by Gary McAvoy
Farelli shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, I understand. I have nothing to hide.”
“Good to know,” Contini asserted. “Now, are you associated in any way with Don Angelo Gallucci of the Veneto Camorra?”
“Everyone knows who Don Gallucci is, signore.”
“I asked if you are associated with him.”
“We do not have a personal relationship, no.” Farelli gulped noticeably. He reached for the coffee cup on his desk, taking a sip of the now cold brew.
“Earlier this week a Raphael painting was transported from Palazzo Feudatario destined for the Vatican, but it has apparently been shipped to Moscow in error. Are you aware of this?”
“Yes, word of such things travels fast in Venice, but I do not recall who told me.”
“And when were you told?”
Farelli threw out his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Signore, I do not recall who or when.”
“Were you involved in the disappearance or death of Father Carlo Rinaldo?”
Dominic sat up straighter, waiting for a response.
Farelli was adamant. “No, signore, neither of those things.”
“One last question. Are you aware of something called Operation Scambio?”
Farelli sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “What was that name again?”
“Scambio. Operation Scambio.”
“No. That does not sound familiar. Should it?”
Contini noticed Farelli look around the room at the others, avoiding his interrogator’s eyes as he responded. The agent pulled out a stick of Black Jack, unwrapped the foil paper, and slid it into his mouth. As he chewed in the otherwise silent room, he looked Farelli in the eyes.
“If you are certain, signore, then that is all for now,” Contini said, closing his notebook and returning it to his pocket. “I assume you have no plans to travel outside of Venice soon? Good. I may be back.”
Contini had given no time for Farelli to answer the question, stating it more as a fact.
“A word of caution, Signor Farelli,” Contini said, rising from his chair. “The Camorra appears to be running some kind of game here in Venice at the moment, much of it dealing with art works by Old Masters. Since that is your business, I would urge you to contact me if you encounter anything suspicious. Sputa il rospo, si?”
Marco whispered to Hana to translate Contini’s exclamation. “What does he mean by ‘spit the toad’?”
“It’s an old Italian idiom meaning ‘Speak up!’” she whispered back. “But the way he asked it implied a warning.”
Farelli stood nervously as everyone left the office. Once the door was closed, he picked up his cell phone with trembling hands and made a call.
“I have some work to do back at the hotel,” Hana said to Contini as they all boarded the police boat. “Is there any further need for us to accompany you, Agent Contini?”
“No, signorina, thank you for your time. When are you all planning to leave Venice?”
Dominic looked around at the others, then answered for them. “We don’t have a specific timeframe as yet, though we were thinking of going down to Florence for a day to speak with people at the Uffizi and Galleria dell'Accademia. But if we do, we’ll come back here after that.”
“If you do go,” Contini said, “I would like to join you in Florence. Those two museums have had dealings with Feudatario Restorations as well, and I would like to see the works returned to them after restoration.”
“Sure,” Dominic replied. “That’s what we were planning as well, and it would be good to have an expert with us since Signor Sabatini has removed himself from this investigation.”
Just then the officer driving the boat, who had been listening to the police scanner, pulled Contini over to him, whispering something in his ear. Contini’s face took a dark turn. Then he looked at Hana.
“Signorina, we have just received terrible news about your friend, Dr. Gallo,” he whispered. “It seems a fisherman found her body in the lagoon off Murano. The Carabinieri would like to speak with you.”
Chapter 37
Hana stared blankly at Contini, as if she hadn’t understood what he said. No, that can’t be right. Livia just left for Rome a couple days ago. There must be some mistake.
Both Dominic and Marco rushed to either side of her as her legs gave out, her mind unable to adjust to both the news and the boat rocking in the waves. The impact of the news finally registering, her eyes glistened, then tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Hana, here, sit down,” Dominic urged, guiding her to the aft bench seat in the boat.
“It’s my fault,” she sobbed, her hands covering her face. “She would be alive now, if not for me. Who would do something so awful to such a lovely woman?”
Marco and Dominic looked at each other, already knowing the answer.
“I take responsibility for this,” Marco said assertively. “Knowing the risks, I should have accompanied her to the train station. Merde!”
“This is not your fault, Hana,” Dominic agreed. “You know nothing would have kept Livia away from holding that Vivaldi material in her own hands, the reason she came to Venice in the first place. And she made such a substantial contribution to our work here. It was a high point in her life, she told me. You can’t take this out on yourself.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel, Michael,” she said, sniffling. “I need some time alone before speaking with the police.”
Both Dominic and Marco escorted Hana back to her suite at the Ca’ Sagredo. Before they left, Marco checked each room in her suite and double checked the locked door behind them, saying they would return in an hour or so to take her to the Carabinieri station.
Meanwhile, they both went down to the bar to talk over their next moves. Dominic texted Karl, asking that he and Lukas join them.
A few minutes later all four men were seated at a table, a bottle of beer set on cardboard deckels in front of each of them.
“Art isn’t really my world,” Dominic began. “The Secret Archive has little to do with the Vatican Museum, and yet I find myself mired in matters relating to it. If Marcello Sabatini hadn’t backed out, he’d be here in my place. But someone needs to look out for the Vatican’s interests, and since I’m here, that’s me.”
“And where you go, we go,” Karl said, taking a long draw on his beer. Then, glancing at Lukas, he added, “Oh, I just spoke with our commander, who approved our extra time here. Cardinal Petrini stressed to him the importance of our mission.”
“One person we haven’t considered in all this yet is Eldon Villard. He appears to be the most prominent and frequent buyer of Feudatario’s ‘restorations.’”
“You mean one of the wealthiest men on the planet is now involved?!” Karl asked, stunned by Dominic’s comment.
“I kept finding his name as the ultimate buyer or restoration consignor on all those files you took from Feudatario. I’m not sure what that means for our purposes, but I thought I’d toss it out.”
“Maybe Hana’s grandfather might help us get to him, if we need to,” Marco suggested. “They run in the same circles.”
“Good point,” Dominic said, absently flipping his deckel on its sides. “Baron Saint-Clair has powerful connections.”
“In the meantime,” Marco said, “Michael, will you take Hana to the Carabinieri? I have a little business to attend to.”
“Anything we should know about?”
“It’s probably best you don’t.”
Karl, sensing something dangerous in Marco’s eyes, wanted in. “Need any help, Marco? Lukas and I are ready and willing.”
The commando thought for a moment. “No, this is something I need to take care of myself, thanks. You should stay with Hana and Michael.”
The sun was starting to set as Marco spent the past hour idling the boat in the shadows across the canal from Palazzo Feudatario, watching for any personnel movement. He had seen Don Gallucci leave with two guards a half hour earlier, and
the building had remained quiet since. He decided it was time to move.
Maneuvering the Aquariva up the canal a bit, then motoring across the water so as not to be seen, he tied the boat to a public dock a couple palazzos away from Feudatario. Fastening an Osprey silencer onto the business end of his specially-fitted Glock 17, he jumped over the railing and made for the palazzo.
There was one guard at the door, a brutish fellow with his back to Marco as he approached quietly on foot from the eastern walkway. Using the butt of his pistol across the back of his head, the guard went down with a thud.
Marco tried the door. It was unlocked. Entering the foyer, he heard two voices in a nearby room, one a woman’s, the other that of a young man, laughing. Raising his Glock, he rounded the corner and entered the room.
Valentina and Aldo looked up, surprised. Neither of them moved.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in here? This is a private residence,” Valentina said, anger in her voice.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the Frenchman said tersely. “What does matter is that a friend of mine was murdered by you people, and I’m here to find out who did it.”
Valentina instinctively glanced over at Livia’s laptop, still sitting on the desk. Marco caught the turn of her head, then noticed the computer’s African Padauk cover. He turned knowingly to Valentina.
“Well, look here. Caught red-handed with the evidence. Would you care to explain how you obtained Dr. Gallo’s laptop?”
Marco then looked up at the young man. “You… You work at the hotel. So it all comes together now, oui? You stole the computer from Livia’s room.”
Without thinking it through, the impetuous young Aldo reached for a letter opener on the desk next to him and lunged at Marco. A slight but confident swing of the Glock and pull of the trigger, and Aldo fell onto the floor, a bullet hole piercing his forehead. The letter opener flew into the air, landing with a clank on the floor next to Valentina’s feet.
She screamed. Marco swung the pistol in her direction, aiming for her own head.
“Now, tell me what you know about Dr. Gallo’s murder.”
Though shaken, the woman spoke with determination. “You do not know who you are dealing with. Take the computer if you want and get out of here, while you still can, or you will end up the same as your friend.”
“Merci,” Marco said, “that was all I needed to know. This is for Livia.” He pulled the trigger, and the muffled spit of the Glock found its mark.
Valentina’s body remained upright in the chair, but her head fell backward, her open eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Marco moved to pick up both spent cartridges from the floor, then walked over to the desk, picked up the laptop, looked around the room for anything else of interest, and left through the front door. The guard was still out cold.
Walking casually down the fondomento to the Aquariva, he unfastened the cleat lines, then cruised back to the hotel.
Chapter 38
It only took Giuseppe Franco several days to finish his Raphael masterpiece. Isolation in the Trieste freeport’s studio and his virtually nonstop dedication to the task also made it among his fastest forgeries. Even he could not distinguish between the copy and the original. It was his finest work yet, he marveled. Don Gallucci will be pleased.
Phoning the capintesta, Giuseppe asked what he was expected to do next.
“There’s been a change in plans. Keep the copy there in the freeport, Giuseppe,” Don Gallucci said. “That will be transferred to Monsieur Villard at his freeport in Luxembourg, while the original will be returned to the Vatican. Things are too exposed for us here just now, and we cannot take the risk of being discovered on this one. If the forgery is as good as you say, Villard won’t know the difference.
“I’m meeting with Cardinal Abruzzo now, but when I get back, I will have Valentina arrange for an armored truck to pick up the Raphael this afternoon. You return to Venice as soon as you can. We have an extraordinary Tintoretto coming in from the Uffizi that will be your next project.”
Calling his office to relay the instructions, there was no answer. Assuming his staff was away, he’d take the matter up with Valentina later.
Meanwhile, owing to the change of who would get which painting, Giuseppe had to restore the original frame back onto the authentic Raphael. For the copy, he had it wrapped in an Italian 17th-century Sansovino frame, with gilded surface and ornamentation in the form of overlapping scrolls, volutes, and cherubs, suitable for the time period and the Veneto region of its sculptor, Jacopo Sansovino.
Signor Villard should be quite happy with it.
“Good news, Eminence,” Cardinal Abruzzo said to Cardinal Petrini after calling the Secretary of State. “Your Raphael Madonna of Foligno will be on its way back to you soon. We pushed through the Russian bureaucracy and have liberated the painting from Moscow. An armored truck will deliver it to the Vatican tomorrow.”
Petrini was nonplussed. “Thank you, Salvatore. Our curators will inspect it most carefully on its arrival. Oh, and would you provide me with the freight paperwork as well? I want to ensure that such mistakes can be prevented in the future.”
Petrini assumed his ploy would be received unexpectedly by Abruzzo. If the Moscow transfer was legitimate, there should be no problem. If it was a ruse, he expected some sort of obfuscation on delivering the bills of lading and customs documents.
“I… yes, I will, uh, do what I can to get that for you, Eminence. Unfortunately, the truck has already left, but I will ask my assistant to make those arrangements for you. Is there, um, anything else?”
“No, that is all for now, Salvatore. Arrivederci.”
Father Bannon was sitting across from the cardinal as he pressed the speakerphone’s off button.
“I don’t trust that bastard, Nick. He has turned against the Church, I’m sure of it. Keep an eye out for that paperwork, will you? It may be key to testing his loyalty or betrayal in this matter.”
“Of course, Eminence,” Bannon said. “But for what it’s worth, I agree with you. Cardinal Abruzzo knows his tenure as Patriarch is secure, but his actions reveal those of a rogue provocateur. He inspires a lack of confidence in his actions.”
“Let’s keep watch on him, Nick. As for his collaborator Bishop Torricelli, I have plans for him, too.”
Cardinal Abruzzo turned to Don Gallucci, who had been listening on speakerphone to the conversation.
“Obviously he now knows about Operation Scambio, Angelo,” Abruzzo scowled. “I want you to create whatever paperwork might be necessary to prove this ‘Moscow transfer’ concoction. Make it look good, then have it sent to the Vatican.”
“I’ll have Valentina get right on it, Eminence.”
“In the meantime, perhaps we should lie low for a while. If Petrini puts a magnifying glass on our activity, that won’t end well.”
“We do have Tintoretto’s Leda and the Swan coming in from the Uffizi this week. It’s a big prize, Eminence, one we’ve wanted to get our hands on for some time now, and the restoration needed is long overdue, anyway. Let us work on that, then we can put things on hold for a bit. The Uffizi will wonder why we cannot take it on otherwise. That might cause other kinds of problems on its own.”
Abruzzo looked agitated. “Alright, just this one for now. Of course, you can take in others for legitimate restoration, so business keeps coming in, but as for Scambio, we need to take a break until Father Dominic and his people have left Venice and things have cooled down.”
“I agree. They cannot stay here forever, and we dare not make things messy for them. I think you get my meaning….”
Abruzzo gave Gallucci a knowing look, but chose not to acknowledge the intent of his meaning.
“We will speak again soon, Angelo. Ciao.”
As Don Gallucci’s launch pulled up to the dock at Palazzo Feudatario, he noticed there was no guard standing at the door. Then he looked at the ground below the light, seeing Nico laying there.
The other man cautiously drew his pistol as he and Gallucci approached the entrance. Opening the door, the guard went in first, clearing the way for the Don to enter. Passing through the foyer, he entered the office. Staring at the scene, he lowered his weapon.
“Boss,” he said, turning to face Gallucci, “you’re not going to like this.”
Chapter 39
Don Angelo Gallucci looked at the bodies of his two employees, furious their palazzo had been breached.
“Show me the recording,” he demanded of the guard.
Opening the tall black Gardall safe in his office, Don Gallucci checked to make sure the ancient, highly incriminating Coscia Journal was still intact. It was. At least they didn’t get that.
Watching the CCTV recording, Gallucci saw it was just one man, the one they call Marco. He saw Aldo lunge for the commando, then Aldo go down after one shot from the Glock. Then he watched and listened as Valentina argued with him and Marco taking her out the same way. The last words she heard were, “This is for Livia.” He then walked over to the Gallo woman’s laptop, tucked it under his arm, looked around, and left the office.
Don Gallucci sat at his desk, considering suitable retribution.
The next morning Trenitalia’s Frecciargento Silver Arrow pulled out of the Santa Lucia station in Venice for a two-hour rail journey through the northern Italian countryside, bound for Florence.
Sitting in a first class car, Michael Dominic, Hana Sinclair, Marco Picard, and Dario Contini had gathered in a wide booth with a table between them, on which had been laid out interior maps of both the Uffizi Gallery and Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze. His two security agents sat in nearby seats. After buying bottled water for everyone, Karl and Lukas sat in a seat further forward in the car.