also a club with a very small and select membership. It’s awash with forgeries and with later copies being passed off as being much earlier as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  Flora nodded, she was back on home turf now and feeling less like a small child facing interrogation by grown-ups. ‘Much of what I do involves validating documents and placing them in the right country and in the right period: some of it’s scientific and some is more based on language, style, calligraphy and so on,’ she said.

  ‘So you’d know the real thing if it was put in front of you?’ he asked.

  ‘I won’t say I’ve never got it wrong, but in most cases, yes.’

  Hayek nodded. ‘Good. Since the recovery of the title page to Josephus’ Antiquities in Alabama, Federal agents have made a number of arrests, one of which we believe to be particularly significant. Miss Kemble, have you ever heard of the FBI’s Art Crime Team?’

  She nodded. ‘Heard of them but that’s all.’

  ‘The ACT’s a small unit – thirteen agents – who specialise in the recovery of stolen art works, catching forgers and so on. Now until recently, the guy who headed up the team knew the art world backwards, but the problem is he’s retired.’

  ‘Right,’ said Flora, eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘His speciality was working with other national agencies, posing as an art collector to lure criminals into situations where they could be arrested and successfully prosecuted.’

  ‘A sting, in other words,’ she said.

  ‘Correct.’

  Flora rolled her eyes. ‘And now he’s retired, you want me to try and convince a bunch of professional criminals that I’m a high-rolling art-collector with millions to blow on a couple of codices by Josephus.’ She paused. ‘You must be out of your tiny minds. They’d spot me for what I am a mile away. The answer’s no.’

  ‘Miss Kemble,’ said Hayek. ‘It’s not as insane as it sounds. Please would you hear me out first?’

  She folded her arms and looked at him warily. Hayek continued. ‘We’ve no intention of throwing you into something for which you’ve had no training. We have an agent who’s been understudying this role for over a year and although he trained as an archaeologist before joining the FBI, neither ancient documents nor ancient languages are his speciality so he’s going to need help. We’d like you to come to the US to help us find the people who did this. Do you want to hear more?’

  Flora unfolded her arms and the tension slowly lifted from her features. ‘Of
course. Please carry on and I’m sorry if I was abrupt just now, this is all a bit much to take in.’

  Hayek spoke gently but firmly. ‘OK, now this is where it gets serious. If we continue from here, everything I tell you is in the strictest confidence and if you divulge it to anyone, you’ll be committing a felony, a criminal offence, irrespective of what country you happen to be in at the time. Still want me to go on?’

  ‘Please do,’ she replied, curiosity getting the better of her.

  ‘Very well. Federal Special Agent Benjamin Cohen has been seconded from the FBI’s New York Field Office to the ACT for this case. Given the provenance of the stolen artefacts, his role in the hunt for the criminals will be to assume the role of a wealthy Israeli collector, keen to see these works back in the native land of their author. As for you, Miss Kemble, we’d like you to join him as his assistant.’

  ‘But these people, the criminals, would only have to Google me and they’d find out who I was.’

  ‘I believe you were given an envelope to bring here, Miss Kemble. Would you open it please.’ Flora did as he asked. ‘In the envelope is a passport, a driving licence, credit cards, library membership and other cards, bank statements and utility bills all in the name of a British National living in Italy and working at the University of Bologna for the department of archaeology. I believe you studied there for a year.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Greek and Latin epigraphy – am I correct?’

  There was something about him that didn’t chime right with Flora. Just a little too self-assured, and certainly far too condescending. ‘You are, and what big ears you do have, Grandma,’ she replied.

  ‘Take a look,’ Hayek said.

  She examined the passport: it bore exactly the same photograph and date of issue as her own, only the passport number, name and date of birth were different.