‘Just a minute,’ said Irvine, getting up from his chair. ‘You two go,’ he indicated to the students. ‘You,’ Irvine pointed to the archivist, ‘can stay.’ Once they’d left, Irvine resumed. ‘All we ask, young man, is diligence and loyalty. Your loyalty is not in doubt – that, after all, as I’m sure you recall, was your predecessor’s undoing – kindly prove yourself worthy of keeping your job, help us find Charlotte Drewry, or whatever her name is, and you won’t share the same fate.’
Once the archivist had gone, Irvine picked up the telephone on Sumter’s desk. Before phoning the police he made an international call to Italy.
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC
‘Are you out of your tiny fucking mind?’ yelled Cohen. ‘Hundreds of man-hours and Christ knows how many tens of thousands of dollars down the can.’
Flora’s bottom lip trembled. ‘But I got you the evidence you wanted,’ she said, fighting back the tears.
‘No,’ said Cohen, brandishing a sheaf of papers at her. ‘You didn’t. This is the report from the local sheriff’s department. I’ll paraphrase.’ He turned to the second page. ‘An unidentified woman, answering the description of Flora Kemble, a British national, gained entry to William Sunday university by falsely claiming to be a journalist, broke into private property causing criminal damage to a window frame and a skylight, carried out an assault using a deadly weapon – a screwdriver as it happens – and stole a piece of papyrus which may or may not date from the first century. And you know why I got a copy of the report?’
‘No,’ she replied, too ashamed to meet his gaze.
‘Because – and I know you Brits think we can’t do irony – they sent it to me hoping it would help with the ACT’s investigations.’
‘But the Apocryphon of John, the evidence –’
‘Worthless. It is now anyway. You’ve got a bunch of photos that could’ve been taken anywhere – yes I know they show stolen documents but how’s a court to know you didn’t steal them in the first place?’
‘But you know that’s not true,’ protested Flora.
‘Yes, I know it’s not true but it wouldn’t take five minutes to make you look like the prime suspect. And,’ he added, slapping the papers down in front of her, ‘it would bump my clear-up rate and get my goddam supervisor off my back, so don’t fucking tempt me, Flora. Just don’t.’
‘I suppose it’s no good asking about the forged papyrus…’
‘You mean the one you stole? To explain the many ways in which it’s now useless would take all day. Believe me, this case is in deep shit because of you and the amount of ass I’m going to have to kiss to save it does not leave a nice taste in my mouth.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Flora, still looking down at the floor. ‘I was only trying to help.’
He walked over to where she sat and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘So next time maybe you’ll listen to me, eh? I do this stuff for a living. Sumter and his buddies are involved in some bad shit: your visit confirmed that. Trouble is, at the same time you’ve just made it a whole bunch harder to prove in court. Still, it’s not all bad news though.’
‘It isn’t?’ she said, looking up and trying to smile.
‘No, while you were playing at Catwoman in Alabama, we got lucky with Raymond. He called his contacts again to say Grossman and the FBI had a big falling-out after their unplanned swim. Grossman reckons the Feds set him up to get whacked at the last meet and he’s not playing ball any more. What’s more, he wants to sell everything he’s got.’
‘That’s even flakier than the last call. Sumter’ll never buy that.’
‘Course he won’t,’ said Cohen. ‘It’s his chance to double-bluff us and he’s gone for it. He wants to get his hands on the whole collection – the pieces that Raymond’s still got plus the ones he sold to Grossman – and he’s willing to take risks which suggests he wants it real bad. Now, here’s how we hooked him: Sumter wants to rob Grossman and ideally whack him too; he wants to do the same to Raymond so when Raymond offered to bring Grossman along to a meet with a guarantee that he’d use his New York guys to make sure the FBI weren’t following; Sumter, or whoever’s acting for him, jumped at it.’
‘So we’re the bait in the trap again?’ asked Flora.
‘’Fraid so,’ said Cohen.
FBI Field Office. Birmingham, Alabama.
Cohen looked up from the lectern and flicked to the last slide of the briefing. In front of him sat two civilians, Raymond and Flora, and fifteen FBI agents. ‘OK, are there any questions so far?’ he asked. None came so he continued. ‘Right, let’s recap the stuff that’s going to keep us alive. Any Foxtrot callsign can call the abort at any time. I guarantee no recriminations and no Monday morning quarterbacking if it turns out to be a false alarm. Safety is paramount, especially as it’s my own pasty white butt that’s gonna be first in the firing-line if things go wrong.’ A ripple of nervous laughter went round the room. ‘Also, if you lose the signal from the tracker on my vehicle for more than a couple of minutes, get on the radio and I’ll make the go/no-go call depending on the tactical situation as I see it. I retain operational control throughout. If I go down, opcon passes to the leader of team Foxtrot 1. All clear? Good. We move in one hour, fourteen minutes.’
The teams’ radio net was up and working and the direction finders, designed to take a GPS feed from a unit fitted underneath the car that Cohen would be driving, all checked out to the foot. It was time to go.
Flora turned round to Raymond who was sitting in the back seat. ‘Nervous?’ she asked.
He shrugged and gazed out of the window at the panorama of everyday southern Birmingham street scenes as it unrolled past them. ‘More fatalistic than anything,’ he replied. ‘If I don’t play ball with Special Agent Cohen here and his buddies, I’ll end up copping for every homicide from JFK to Jimmy Hoffa.’
Cohen smiled and looked at Raymond in the rear-view mirror. ‘Got a couple of unsolved wire frauds too if you wouldn’t mind wearing those,’ he said.
‘Be delighted to help, officer. Always a pleasure.’ The nervous banter and strained humour went back and forth, helping to take their minds off what lay ahead less than forty five minutes down the road. No following vehicles this time, just them, heading into the countryside and looking for all the world like any another car on the interstate. Suddenly, the radio burst into like. ‘All Foxtrot units this is Foxtrot control, abort, abort, abort. All units acknowledge.’
Cohen swore and picked up the hand-mike. ‘Foxtrot zero, acknowledged.’ The others callsigns all followed suit.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Flora, trying to mask the relief in her voice.
‘Dunno. We’ll find out when we get back,’ said Cohen, pulling into the parking lot of a truck stop to turn round.
Flora and Raymond waited in Cohen’s office while he went to talk to the Field Office commander. It seemed odd to be alone with a man whom she’d looked at down the sights of .38 revolver just over a week earlier but who now made engaging small-talk as though nothing had happened. He explained the insidious process by which he’d become caught up in the Enron scandal. It started with creative accounting, moved almost imperceptibly to deliberate oversights and then rapidly to outright fraud. Everything about it was wrong, he freely admitted: ethically, professionally, morally, you name it, but by the time he decided to get out, it was too late and had it not been for a good lawyer and a plea bargain he’d have spent at least five years in jail. As it was, the fine ruined him financially and the public dissection of his conduct did the same for his career. ‘Then I met a guy who knew a guy who knew someone else, and I just kinda took to it,’ he explained. ‘I was always interested in history, art and the like, I got to meet some interesting people, never had anything to do with guns –’
‘Until I came along,’ said Flora.
‘Yeah, well, occupational hazard when you start working cross-border I guess. No hard feelings though.’
‘And the man I shot, he was your link to Italy, right?’
‘Yeah, it was supposed to be pretty simple. Luzzo dealt with the Italians, I was the cut-out between them and the end buyer.’
‘And do you know who the end buyer is?’
He looked at her with a half-smile on his face. ‘You shouldn’t go asking questions like that,’ he said. ‘But yeah, I met some guys, they gave me names but they’re all John Does. Doesn’t pay to ask too many questions: makes folk nervous.’
‘And the man who was murdered in prison?’
Raymond held up both hands, palm outwards. ‘Whoa there, you’re way out of your pay-grade, Flora. That’s police shit. Like I told your buddy Cohen, I didn’t know anything about that.’
‘Do you know, I think I believe you,’ she replied.
He laughed. ‘Well, even though it’s the truth, you’d make a lousy cop going around believing what people say.’
The conversation was interrupted by Cohen’s return. One look at his face told Flora all she needed to know. ‘The operation’s suspended until further orders, the ACT’s been stood down and the casework’s going back to the Birmingham Field Office to wrap up for handover to the local sheriff’s department.’
‘But why?’ asked Flora, aghast.
‘Word from on high. Your buddy Sumter’s kicked up hell and the Director of the FBI has had to go down on his knees and grovel just to avoid an official complaint. Sumter wants charges brought against you so the sooner you leave the country the better.’
‘What you been up to, Flora?’ asked Raymond, winking at her.
‘None of your business,’ said Cohen. ‘We’re off the case until I hear otherwise. Raymond, can you please step outside.’
As soon as the door closed Flora stood up and gesticulated angrily at Cohen. ‘After all we’ve done. This is ridiculous,’ she shouted.
‘Wait. It gets worse. The reason the Director’s involved is that he got it in the ass direct from “senior White House staffers” which in case you didn’t know, means this has come from the President.’ Flora stared at him in disbelief and Cohen continued. ‘Sumter is a major fund-raiser for the Republican Party, a personal friend of the President and has a lot of contacts in the Senate too. The GOP stands to get it’s ass kicked in the mid-terms and the President doesn’t want to make things worse.’
Flora shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Sumter’s a crook, a forger, a liar and he tried to get us killed –’
Cohen slapped his leg in mock exasperation. ‘Yeah, darn it, now you tell me. If only I’d remembered to mention it… Listen Flora, I know all that, the supervisor here and my boss at the ACT know too, but when shit like this comes down from on high, we have no choice.’
‘But that’s –’
‘Let me finish. The evidence for Sumter’s involvement with the robberies is circumstantial, there’s no proof he’s harmed anybody and, within reason, he’s free to put anything he wants on the web. There’s too much political downside if we take him on. This is a local matter now and for the moment it’s out of our hands.’
‘What about Raymond?’
‘Oh, he’s not going anywhere, the sheriff’s office have got plenty for him to do.’
She perked up at this. ‘Could I help too?’
‘Flora, you show your nose in Bibb County and you’ll be arrested. Everything’s on hold so for the moment you’re not going anywhere. You’re going back to the hotel and I want you to stay there.’
It was mid-afternoon when Cohen dropped her off: an awkward time of day, too late to start anything and too early for the first drink. To hell with it, she thought, and picked up her mobile phone to call Lombardi in Naples. He listened without interrupting as she ran through the latest developments.
Flora heard him swear. ‘So after all our efforts the case is on ice?’
‘Afraid so. Is there anything you can do?’
‘If I tried it would only cause problems. The last thing we want is a row with our American friends: it was hard enough to get them onside in the first place. I can ask Colonel Andretti but I don’t think he’ll be able to do anything.’
‘So we just give up?’ said Flora. ‘An hour down the road from here, Donald Sumter is sitting on a pile of stolen manuscripts and using faked ones to hoodwink millions of people. Why can’t you come over and help?’
‘Flora, I’d be out of my jurisdiction and so would any of my TPC guys. I don’t want to cause a diplomatic incident and I certainly don’t want to lose my job.’
‘So what do you suggest? I’m within touching distance but if I try and do it on my own –’
‘Do what on your own?’
‘Get proof that Sumter is behind the robbery of course.’
‘What if the police arrest you?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I need expert help and I need it now.’
Lombardi paused for thought. ‘You’ve just given me an idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to square it with Rome, but do you think Francesco Moretti would be willing to help?’
‘I think he’d jump at the chance,’ said Flora. ‘The robbery was personal for him – like someone burgled his house.’ She hesitated, half-afraid to say the words. ‘You know the FBI don’t trust him?’
‘I do, they’ve told me as much. I’m not even sure they trust me. To them, anything south of Lombardy equals Mafia. Moretti’s fine. I’ll make some calls then let you know how I get on.’
Pompeii
The three men met in their usual restaurant and Elvis did most of the talking. ‘Alabama, who’d have thought it? Seems we only just missed her in England, she did go to Washington after all and now we know she’s helping the FBI.’
‘But why me?’ Pleaded Moretti, his face the colour of putty.
‘Because she knows and trusts you. Lombardi’s paying your air-fare and she’ll be expecting you: it couldn’t have worked out better.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Pompeii, AD 79
Josephus couldn’t believe his eyes. From horizon to horizon stretched a grey, undulating moonscape. In places it was pockmarked by craters where scavengers and desperate householders had tried to dig down to the buildings below. The tattered stump of Vesuvius loomed over them like a malformed ash-heap. ‘So you think it should be right here?’ Josephus said to the slave accompanying him.
‘That’s what I reckon, sir.’ He looked up from the scroll of papyrus and pointed to the north east. ‘If those pillars sticking up are the capitol and assuming that lump is the circus, then we’re in the right place.’
‘But my house was only a hundred paces from the shore. The sea’s a quarter of a mile away so we can’t be.’
The slave kicked at a lump of pumice, sending up a little cloud of dust. ‘No accounting for sorcery, sir.’
‘Sorcery, my arse,’ said Josephus, snatching the map away from him. ‘My life’s work is somewhere underneath this slag-pile and I want it back.’
‘Should’ve brought a pick and shovel then, shouldn’t you, sir?
‘And my scribes. It took me years to train them. Where they hell have they gone? How am I supposed to find them?’
‘Like I said, sir. Pick and shovel.’ Josephus considered hitting him but thought better of it. He’d just have to start again from scratch.
Chapter Forty-eight
Birmingham, Alabama
When Francesco Moretti came through the barrier into the arrivals hall Flora threw herself into his arms. Physically, he returned her greeting but a sixth sense told her there was something wrong, something missing. Trying to push it to the back of her mind she chattered excitedly all the way back to the car park.
‘Your hotel’s only a couple of blocks from mine,’ she said as they drove through the downtown traffic. ‘They’re supposed to be watching me to make sure I don’t leave mine but as you can tell, they’re pretty hopeless. I could come over later.’
He gazed out of the rental car window at nothin
g in particular. ‘Sure, that would be nice.’
‘Nice!?’ said Flora turning to look at him. ‘“Nice” is for chocolate cake. What’s the matter with you? Not your conscience I hope – it certainly didn’t bother you when we were in Italy.’
‘I’m sorry, Flora. I shouldn’t have done that. It was a mistake.’
Flora gave a snort. ‘That’s not what you said at the time. And kindly don’t dismiss fucking me as a mistake –’
‘I’m sorry, Flora, that’s not what I meant.’
With a smile she reached over and put a hand on his knee. ‘No, it’s my fault. I’m the one who should apologise, not you. Let’s not row.’
‘I’ll just be glad when all this is over,’ he replied, staring at the streams of traffic ahead of them.
‘But you’ve only just got here. Don’t you want to see Sumter behind bars?’
‘You should be Italian,’ he replied. ‘Vendettas are our thing.’
‘It’s not a vendetta. He’s a crook. And anyway, don’t you want the finds back?’
‘Of course I do, I just don’t see how we’re going to do it without getting killed or arrested.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,’ she replied.
Moretti turned to her, his face contracted into a worried frown. ‘But Lombardi said you had a plan.’
‘I do…well I did but I’ve decided it was rubbish. I’ll take you to meet Raymond. He’ll help us think of something.’
Linn Park, Birmingham , Alabama
Flora, Moretti and Raymond sat on a low wall under the shade of a tree. ‘No, no, no,’ said Raymond. ‘That is the dumbest idea I ever heard in my goddam life.’
‘So do you have a better one?’ asked Flora.
‘Yeah, I walk away, I call Agent Cohen and tell him you’re a dangerous lunatic and will he please lock you up. And anyway, what’s in it for me?’
The Seven Stars Page 38