by Gary McAvoy
Unconvinced, Marco called out, “Michael, could you come in here?”
Dominic walked through the door, the Taser hanging from his right arm, slightly hidden behind his leg.
Turning to the priest, Marco asked, “Could you check your app to locate Hana’s bag?”
Just then the old woman stood up, set her knitting down while mumbling and adjusting her shawl—then furtively reached into the sofa cushion crack and pulled out a silenced Glock 17. Lifting it and aiming it expertly at Marco while his head was turned, she fired off a shot, hitting the commando in the left shoulder. He fell back against the wall, then went down.
Dominic instinctively raised the Taser, swiftly aimed it at the old crone, and pulled the trigger. A stream of wires with sharp barbs at their ends flew across the room, striking her on the chest, sending a 50,000-volt electric shock throughout her frail body. Falling onto the sofa, she flopped around like a fish out of water, then went still, jerking periodically.
Dominic ran over to Marco while Lukas kept his pistol aimed at the old man, who didn’t seem at all concerned about the woman. Karl, meanwhile, went down the hall, searching for others in the apartment. It was empty.
Reaching for a kitchen towel, Dominic clenched it firmly against Marco’s upper arm where the bullet went in. There was a slug embedded in the wall above him. The bullet obviously passed through soft muscle tissue, which the priest took as a good sign. Marco just needed antiseptic and patching up for now. And maybe a swig of whisky.
“How’s it feeling, my friend?” Dominic asked. “Are you able to move?”
Clearly in pain but conscious and alert, Marco simply nodded.
“Get what you can out of the old man,” he said. “It’s clear now they’re in on it. Is the AirTag here?”
Dominic stood up and looked around. He spotted Hana’s bag sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Yes, I see it over there. So she’s got to be here somewhere.”
He picked up the woman’s Glock and walked over to the old man, pointing the gun in his face.
“Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. Though I don’t want to hurt you, I will not hesitate pulling this trigger unless you tell me exactly where our friend Hana Sinclair is. Right now.”
The old man looked up into the solemn face of a man who truly meant what he said. He shrugged his shoulders as if he couldn’t care less.
“I don’t know who the person is they have next door—I assumed it was a woman because of the purse—but Hugo is guarding someone there now. There is a bookshelf in the hallway with a hidden door behind it, connecting the two apartments; just slide the bookshelf to the left. The door should be unlocked.”
“Are there any more weapons here? Other people next door besides Hugo?” Lukas asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” the man said feebly.
“Marco, you rest up until I get back,” Dominic advised. “Meanwhile, Lukas, you watch these two and monitor the door. Karl and I will take care of this Hugo and find Hana.”
Dominic moved to the front door, locked it, then motioned for Karl to take the lead in finding the bookshelf in the hallway.
Having downed two shots of tequila at a bar, then driven to and parked outside the Altamonte, Faustino Perez picked up the intercom phone and rang Hugo’s apartment. Answering, Hugo buzzed him in. The assassin got into the elevator and punched the button for the top floor.
The hidden door connecting the two apartments was unlocked. Karl turned the handle, his gun raised and ready. Standing behind him, Dominic could hear his beating heart pound in his ears, instinct holding him back, the rush of adrenaline for finding Hana pushing him on.
With a thrust of the door, both men burst into the room. A young man, presumably Hugo, was sitting on the sofa watching TV and eating a bowl of pasta. Taken unawares, Hugo glanced at the pistol laying on the table in front of him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Karl said as he moved swiftly in front of Hugo, his SIG Sauer pointed at his chest.
“We’re only here for your hostage, Hana Sinclair,” Dominic warned. “Tell us where she is and no harm will come to you.”
Resigned to his predicament, Hugo pointed to the hallway. “Last room. The key is above the door frame.”
While Dominic went to fetch Hana, Karl moved to retrieve the pistol sitting on the table in front of Hugo, tucking it behind him in the small of his back.
Then he heard a quiet rapping on the door: two taps, a pause, followed by three more taps.
“Get up, quickly,” Karl commanded in a whisper. “Open the door and let whoever it is inside, but if you even make a funny face you’re dead, got it?”
Hugo nodded fearfully. He rose from the sofa, and Karl grabbed his collar, shoving him to the entrance. The Swiss Guard stepped behind the door, his SIG pressing against the young man’s back.
Hugo opened the door. “Faustino, I—” Karl pushed the gun deeper into his back as a warning.
“It’s about time,” Perez said, as he walked into the room. Karl slammed the door and, pushing Hugo onto the new arrival, raised his pistol to cover both men.
Surprised but showing no signs of fear, Perez instinctively raised his hands.
“Both of you, step back carefully,” Karl said, “and no sudden moves. Put your hands behind your head, lace your fingers and face the wall, a meter apart.” Then he shouted, “Michael! I need you out here now!”
Having unlocked the door down the hallway, the priest cautiously opened it, peering in, prepared for danger in case it was a setup. Instead, he found Hana sitting on a bed. She looked up, completely surprised to see Michael Dominic standing in the doorway. She leapt up and ran toward him, hugging him fiercely, not wanting to let go.
“My God, Michael, how did you ever find me?!” she asked, her voice muffled in the curve of his neck. “I was sure I’d never see you again!”
“We’ll get to that later. Right now, we have to get you out of here. Are you alright? Did they hurt you at all?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ve been treated well, in fact.” Tears of emotion pooled in her eyes.
Just then Dominic heard Karl calling him, sensing urgency in his voice. With Hana behind him, he raised the Glock, and they both proceeded back out down the hallway and into the living room.
Seeing two men facing the wall, he said, “Well, I see we have company.” Looking at Karl, he said, “Now what?”
“Good to see you, cousin,” Karl said to Hana, smiling. “Would you mind checking the kitchen for a box of plastic wrap or twine? Anything we might use to tie these two up.”
Hana ran into the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, finally finding an extra large box of plastic wrap and a roll of duct tape. Pierluigi kept a well-stocked kitchen, she thought.
She handed both items to Karl. “Michael,” he said, “keep your eye on the new guy while I tie up Hugo. Hana, bring two of those chairs over here.”
Hana dragged two chairs from the dining table into the center of the living room.
“Hugo, you first. Get over here and have a seat.”
Karl handed his pistol to Hana while he first checked Hugo for weapons. Finding nothing, he wrapped the plastic film around the man, making sure he was held fast to the chair. Then he moved the other chair directly behind Hugo’s.
“Hey, new guy. Faustino. Your turn now.” He frisked him for weapons, finding both a pistol and a combat knife, liberating both from the assassin.
“Now take a seat. Michael, keep your gun carefully trained on this one. He has military written all over him.”
“You have a good eye, boy,” Perez purred. “But you really should kill me. I’m not one to forget something like this.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Karl said, “but I doubt our paths will cross again.”
“Never say never,” the assassin advised. “You have just cost some very determined people a great deal of money. I’d be watching my back if I were you.”
Karl continued wrappi
ng the continuous roll of plastic film around Faustino and Hugo so many times that neither man could extract himself without help. He also wrapped their lower legs as an extra measure. By the time he was done, the box of plastic wrap was half empty.
“We’ll use the rest to tie up the old folks next door.”
“Are you both able to breathe alright?” Dominic asked with genuine concern.
“My, such a caring soul. You must be the priest I’ve heard about,” Perez said. “I won’t forget your consideration when I’m sent to kill you all.”
Those were his last words as Karl gagged him with the duct tape.
Just then Marco walked into the room, the blood-soaked towel on his shoulder stained bright red.
“Marco!!” Hana cried out. “What happened?!” She ran to him, reaching out to tenderly inspect the wound. Then she kissed him and ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was shot by someone’s unpleasant grandmother in the other apartment.”
“This looks serious,” she said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No, there will be too many questions we can’t answer,” he cautioned. “I’ll make a call and find a doctor who can offer more discreet help.”
“Okay, let’s get those other two taken care of and get out of here,” Karl suggested. “Marco, would you stay here and keep an eye on these guys until we’re done?”
“My pleasure,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll make that call.” Marco took a seat, his pistol next to him on the table while he called an old colleague in Florence for a sub rosa medical referral. Hana stayed with him.
Dominic and Karl returned to the first apartment, where Lukas was standing over the older couple. The woman had recovered from her Taser infliction and was sitting placidly on the sofa, mumbling to herself, her shawl around her shoulders. She looked unhappy.
“Did you find Hana?” Lukas asked.
“We did,” Dominic replied, “and two guys are tied up in the other room. Now it’s time for this pair.”
“You two, over here,” Karl demanded, putting two table chairs back to back in the living room.
The old couple complied, each slowly taking a seat. While Dominic kept his gun trained on them, Karl began surrounding them both with the plastic wrap. A few minutes later, they were completely secured.
“Would you like to keep the TV on so you have something to watch until someone finds you?”
“Yes, please,” the old man muttered. “Otherwise, I’ll just have to listen to her constant bitching.” The old woman grumbled, cursing the situation.
“We can fix that,” Karl said as he gagged both of them with strips of duct tape.
“Okay, Lukas, can you get Marco and Hana from the next apartment? It’s time to leave.”
Dominic looked around the room, seeing if there was anything unusual warranting special attention. Apart from retrieving Hana’s bag, he found nothing.
With all five now gathered together, they left the apartment, locking the door behind them. They took the elevator down.
“There’s a private doctor a few miles from here who can take care of this wound,” Marco said, inspecting his shoulder. “We’d better head there now.
“So, really, how did you find me?” Hana asked the team.
Dominic smiled at her. “Remember that AirTag we tucked into your wallet last year, when we found the Magdalene manuscript?”
“Yes!” Hana exclaimed. “I’m glad now, but frankly I’d forgotten all about it.”
“I’ve got to call your grandfather, by the way, and tell him you’re okay.” Marco said.
“My grandfather? What does he have to do with this?”
“He put up two million euros for your ransom, which fortunately we won’t need now.”
“Good grief,” Hana said, clearly surprised. “I should give him a call myself. Thanks, everyone. I’m so grateful to count you all as friends. Even you, cousin.” She smiled at Karl. “Now, let’s get Marco to that doctor.”
Chapter 44
After Dominic and his friends had abruptly left the Uffizi Gallery in order to find Hana, Agent Dario Contini continued his preliminary analysis of the museum’s paintings, with disturbing results.
Of the twenty paintings on Feudatario’s list, he had deemed eighteen of them suspicious. Giancarlo Piovani, the curator, was fraught with anxiety, for a legitimate review of these paintings had gone through the hands of several noted authorities and passed muster. But, both Piovani and Contini reasoned, the artist who had performed this work was of such superior skill that now every painting was subject to skepticism, not a comfort to institutions that paid millions of euros each year for the presumed works of Old Masters. And most of these had come from Venice, either through one of the many fine art galleries like Renzo Farelli’s, or following restoration by Palazzo Feudatario.
Contini found a similar range of suspicious works at Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze, recommending that the management there—as he asked of the Uffizi—carry out a series of forensic tests to better identify those which met the strict manifestations of ancient work, or whether there was even a hint of modern deception.
Dario Contini felt a rush of exhilaration. He was closing in. The thought of solving a nearly three-hundred-year-old series of historical art crimes would secure his rise on the Italian Art Squad.
The only thing he needed now was that elusive Coscia Journal, believed to contain every known transaction of Feudatario’s restorations and forgeries since 1740.
But because of Italy’s tough laws seemingly sympathetic to criminals—thanks to the Mafia’s long-held influence over the legal system—he did not have sufficient evidence yet to convince a magistrate to order a search and seizure warrant. So he would improvise in the meantime.
For that, he needed Father Dominic’s help. He had to convince the priest and his team to help him find and gain the Journal by any means.
On the train back to Venice early the next morning, everyone was exhausted from the previous night’s adrenaline rush of rescuing Hana.
Marco had been patched up by the private physician he’d been referred to, and though his arm was in a sling with Hana tending to his every need, he felt fine.
Karl and Lukas had dozed off under the hypnotic rhythms of the speeding train, leaning against each other in a shared seat.
Dominic sat alone in the back of the car, considering their next actions. After calling Contini and filling him in on last night’s activity, he agreed with the agent that the Coscia Journal mentioned by Antonio Vivaldi was crucial to obtain. Though they already had enough proof to arrest those affiliated with Feudatario Restorations—and possibly Renzo Farelli for his own complicity in the murder of Father Carlo Rinaldo, if they could link him to that crime—they needed that historical evidence showing to whom forged works of art had been delivered over the centuries, and clues as to where they might be now. Camorra clans were legendary for respect of their history, and maintaining records of each clan’s own legacy was the obligation of every leader.
Chances were good that the journal was held by each capintesta as leadership changed hands through the ages. Which meant Don Angelo Gallucci must now have possession of it, surely locked away some place safe.
Eldon Villard sat in the custom Horween leather swivel armchair he’d had designed for viewing his priceless art collection in his own climate-controlled Luxembourg Freeport vault. The lilting strains of a Mozart concerto played softly through his custom Sonos sound system as he savored a crystal flute of Veuve Clicquot Le Grand Dame Blanc.
In the center place of prominence, Raphael’s spectacular Madonna of Foligno, which he knew to have been created in 1512, hung before him. The painting featured the Virgin Mary sitting on heavenly clouds, embracing the infant Jesus, surrounded by cherubic angels. On the ground looking up was the kneeling nobleman Sigismondo de' Conti along with St. Jerome, who stood with his lion peering out from the shadows behind him. St. Francis o
f Assisi knelt on the left, with John the Baptist standing next to him. Between both groups appeared a small angelic child, with the towers of the village of Foligno far in the background.
Villard’s vast affluence afforded him many pleasures, but art was his consummate passion, one he enjoyed in complete solitude. That this one secret, sacred space was known only to him—and owned solely by him on a prepaid 50-year lease—gave him a feeling of profound power over his ultra-wealthy peers, not to mention the countless institutions who would fight for possession of even one of his pieces if they had known he possessed them. Especially the Raphael.
Someday he really would have to tell someone about this place, if only to ensure that it was discovered and dealt with properly after his death. Until he did, it was his secret alone, one he relished like no other.
As he sat there admiring the Raphael’s beauty, something about it triggered a mild alert deep in his mind’s eye. It seemed remarkably fresh for a five-hundred-year-old painting. Standing up, he approached the canvas. Using the remote control for the unit’s lighting, he raised it to full brightness, peering closely at the overall wash of color. Taking an LED penlight from a nearby table drawer, he held it to the right side, raking the light over the surface at an angle. He did the same thing from the left, looking for alterations or signs of fresh restoration. It seemed fine. Still, there was just something… off.
Instinct has served me well throughout my life… Let’s get you authenticated, Madonna.
He slid a phone out of his pocket and made a call.
Chapter 45
With phone in hand, Angelo Gallucci paced his office in Palazzo Feudatario, furious over Hana’s rescue and forfeiting the ransom money from Armand de Saint-Clair.
“How could you have let this happen, Faustino?” he demanded of the assassin. “You are paid too well to allow mistakes like this.”