Earlier that year, Taddeo Santoro had fallen into a malaise. His peaks had all been scaled. His horizon was bare of challenge. He’d tried to stay enthusiastic but inside he’d grown so listless and despondent that he’d feared he’d lost for ever his youthful zest and drive and passion, the attributes that had inspired those around him to trust and follow him. Then, one afternoon after returning from Grenoble, Lucia Conte had begged an urgent appointment at the museum, during which she’d confided that X-ray tomography of their new scroll had revealed what appeared to be several passages of text from the letters of St Paul.
Cardiac paddles couldn’t have jolted him to life any faster.
‘It’s not an epsilon,’ snapped Father Alberts. ‘How could you possibly think it an epsilon?’
‘Because it looks like an epsilon,’ retorted Zeno D’Agostino. ‘How else am I supposed to judge?’
‘An epsilon makes no sense.’
‘An epsilon makes no sense if the previous character is tau. If it’s pi, it makes perfect sense.’
‘But it’s not pi.’
‘It’s not pi because you don’t want it to be pi,’ sighed Zeno. ‘It’s like “of” and “in” all over again. We need to see this fresh. We need to discard our priors.’
‘How can we possibly discard our priors?’ said Alberts angrily, slapping his copy of Nestle–Aland. ‘Our priors are the text we’re working from. And that says “of”. It does not say “in”. Overturning it needs evidence, not a will for mischief.’
‘The evidence is right there in front of your eyes. It’s not my fault if you refuse to look.’ He turned to Taddeo for support. ‘Well, Mr Chairman? Do you have a view?’
Taddeo peered again at his screen. His eyesight wasn’t what it had once been. All he could see, in honesty, was a blurred squiggle a bit like a question mark. Appropriate enough. It was all a mystery to him. The job needed younger eyes, that was the truth of it. Those fighter pilots with hawk-like vision who could spot enemy planes when others could see only sky. In the absence of which, people would see whatever they wished. ‘Perhaps we should move on,’ he sighed.
‘Move on,’ muttered Father Alberts. ‘Always moving on. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Ambiguity makes for controversy. Controversy makes for ticket sales.’
‘That’s beneath you,’ said Taddeo. ‘I’m after the truth, that’s all. Now let’s continue.’ But suddenly he felt restless. He pushed back from the table, rose to his feet, paced circles around the table. The shameful truth was that Alberts was right. He had minimal interest in the text itself, despite its earthquake nature. And neither his rusty Greek nor his knowledge of St Paul were in truth good enough to help with decipherment or interpretation. What he cared about was the scroll itself, quite possibly the most precious artefact ever discovered. That was why he’d insisted on attending these meetings from time to time, to maintain his connection to it; to bolster his claim, as the senior figure in Neapolitan archaeology and head of the Herculaneum site, to be the one to announce its discovery to the world and pledge its display at his museum. He could already picture the stir that would cause. He dreamed of it in bed at night. The drama of those first headlines, kept on the front pages by provocative leaks of the very passages Alberts and D’Agostino were currently disputing. Then the exhibition itself: breathless throngs of the faithful and the merely curious stretched out across the main hall, down the steps and out of sight along the street. How he’d whet their appetite with piped religious chants and screens showing passages of text translated into all the languages of the world. He’d be able to charge whatever he liked. Attendance records would still be smashed. The Pope himself would visit. Royalty and presidents. Stars of screen and sport. He’d give them each his personal tour, take photos for his office wall. Then there were the lecture tours, the documentaries, the magazine profiles, maybe even a movie or two.
And his would be the face of it all.
He stopped by the terrace doors. Each had an embedded pane of security glass thick enough to blur his view of port and bay; but he could still make out a tour ship set for Capri, its deck visibly emptier than usual. Vesuvius had devastated the city’s tourist trade, as he knew all too well from the museum’s shrunken receipts. But the scroll would sort that out. It would be a bonanza for this city. He ran a finger around his collar. Another muggy afternoon with no air conditioning. How he longed to undo these bolts, lift the locking bar and throw open—
He frowned down. The floor bolt was up. He’d never seen it up before, he was sure of it. Lucia would never have allowed it. He looked up. The top one was down. He lifted the locking bar and pulled the door towards him. He took a step outside. The terrace ran all the way to the end, where – as he recalled – it turned into a ledge. The French windows were all covered by white sheets, so that anyone could have made their way past them without being seen. A monstrous suspicion came to him. He remembered Carmen’s lateness, her breathless arrival, her flimsy excuses. He turned and looked in horror at the safe. His scroll! His precious scroll! He dropped the locking bar back in place, then – ignoring the bewildered faces of Alberts and D’Agostino – he strode with grim purpose to the door.
Izzo was reviewing his case notes when the summons came from his station chief. He went downstairs to find all the other section heads already there, which made it easy to guess the reason. The evacuation was finally being called. The chief motioned for him to shut the office door behind him, then confirmed his supposition. The first announcement would be made later that night. All schools and places of learning would be closed tomorrow. All non-essential government offices too. Hospitals were to transfer out patients and private businesses were being put on notice too, including shops, cafes and restaurants.
‘How can we survive without those?’ muttered Stefan.
‘We can’t. That’s the point. Because this is just to get people focused. The hope is that a fair proportion of them will read the writing on the wall and leave tonight. That way, the city won’t have to pay for them. Because at eight tomorrow morning they’ll be announcing the full evacuation. Everyone out within twelve hours. The town is to be empty by eight tomorrow night.’
‘Christ Jesus. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. They’ve just shat their pants, is all. And handed us the toilet paper.’
‘Nice. How long will it last?’
‘Until it’s declared safe again, I guess. Which will be weeks, at least, knowing those cowards at the Observatory. Last time, it went on three months.’
‘And us?’ asked Stefan. ‘Are we essential government personnel?’
‘Amazingly enough,’ said the chief. ‘Even you. It’s going to be a brutal day tomorrow. I want everyone out on the street. Traffic duty, door knocking, explaining arrangements, showing faces. I’m damned if we’ll leave our town to the vandals and the looters. That means Serious Crimes too, Romeo.’
‘I’m working a murder,’ he protested. ‘I can’t just drop it.’
‘For this, you can. Unless you’ve actually got the bastard by the collar. So tell your people and make arrangements for your families too. I don’t want you worrying about them tomorrow. It’ll be shambles enough already, believe me.’
Izzo got on to his taxi service as he headed back upstairs, to book a car for Isabella and Mario. They had nothing available before ten thirty in the morning. He booked that anyway, just in case, then tried other companies. But word of the evacuation must have leaked already, for there was nothing to be had. So he called Isabella to let her know, trying his best not to sound too cheerful when he told her to start packing.
The narrative was easy. The numbers were hard. Many of the bills, demands and statements were missing, as if Raff had thrown them away without even looking. So it took Cesco a good three hours to work out even roughly how much he’d owed. It came to nearly half a million euros. The bulk, however, was secured at reasonable rates against this apartment, his business and the Lamborghini, whose insurance he’d thankfully kept up, along with a modest life insurance policy in favour of his kids. He’d also been earning enough from the studio to cover his interest payments and had just taken out a new credit card too, with a five figure limit, so he hadn’t been under immediate pressure. Even better, Cesco could find no trace of unexplained cash infusions. If Raff had cooked up a deal with Miranda Harcourt, he hadn’t yet been paid.
More good news followed. A text from Carmen to tell him that the scroll was still in place. He began to wonder if there wasn’t some other explanation for Raff’s rendezvous with Harcourt. But what? He lunched on spaghetti pesto and a slice of apple pie, then began the dismal business of notifying Raffaele’s creditors of his death. He’d just hung up on one when there came a soft tap at the front door, so quiet he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. Then it came again, as though whoever it was didn’t really want to be heard. He was about to go check when they began working at the lock. With a jolt, he remembered the white van following him from the studio and the Hammerskin lookalike at its wheel.
And Raff’s name was on the buzzer downstairs.
He retreated to the office, quietly shut its door, looked out the window. In the piazza below, he could see the roof and rear of what appeared to be the same white van. A shaven-headed man in blue jeans and a sleeveless black leather jacket was chatting to its driver. He too looked every inch a Hammerskin. And though there was no sign of Dieter, that likely only meant he was the one outside the door.
The scratching stopped. Hinges squeaked. The door clicked closed. Cesco looked around. The window was painted shut and anyway it was three storeys straight down. He was fit and strong enough, but Dieter was way out of his league. He stood no chance whatsoever against him in a fair fight. As well, then, that he was perfectly comfortable with making it an unfair one. An old tripod was leaning against a wall. It would have to do. He picked it up quietly by its legs to hold like a battleaxe above his head. Then he watched the office door handle slowly turn, steeling himself to strike.
Sitting directly outside the Colonna room, Carmen could hear the constant murmur of voices inside – but not, for the most part, what they were saying. That changed, however, when they started squabbling about ‘in’ and ‘of’. And suddenly she found herself transfixed.
The letters of St Paul had long provided grist for sceptics of Christianity, because he’d so rarely referred to Jesus the man, only to Christ the spirit. Believers retorted with two key passages. The first described his birth, life and crucifixion at some length; but there was some reason to think that had been a later interpolation. Another famous passage, however, talked of Thomas, brother of Christ, providing oblique evidence of Jesus’s humanity. Yet sceptics argued that this too had been a later tweak, and that Paul had really written of Thomas, brother in Christ, which clearly offered no such—
The Colonna room door suddenly flew open and Taddeo Santoro stormed out, his thundercloud expression telling her instantly she’d been rumbled. His face convulsed in the effort to restrain himself from yelling or even hitting her. ‘The key,’ he demanded.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The key. To the safe.’
‘No way,’ she said, half rising. ‘Lucia told me under no circum—’
He thrust his face in hers. ‘Fuck Lucia. I need to make sure you haven’t stolen my scroll.’
‘How dare you?’
‘You were in there when I got here, weren’t you?’
‘I was in the loos. I told you. I had—’
‘Bullshit.’ He jabbed a finger at the door. ‘You were in there with Lucia’s keys, including the one to the safe. You stole my scroll and escaped out the terrace doors. Only you couldn’t bolt them from outside, could you?’ He didn’t wait for her denial but snatched her handbag instead, upended its contents onto the table. Carmen grabbed Lucia’s keys first, only for him to seize her wrist and prise away her fingers one by one.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
They both looked up, in surprise, to find Lucia Conte standing there, still bandaged from her burns, visibly furious at the commotion.
‘Your friend here just stole our scroll,’ said Taddeo.
‘That’s a lie!’ protested Carmen.
‘Then give me the key.’
‘I’ll take it, thank you,’ said Lucia, with complete authority. For while Taddeo might outrank her in Naples as a whole, this was her domain. Carmen let go gladly, Taddeo grudgingly. The Colonna room door was still ajar. They filed inside. Three copies of Nestle–Aland lay open on the table, a few blurred letters up on each of the screens. They ignored those and went straight to the safe. Lucia crouched to unlock it. The scroll-holder was just as Carmen had left it. Lucia drew it out with both hands. She undid the catches, lifted its lid.
‘Thank God,’ grunted Taddeo, when he saw it still inside. ‘But how many times must I say it? This place isn’t secure. We need to—’
‘No.’
‘But we—’
‘Not now. This isn’t the time or place. And you owe Carmen an apology.’
Taddeo blinked. For a moment Carmen thought he’d refuse. Then he mastered himself. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I panicked. If you knew how important…’
‘It’s okay,’ she assured him. ‘I understand.’
‘Let’s call it a day,’ said Lucia. She looked around at the men until each had nodded. They closed their books, turned off their screens, filed out. Lucia waited until they were all gone, then plucked Carmen by the sleeve. ‘What the hell?’ she hissed.
‘I’m sorry? You don’t believe what Taddeo was—’
‘Don’t even try to lie to me,’ said Lucia. She held up the key to the terrace doors, which had spilled out of Carmen’s handbag along with everything else. ‘Because how the hell else did you get hold of this?’