The officers shook their heads. McCarthy heard one of them muttering as he walked off.
‘We tried,’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ Ernesto shouted at the police officers. ‘Sorry Father.’
McCarthy sighed. ‘Have you seen Bruno tonight? It’s really important I find him.’
‘He was here half an hour ago. He was boasting about how he’d scored big time. He won’t have gone far. He was already off his face.’
‘Which direction did he go?’
Ernesto waved in the direction of the dome of St Peter’s.
‘I think he went to find Jesus,’ he said as McCarthy headed off.
It didn’t take long to find Bruno, sitting up against a fountain, legs sprawled, his head lolling from side to side. As McCarthy approached him, he looked up, his smile angelic in the moonlight.
‘I bought so much gear,’ Bruno said, his head lolling on one side and starting to drool, before passing out.
As McCarthy dialled 118 and gave the ambulance the address, Bruno fell in and out of consciousness. He laughed, cried and started hallucinating while McCarthy did his best to comfort him.
The paramedics did everything they could to keep Bruno alive. They took one look at McCarthy’s still bruised face and black eye and shook their heads.
‘He did that to you?’
‘It’s a long story.’ McCarthy said, weary now. ‘May I go with him?’
The senior paramedic shook her head.
‘You need to get some rest,’ she said, a concerned look on her face.
‘He took something from me. And I’d quite like to get it back.’
‘If he does recover, he won’t remember a thing,’ the paramedic said as she assisted her colleague loading Bruno into the ambulance. ‘I don’t think he’s got too much grey matter left,’ she said, as she climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.
As McCarthy watched the ambulance set off with Bruno on board, he prayed silently for the boy. He walked home, his mind churning about where to turn next.
The following morning, Stephen was walking to work when his phone rang. The caller ID flashed up as Michael McCarthy.
‘Connor.’
‘It’s Michael McCarthy, but I expect you knew that. And I need your help.’
‘Go on,’ Stephen said, bracing himself for what was coming next.
‘I wasn’t straight with you when I told you I didn’t know my attacker. I was scared your colleagues would pick him up and put him in youth detention.’
‘The kid we picked up who we had to let go?’ Stephen said, remembering the haunted look on the teenage addict’s face but not his name.
‘He took something from me and sold it to buy drugs. I need to get it back.’
‘What did he take, Michael?’
‘A gift from my former employer.’
Why wouldn’t McCarthy say what the boy had stolen from him? Was he too afraid?
‘The grateful parishioner?’
The silence on the other end spoke volumes.
‘His son’s in town and wants it back.’
There was more to this than McCarthy was letting on. If Joe Russo wanted something badly enough he’d get it. As he was talking, he got another call. It was Elisabetta.
‘I have to take this other call, sorry Michael. I’ll call you back,’ Stephen said.
Elisabetta had rung off and texted him:
The Rome house belongs to Robert Hurst. All hands on deck for a 9 a.m. meeting. Find Renzo.
He called Renzo and got voicemail:
‘Look mate, get your arse into the office now. Your job’s on the line if you’re a no-show.’
He was by the square in front of the office as he called McCarthy back. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Give me a couple of days,’ Stephen promised, knowing how lame that must have sounded. ‘Lay low for a bit.’ He felt guilty, letting McCarthy down like that, knowing that he was a sitting duck. Where was he going to go?
Stephen slipped into the operations room to find a group of officers he didn’t recognise sprawled on the chairs. He sat down next to Elisabetta, just as Alberti took to the floor.
Alberti strutted up and down in front of a whiteboard, on which he’d scrawled the words: Operation Sunrise. While Alberti wasn’t watching, Elisabetta slipped Stephen a one-word note: Renzo? Stephen glanced in her direction and nodded.
Alberti scrawled as he talked.
‘The Alpha team is you seven from counterterrorism, plus one of ours, who will be raiding the Rome premises. Di Mascio, who have you allocated?’
‘Bianconi,’ Elisabetta said, shifting uncomfortably as she glanced around the room. As if on cue, Renzo appeared and tried but failed to make himself invisible.
‘Bianconi, there you are. I’m glad you could make it. Make yourself known to the rest of the Alpha team. If counterterrorism can make it on time, why can’t you? And don’t let the side down,’ Alberti said, glaring at Renzo. ‘Bravo, that’s you, Connor and di Mascio,’ he said, turning to Elisabetta and Stephen, 'Along with your Swiss colleagues.’
He waved to the video link, where the two Swiss officers were waiting patiently.
‘The two raids will run at 0700 hours. I want you all back here at 1600 hours to run through the detail. Get to it. Bravo, I want you in Geneva tonight,’ he said as he walked out. Stephen and Elisabetta looked at each other.
’I’ve got to chase up the search warrant,’ Elisabetta said. ‘You talk to the guys about the layout of Hurst’s Geneva premises. We don’t want any surprises.’
Stephen headed off back to his desk, avoiding Renzo who seemed keen to talk to him.
‘Sorry, mate, not now. I’ve got work to do,’ Stephen said, hurrying away.
Chapter 19
At 7.00 a.m. Stephen and one of the Swiss police officers stood outside the garages at the back of the ornate, nineteenth-century villa, while Elisabetta and the other officer rang the doorbell round the front.
‘We’re in,’ Elisabetta said, talking to Stephen through his earpiece.
‘Message received. Get the concierge to open up the garages and then lock them behind us, will you. I can hear shouting and an engine running,’ Stephen said into his lapel radio mike.
As the garage door opened, Stephen and the police officer were confronted by grey smoke and an idling black Range Rover with an elderly woman at the wheel. A tall, grey-haired man was shouting into his phone, while feeding papers into a lit metal brazier.
’Nothing leads back to you,’ Hurst said before abruptly cutting off his phone and slipping it into his pocket as he saw Stephen and the police officer, who had covered their mouths and noses from the stench of the smoke. The police officer ran over and stamped out the fire, pushing Hurst aside.
‘I’ll have you charged with assault,’ Hurst said as he ran towards the Range Rover. ‘Go, Maris, now,’ he shouted.
The woman revved the engine and nearly ran Stephen and the officer down, before coming to a jerky stop as the gates of the garage remained firmly shut.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ Stephen said as he walked over to the driver’s side of the 4-WD. As he did so, he took in the registration. Italian reflective plates in a vehicle identical to the one that had tried to run him and Elisabetta down at the auction in Geneva. A blurry image from that day came back to him. Maybe it had been Maris Hurst behind the wheel. It was worth a shot.
‘Wind your window down, please.’ Maris Hurst glared at him but obeyed the instruction. ‘That’s the second time you’ve tried to run me and my colleague over,’ Stephen said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Maris Hurst said, staring straight ahead.
‘Oh, I think you do. Get the details will you,’ Stephen said to the Swiss police officer standing by.
‘Then follow me upstairs,’ Stephen said. He spoke into his radio mike.
’I’ve found them. They were down here in the garage, about to leave.’
‘What the hell?’ Elisabetta was furious. ‘Someone must have tipped them off.’
‘Exactly. I’m bringing them back upstairs. Meet you up there.’
Stephen turned to the couple who were standing in front of him.
‘Mr and Mrs Hurst.’ Stephen flashed his badge at them. ‘We’d like to ask you both a few questions. I think we best do this in your apartment. After you,’ he said, pointing to the lift.
They reached the second floor and stepped out, where Elisabetta was waiting for them.
‘This is my colleague di Mascio from the carabinieri in Rome.’
‘We’re investigating the illegal export of Italian cultural property. Given your expertise, we thought that you might be the person best placed to help us,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Has the carabinieri run out of Italians? Why are they sending an Irishman and an Australian?’ Hurst asked, looking from Stephen to Elisabetta with contempt. ‘I need to call my lawyers,’ he said, taking out a phone, which Stephen noted was different to the one he’d been on when they’d caught him burning papers in the basement.
‘Fine. We can wait,’ Elisabetta said.
‘I’ll relieve you of your burner phone for now, Mr Hurst, while you make your call,’ Stephen said. ‘The one you were using earlier. It’s in the right pocket of your jacket, in case you’d forgotten.’
Hurst fished out the phone and held it between two fingers, dangling it in the air as if he was holding a dead rat by the tail.
Stephen took it from him. ‘Once you’ve spoken to your lawyers, we’ll need that one as evidence as well as those belonging to your wife.’ Hurst ignored him.
Elisabetta stepped forward, brandishing her search warrant.
‘Before we search your premises, would you be so kind Mrs Hurst, to step aside so that I can conduct a body search.’
‘Out here?’ Maris Hurst said.
‘It’s the same routine procedure that you’d get at airport security,’ Elisabetta said.
‘When we travel we’re taken to a private room along with all the other VIPs,’ Maris Hurst said, tartly.
‘Nothing to be alarmed about,’ Elisabetta said as she patted Maris Hurst down.
‘Is this your phone?’
‘How dare you? Robert, do something.’
‘Can you keep the noise down? I don’t want the neighbours to hear,’ Hurst said.
‘Let us in, please,’ Elisabetta said, dismissing Hurst’s attempt at controlling the situation.
Robert Hurst, who was wearing a charcoal grey suit, a white shirt and a maroon bow tie, opened the door to the apartment. Stephen’s jaw dropped. The exterior and entrance of the villa were ornately decorated with stonework, marble and wrought iron, but up here it looked like one vast, empty, gallery-style space, more like a warehouse than an apartment. As Hurst ushered them past a long and narrow sunroom, Stephen craned his neck to see that not only did the windows face Lake Geneva, but that at the back they opened up to a wide roof terrace. Next to that, a kitchen and living room with gleaming chrome appliances and a white granite countertop that looked like it had never been used. In the living area was a fireplace, but what struck Stephen most was that the art dealer’s apartment was devoid of any artworks. There wasn’t even one painting.
Robert Hurst watched as Stephen took in the view.
‘Nothing can compete with that,’ he said as if to satisfy Stephen’s unspoken curiosity.
‘We’ll take a look around while we’re waiting,’ Elisabetta said.
Maris Hurst, who had by now regained her composure came and stood close to Elisabetta, towering over her.
‘Yes, we do mind. What business do you have coming here questioning an eighty-two-year-old?’
She spoke in a similar American accent to Hurst.
‘Maris, dear, it’s a misunderstanding. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.’
‘We know many prominent people in France and Italy,’ said Maris Hurst, ignoring her husband.
‘Do you?’ Stephen said.
Robert Hurst’s supercilious stare as he looked Stephen up and down brought out all the irrational fears he had tried his best to leave behind. Hurst looked at him as though he was a particularly unsavoury tradesman that he had been forced to do business with.
‘And which part of Italy would you be from, again?’ He said, addressing Stephen in a disapproving tone.
Don’t react. He’s trying to goad you.
Elisabetta cut in before he had the chance to reply.
‘Once we start asking the questions Mr Hurst, you’ll find out my colleague is from the part of Italy specialising in cultural crime.’
Stephen wanted to kick himself. Why was he still letting people like Hurst get to him?
‘My husband has sold pieces to Madame Sarkosy and Signor Berlusconi. You should be careful.’
Stephen watched for Elisabetta’s reaction to Maris Hurst’s threat. She stood stock still, composed herself and smiled broadly.
‘We’d prefer to do this with your co-operation,’ Elisabetta said, taking out the search warrant again. ‘As you’ll see, it’s been signed by a Swiss magistrate.’
Hurst turned his back, pretending not to have heard her or seen what was in her hand.
Elisabetta looked at her watch before turning to Stephen. ‘We’d best make a start. Do you have the photos from Mr Hurst’s meeting in Naples?’
Hurst glared at her as Stephen rifled through his paperwork and passed them over.
Turning to Maris Hurst, ‘And does Mrs Sarkosy and Mr Berlusconi know these lowlifes too?’ Elisabetta said, as she showed the photograph of Hurst passing a bulging envelope over to the tomb raiders.
Maris Hurst looked away.
‘We’ll deal with that meeting later. Can we turn our attention please to your gallery, Gallery d’Atlantide. This is a list of artworks you’ve sold. Recognise them?’ Elisabetta opened up a folder of colour photographs of ancient Greek pottery and passed them over to Hurst. He cast a cursory glance at all them.
‘I’ve sold thousands of pieces in my time. I can’t be expected to remember every single one,’ Hurst said.
‘It must be difficult to keep track of where the artworks originated, I imagine?’ Elisabetta said.
‘When they’re thousands of years old, yes,’ Hurst snapped.
‘I understand. This one here, for example. Do you recognise it?’ Elisabetta said, passing over a photograph of a magnificently restored pottery wine container, one of those found with Antonio Sanzio’s belongings.
‘It’s a black figure calyx krater, decorated by the Polos Painter. I sold it to the Oppenheim. Came from the collection of a wealthy Swiss industrialist,’ Hurst said.
‘Thank you. And this one?’ Elisabetta presented Hurst with a photograph of an even larger pottery drinking vessel.
‘That one went to the Chicago County.’
‘And you got it from?’ Elisabetta asked, raising her trademark arched eyebrows.
‘The Swiss businessman.’
‘Anything else you’d like to tell me about?’ Elisabetta said.
She’d certainly got the measure of Hurst, Stephen thought. Despite threatening them with his lawyer, Hurst was so arrogant that he couldn’t resist the urge to show off, even though he ran the risk of incriminating himself.
Hurst pretended to ignore her and then appeared to change his mind.
‘I do, as a matter of fact. There’s another piece, decorated by the Polos Painter I’m especially proud of which I sold to the gallery at my alma mater.’
Elisabetta nodded, and her brows shot up.
‘I think I have a picture of it somewhere. I just need to look in a drawer over there,’ Hurst said.
It was something about his patronising tone, his moral superiority that had a familiar ring to it. It was a long shot.
‘Which college Mr Hurst,’ Stephen asked.
‘Princeton, Ivy League,’ Hurst boasted.
‘And were you a member of any clubs while you we
re there?’ Stephen asked. ‘I have a nephew applying for Harvard. He tells me, if you want to get on, you need to join a fraternity.’
‘I was as a matter of fact,’ Hurst said. ‘But I really don’t see the relevance…Ah, here it is.’ He pulled out a photo of himself at an official university ceremony, presenting the gallery with a Greek vase. But what stood out for Stephen was Hurst’s tie pin. The Princeton photograph showed him wearing it again, a pin identical to the one in the photo taken at the Vatican Museums with Antonio Sanzio. Hurst had fallen right into his trap.
‘Thank you. That’s it for the moment. We need to search the apartment. You’re welcome to stay. Or, if you’d prefer, my Swiss colleagues downstairs will look after you.’ Maris Hurst put a hand to her collarbone in a defensive pose, where a double string of pearls swamped her bony neck. She was acting like this was a robbery and Elisabetta was about to rip them off her.
‘If anything goes missing, we’ll hold you responsible,’ Maris Hurst said.
‘They’ll be in evidence bags with a full inventory,’ Elisabetta said, beaming. ‘Including your phone, please.’ Maris Hurst’s face was so tight, presumably from one facelift too many, that she couldn’t even manage a frown, before reluctantly handing over her phone.
‘Robert, I want a coffee,’ she said as she grabbed her bag.
Her husband seemed reluctant to leave.
‘One more thing, Mr Hurst. The Swiss businessman. Are you still in contact with him?’ Elisabetta said, still smiling.
‘Try Dignitas. They were the last people to see him,’ Hurst turned abruptly and strode out, slamming the door in the faces of the group of officers waiting to assist with the search.
‘How convenient,’ Stephen said, copying the photo Hurst showed them onto his phone.
Elisabetta opened the front door and ushered the officers inside.
‘We’ll take a room each. Connor will search the couple’s bedroom, I’ll do the living room. You others can take the rest. If we have to pull the place apart, we will,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Even if we do find Hurst’s Princeton fraternity tie pin, I wouldn’t put it past him to deny that he’s the other man in the photograph.’
Nighthawks Page 17