Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘What did you do with the painting you stole off the priest, kid?’

  Bruno flapped his mouth open and closed in rapid succession, like a goldfish out of water. ‘You remember, don’t you?’ Bruno nodded his head vigorously up and down as he began to convulse.

  The alarms rang out on all the machinery he was connected to.

  ‘Shit,’ the nurse said, as he fled.

  Chapter 23

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  Michael McCarthy walked around his apartment for the last time. He picked up his two suitcases and walked them slowly downstairs.

  Sergio was sitting in his office. He looked up.

  McCarthy passed his keys over.

  ‘These are for Signor Russo. And this will be collected, ’ he said, passing a letter addressed to Stephen Connor.

  Sergio looked at the letter and then at McCarthy and back at the letter.

  ’The policeman?’ Sergio asked.

  ‘And if he doesn’t come to pick it up, there’s his phone number.’ Sergio took the letter and propped it up on his desk. ‘Could you call him on this number and let him know it’s here.’

  Sergio was behaving just as McCarthy hoped he would. He would have opened the letter and be on the phone informing on him in less time than it took him to get out the door.

  ‘And here’s something for your trouble,’ McCarthy said, passing him a hundred euro note. Sergio nearly fell off his chair.

  ‘No need to thank me,’ McCarthy said as he left.

  He patted his breast pocket again. He felt his passport pressing against his chest, as well as the printout of his e-ticket. Pickpockets were everywhere in the city. You couldn’t be too careful. He’d need to be on the train to Fiumicino at 5.30 p.m. latest, for an 8.30 p.m. departure, but if he hurried, he could fit in a few of his favourite monuments as a fitting farewell to Rome.

  He had a yearning to sneak back into the Vatican, but it was a risk. One last lingering look at the Pieta was his dearest wish. But what if security recognised him? He imagined himself frog marched out by the Swiss Guards, in front of all those tourists. He fought back the tears at the thought of all the artworks he’d never get to see again. All because of Robert Hurst. The hurt and shame he had felt came flooding back. It could only have been Hurst who had betrayed him to the Vatican authorities. Hurst had been incensed when asked to produce a more detailed provenance for the Euphronios krater.

  Once McCarthy had left, Hurst acquired the piece for the Vatican and they put it on display in pride of place. Franco had recently told him that the krater, which had arrived with such fanfare, had been removed from display without warning. All that was left was the empty plinth, with a note that it had been taken away for restoration. Yet when Franco had asked his colleagues if they’d seen it, nobody had laid eyes on it. It was time to alert Stephen Connor and his colleagues at the carabinieri art unit.

  He deliberated whether to send Connor a text or to drop a note to him at work. The letter addressed to him at the apartment was for Joe’s benefit. He could send a text, but that would just encourage Connor to call. Besides, he’d turned his phone off and was planning to dump it soon. No, he’d drop a note to him. His writing paper and envelopes were at the top of his carry-on luggage. But first, he needed to offload his suitcases.

  He struggled up the steps to St Pietro in Vincoli. The resident priest had agreed to store his bags for the day as mass wasn’t until six that evening. As he waited for him to appear, McCarthy slipped the little votive, which he’d been carrying close to his chest, inside the suitcase.

  The priest appeared and grasped his hand as he greeted him warmly. ‘Let me help you with those,’ he said, looking down at the cases. ‘I’ll leave them in the confessional booth nearest the altar on the left-hand side.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be back in plenty of time before mass, I promise. I just need to catch my breath for a moment.’

  ‘Of course, take your time.’

  McCarthy opened his carry-on bag and pulled out his writing materials. He wrote a quick note, sealed it up and addressed the envelope to Stephen Connor, before shoving it into his jacket pocket. He picked up the carry-on bag and hurried over to the confessional where the rest of his things were and left it there.

  It would take him twenty minutes to walk to Connor’s office at Palazzo Sant'Ignazio. And with that, McCarthy hurried off, determined to make the most of his last day in the city he’d made his home for over a quarter of a century.

  He’d miss the smell of traffic fumes mingled with the heady scent of pine and plane trees. But Mexico, he imagined, would be filled with fragrant citrus blossom and jasmine. For the first time in many years, Michael McCarthy dared to dream.

  Boston, USA

  * * *

  It hadn’t occurred to Joe until now that the old man must have known that the five-million-dollar reward was for the return of all the paintings.

  How could he have missed it when the answer was staring him in the face? The old bastard had given the priest a painting, the one that he said needed restoring.

  Joe pulled over to the side of the road, got out his phone and Googled the missing paintings again and compared them to the ones on his phone. He didn’t know what was so damn special about the missing one, but it had been done by some famous Dutch guy. A guy and two girls inside a house. One was playing the piano or something. But the painting Pop had given the priest was of an old guy in a robe with a lion. Not the same picture at all.

  He picked up his phone and pressed the number for his contact in Italy. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Call me, will you. That kid’s got to tell us what he did with that painting. If you can’t wake him up, I will,’ Joe threatened as he hung up.

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  Over at Our Lady of Miracles, a crowd was gathered in front of the church, where a fundraising tombola was taking place.

  The Master of Ceremonies, whose day job was to sell fruit and vegetables in the market in Campo di Fiori, was pacing up and down, microphone in hand, clearly relishing his chance to shine. A group of onlookers moved forward, curious to see what was on offer.

  ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen. Every ticket wins a prize. Come on, don’t be shy.’ In front of him was a display table set with a cheerful gingham tablecloth, on top of which sat bottles of homemade wine, jars of honey, fresh jams, a basket of assorted vegetables and a hamper with biscuits and cakes. There were soft toys and knitted baby clothes, but pride of place went to the painting of St Jerome and the Lion.

  ‘We have something special today for one lucky winner. A beautiful painting of St Jerome gently removing the thorn from the lion’s paw. St Jerome, as you know was a son of Aquileia. And the lion became his faithful companion. So what better subject to hang on your wall than the story of one of our favourite saints.’

  A couple in their seventies stepped up, the woman waiting while the MC rolled the tombola in a dramatic flourish. The woman put her hand in to draw out a ticket. She turned to her husband. ‘I really want the hamper.’

  ‘Your number please,’ the MC asked.

  ’428.’

  ‘Drumroll please. You are the lucky winner of today's star prize—this beautiful painting. Congratulations.’ There was a burst of applause followed by an awkward silence as the woman’s face fell. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then looked to her husband for guidance.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly and picked up the painting. She followed him forlornly, muttering.

  As he made his way back after his day’s sightseeing, McCarthy no longer felt alone. He didn’t know exactly where he’d noticed another presence that day. Perhaps it had been at Bramante’s Tempietto, the little temple which had been the prototype for St Peter’s and was said by historians to have been built upon the exact spot where St Peter was crucified. Was it St Peter himself who was looking over his shoulder? McCarthy couldn’t be sure.

  It was a
fair hike back. The nearest metro was at least a kilometre away, and by the time he got there, the hills of Rome were illuminated with an ethereal light, and McCarthy couldn’t bring himself to plunge into the dark depths of the metro.

  The presence he’d felt at the temple was still with him, only this time it manifested itself in a more earthly way. A shadow here, a footstep there. Out in the open felt safer than in the bowels of the earth. McCarthy regretted slipping the little votive into the suitcase, instead of keeping it in his pocket. It had kept him safe for all these years.

  He was short of breath by the time he walked up the steep steps of the Oppian Hill. He looked around. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the magical reflections had disappeared. It was time to head for the airport.

  Once back inside St Pietro in Vincoli, he moved down past the pews where elderly women, too frail to kneel were sitting, their heads bowed in prayer. Amongst them knelt one solitary man. As he headed for the last confessional booth, McCarthy saw that his suitcases were there just as the priest had promised. He was running ten minutes ahead of schedule. He’d rather be early than late for the metro to Termini and on to the airport train.

  A small tour group with their French-speaking guide gathered around the church’s star attraction, the tomb of Pope Julius II. Julius II was not unlike McCarthy’s former benefactor. Julius’s original grand design, which was destined for St Peter’s, included forty statues by Michelangelo, the most celebrated sculptor of all time. Giuseppe Russo too surrounded himself with priceless works of art. Except, they hadn’t belonged to him.

  Once Julius II and Giuseppe Russo died, their successors wasted no time in relegating them to history. Leo X cast Julius out into a minor church in Rome and Joe, who had boasted he was building a mausoleum to honour his father in Boston’s finest Catholic cemetery, had failed to commission so much as a drawing. The old man lay forgotten in a makeshift grave, only mourned by Maria, Joe’s mother.

  The seated figure of Moses gazed down sternly upon him in judgement for his sins. As he reflected upon Michelangelo’s masterpiece, he realised it was too late to wish he’d never become involved with Giuseppe Russo. All he could do was ask for forgiveness. As McCarthy knelt for a moment in silent prayer, to his embarrassment, his phone began to ring. He can’t have turned it off properly. It was Stephen Connor. God came first. Connor would have to wait. He switched the phone off.

  ‘Come on, pick up,’ Stephen muttered. He slammed his phone on his desk just as Elisabetta walked in and handed Stephen a letter. ’This just came for you.’

  ’Thanks.’ He put the letter on top of his inbox and swivelled his chair round to face her.

  ‘You okay?’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘It’s McCarthy. I can’t get hold of him. Here,’ he said, ‘this just came through.’ He showed Elisabetta a message he’d just received from Cormac Hannigan in Boston.

  The star witness in the same cold case McCarthy gave evidence just had his car blown up. He wasn’t in it. McCarthy could be next. I’ve called homicide. They say he’s gone missing. Anything you can do?

  ‘You two know each other?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘He was the officer who flew over to interview McCarthy, who happens to be a distant relation of mine. Irish people are like Italians. They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Ah, okay. The stag weekend in America. I wondered why he’d got in touch.’

  ‘If I don’t find McCarthy, someone else is going to get there first.’

  ‘You want me to come?’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘This is my doing. I don’t want to involve you.’

  ‘I’m here for back-up if you need it,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Stephen said, grabbing his jacket and rushing out the door.

  As he approached the piazza where McCarthy lived, Stephen glanced up. The windows were open, and there was a cleaning company’s van parked outside. He pressed the intercom to the apartment. Maybe someone saw him go?

  ‘Anyone home,’ he called. The front door was ajar. As he pushed it open and walked inside and up the flight of steps, his phone rang. It was the ward manager from Gemelli.

  ‘Bruno Bianca passed away,’ she said.

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘I can’t tell you the circumstances until the results of the post-mortem and the toxicology report has come through. I’m sorry,’ she said, her tone, regretful. ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ she said, before hanging up.

  A post-mortem, he could understand, but a toxicology report? That kid must have taken so many drugs in his young life that his body must have had a high tolerance for them. Had his condition deteriorated gradually or had he died suddenly? Or had he developed an infection? And when he did finally find McCarthy, how was he going to break the news?

  ‘Hello,’ he called. A cleaner, mop in hand answered the door. Behind her, McCarthy’s apartment was bare.

  ‘Gone,’ she said and then shut the door. Stephen went to the top floor and started knocking on doors. There was no answer. He carried on, making his way gradually down until he reached McCarthy’s floor. A man of around seventy peered around his door and beckoned him over.

  ‘He’s popular today. Has something happened?’

  Not yet. ‘Someone else beat me to it?’

  The guy nodded.

  ‘I assumed he was plain-clothes. Flashed one of those IDs that look like a passport.’

  Stephen held up his ID for the man to study. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Same. He was wearing a leather jacket with a shirt and tie. Dark chinos. Or maybe jeans. But it was the way he rattled off his questions, like you’re doing now. He was practised at it.’

  ‘When you showed up, I thought it was him again. He looks a bit like you. But your accents are different. He’s from the south.’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.’ Stephen turned to leave. ‘Just one more thing. Did McCarthy say where he was going?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘No, but he was carrying a couple of suitcases,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t say that to the guy who was here earlier. There was something about him.’

  By his calculation, out of the many thousands of his fellow officers there would be a fair few who wore leather jackets with a shirt and tie and came from the south. But how many of those would be keeping tabs on McCarthy?

  Stephen returned to McCarthy’s apartment, this time flashing his police badge. The cleaner was at once afraid.

  ‘I know nothing,’ she said beseechingly.

  ‘It’s okay I’m not from immigration,’ Stephen said, trying to reassure her. He guessed she may have fled Syria or Afghanistan. ‘I want to search the rubbish. Paper recycling.’

  She invited him into the apartment and showed him four rubbish sacks, two which contained paper. He started sifting through the contents until he found what he was looking for. An itinerary. Just as he pulled the paper out of the bin and read that Michael McCarthy was due to catch a plane from Fiumicino in three hours, he called Elisabetta.

  ‘McCarthy’s leaving the country. Can we get a geolocation on his phone? I want to make sure he’s alright.’

  ‘Send his number over and I’ll do it,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Call you straight back.’

  As Stephen waited, there was a knock on the door. Stephen opened it. It was Sergio, the annoying concierge. He was holding an envelope.

  ‘I think this is what you’re looking for,’ he said.

  Had he been listening outside the apartment the whole time? Stephen took the envelope addressed to him and turned it over. By the way it peeled open, he guessed Sergio had already read it.

  Stephen imagined McCarthy’s voice, reading the letter aloud:

  Dear Stephen,

  By the time you read this note, I will have safely returned to Ireland to retire to a little house by the sea. The next time you are in Wexford, be sure to look me up.

  Stephen flung the letter aside. I might not know you well, Michael McCarthy, but I know e
nough that this is entirely out of character. And unless that itinerary was another red herring, Mexico was one hell of a detour from Ireland.

  He ran down the stairs to hail a cab. McCarthy must have been still in town, or at the airport. Just as a cab stopped for him, his phone rang. It was Elisabetta.

  ‘I’ve tracked his phone. It’s in Monti, right near the Metro on Via Cavour. On the steps leading up to the church of St Pietro in Vincoli.’

  ‘On my way,’ Stephen said, instructing the cab driver. As the cab sped through the streets, Stephen read the rest of the letter:

  Despite both of us harbouring secrets, I value your friendship and I’m glad to have met you.

  Yours, Michael McCarthy.

  Perhaps it was Moses’s disapproval he felt or his earlier experience that day at the site of St Peter’s crucifixion, but as he walked back to the confessional to collect his suitcases, he realised that there was one last thing he had to do. Or rather, that Moses, who had gathered the Ten Commandments, had guided him to do. He opened one of the suitcases, took out the votive and left it there in the confessional, without so much as a backward glance.

  As he walked out of the church, suitcases in hand, he brushed past the gaggle of French tourists, now gathered around the exit. One of the tourists jostled him and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Joe wants his painting back. Tell us where it is, or we’ll finish off the art restorer.’

  ‘Tell Joe it’s too late for that. Killing Franco won’t get it back.’ It was as though the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. The words of the Second Commandment rang in his head. “Thou shalt have no graven images.”