The room had but one window, high above the tile floor. One slat of the blinds covering its dirty panes was missing, letting in a few rays of Sicilian sunshine, though not enough for Rick to read the typewritten pages on the table. He had been given a small lamp that threw a harsh light on the paper. In one way the lack of sun was a blessing, since the heat of Palermo had already brought the inside temperature up to the point of discomfort. Without the blinds he would have been dripping in sweat. Of course the room had no air conditioning. He caught the faint smell of paint and wondered why a new coat had been needed on the walls. Regular maintenance, or were they covering up something?
In front of him sat a laptop, similar to the one he used in Rome when he worked on translations, but this one showed marks indicating it hadn’t been well treated. That would be expected. To the left of the computer was the stack of papers, and on the other side, a video recorder was propped up so that Rick could see the screen. At the moment the recorder was set to pause, freezing an image of a man, shabbily dressed and sitting at a table. It’s probably the same table where I’m now sitting, thought Rick, as he rubbed his eyes and looked around the room.
Unlike his Rome apartment, this workplace was austere, even barren. The only decoration on the walls was a calendar, which appeared to be from a year ago. He squinted in the weak light. Make that two years ago. A fluorescent light hung from the middle of the ceiling, but it had not been switched on when they’d brought him into the room, so Rick didn’t know if it worked. A frayed extension cord connected the lamp, recorder, and laptop to a plug in the wall. The battered wastebasket under the table held the remnants of his lunch. Next to it sat Rick’s overnight bag. Two other chairs rounded out the furniture inventory, both on the other side of the table.
He rubbed his hands on his jeans before returning to the keyboard to continue the translation but soon stopped when he came across a sentence in the transcript that wasn’t clear. He turned on the recording and brought it up to where the man was speaking the words on the page. It was highly accented Italian, with the occasional word in dialect, but after running the tape back and forth twice, Rick was able to understand and typed in the English version.
The face on the screen showed signs of fatigue, even exhaustion. At least three days of stubble darkened the man’s cheeks and crept down his neck toward an open collar. The eyes were hard to read. A tinge of fear? Or simply resignation? Rick had become as adept at reading Italians’ body language as interpreting their words, but this was Sicily, and the body vocabulary was not the same as on the mainland. He took in a breath and returned to the task at hand, continuing to change the man’s words into English.
The slats of the blinds clicked softly as a warm breeze pushed its way into the room, bringing with it rich scents from a nearby stove. A restaurant, or just the kitchen of a Palermitana housewife getting an early start on dinner? Either way, someone in the neighborhood would be having a considerably better meal than the panino and bottled water unceremoniously dropped on Rick’s table earlier.
An hour later the creak of the door handle pulled his attention away from the keyboard. A man with coifed salt-and-pepper hair entered, closed the door behind him, and walked to the table. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and whisked off the chair seat before sitting down. His gray pinstripe trousers were perfectly creased and tailored in a cloth that said they belonged to a suit, perhaps a three-piece suit, though Rick couldn’t be sure since the man wore no jacket. In the spot where a pocket would have been found on most American dress shirts was a small embroidered monogram: MC. The creamy white of the shirt and subdued color of the pants created a contrast to the bright stripes of a silk tie. When his suit jacket covered the leather straps of his shoulder holster, Rick imagined his visitor would cut an elegant figure on the streets of Palermo.
“Is everything going according to schedule, Riccardo?” The question was accompanied by a smile that tried to conceal the man’s impatience. “You said originally that it would take you two days. Soon your first day will be complete.” He stopped and awaited an answer.
Rick sniffed the air and avoided the question. “Couldn’t you have taken me to a local trattoria instead of bringing me a stale sandwich?”
The man sighed. “You know that’s impossible, Riccardo. But this evening, with the cover of darkness, you’ll be taken to a place where you can sample some of our island’s excellent cuisine. There is a restaurant where we have special connections, with private rooms, and two of my most trusted men will guide you around the menu. The swordfish is the best in the city.”
“I look forward to that.”
“And I will try to arrange a better lunch tomorrow.”
“That would be very kind of you.”
Satisfied, the man rose to his feet. “Is there anything you need now? Another bottle of mineral water, perhaps?”
“Yes, please. Chilled this time, if possible.”
“I’ll have one of my men bring it immediately.” As he opened the door, he stopped and turned back to Rick. “You will have the transcript translated by tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Of course. You can count on it.”
Inspector Cribari was correct; the swordfish was indeed excellent, but not what Rick expected. It came as involtini; thin slices covered with a paste of sweet raisins, pine nuts, and caciocavallo cheese before being rolled up and lightly grilled. At the suggestion of his two police bodyguards, Rick started the meal with a dish of small gnocchi tossed lightly in a sauce of eggplant, tomato, and basil. Those three items, they assured him, were staples of Sicilian cuisine. Unstated, but in body language that even Rick understood, was the message that they would not be pleased if he ordered anything else.
The two had met him at the airport that morning and stayed close during the entire day, always just outside the room when Rick was working on the translations. Both of them, Cribari had told him, were sergeants, but neither wore a uniform. Given their duties on this day, and the next, it would be expected that they would not broadcast that they were police. Tonight both had the same first course, spaghetti with a tomato sauce, and grilled fish as the second. At their suggestion Rick had ordered a bottle of Bianco d’Alcamo, produced just south of Palermo, but they waved off more than a few sips for themselves when he tried to fill their glasses. They were on duty, after all.
“What hotel am I staying at tonight, Sergeant?” Rick directed the question to the thinner of the two men, who ate with more enthusiasm than his colleague.
“You’ll be very comfortable, Riccardo. We have a good relationship with the owner, and he will see to it that you have excellent accommodations.”
Rick was curious about this relationship, but didn’t press it. Likely, it was the same kind the police had with the owner of the restaurant, and his meal was certainly satisfactory. The hotel should be the same. Suddenly the two men were startled by the sound of trumpets, and they instinctively reached for their weapons.
“It’s all right,” said Rick, reaching for the phone in his pocket. It would be too complicated to explain that his ring was the Lobo Fight Song from his beloved alma mater, so he didn’t try. By coincidence, the number had the 505 area code of New Mexico, but it was not one he recognized.
“Hello?”
“Rick, you old scoundrel.”
The low, rumbling voice was so distinctive there was no doubt who was calling. Zeke Campbell had been Rick’s fraternity brother at the University of New Mexico and, as a defensive lineman on the football team, was feared by quarterbacks throughout the conference. His specialty move against opposing linemen, involving a hammering swing of the forearm, had been dubbed the Zeke Tweak by an Albuquerque sports writer.
“Zeke, how long has it been? Ten years? The last time I saw you was just after graduation when you were heading off to boot camp at Quantico.”
“It’s more like twelve years, Rick, but who’s counting? I hope I haven’t interrupted anything. Are you having dinner?”
Rick looked at the two policemen whose faces indicated they didn’t speak any English. “Just finished. It’s great to hear your voice. What’s new in New Mexico?”
“Actually, I’m here in Rome, and darned if only today did I find out you’re living here. Someone in my tour group—it’s all New Mexicans—told me, and I made some calls and got your number. I thought maybe I could see you tomorrow morning for breakfast. We’re leaving late morning.”
“I’d really love to, Zeke, but unfortunately I’m…” He glanced again at his keepers. “I’m not in Rome right now and won’t be back until tomorrow night. Are you flying back to the States in the morning?”
“No, no. The next stop is Assisi, tomorrow. We’ll be there for five nights.”
It sounded like a long time for a tour group to spend in Assisi, which wasn’t that big a town. Perhaps they were using it as a base to visit other sights in Umbria.
“Zeke, my schedule is pretty open at the moment, so I’m going to do my best to get up there to see you, even if I just come up for the day.”
“Is it that close to Rome?”
“About as far as Gallup is from Albuquerque. Didn’t they teach you map reading in the Marine Corps?”
“I always had a sergeant to read maps. Listen, I’ve got to go. Give me a call on this number when you know when you’ll be in Assisi. Can’t wait to see you.”
“We’ll relive the good times in Albuquerque, Zeke.”
“Maybe not all of them, Rick. What is it you say here? Ciao?”
“You’re almost a native. Ciao, Zeke.”
After he slipped the phone back in his pocket, Rick realized he hadn’t asked Zeke what he had been up to since leaving the Marines. And his old friend just didn’t seem like the kind of person to fit into a tour group. Perhaps it was an anniversary and his wife always wanted to visit Italy. Could he have married that girl who was about half the size of Zeke? Rick tried to recall her name but came up dry. He poured the last of the wine into his glass and took a swig. There would be quite a bit to catch up on.
Twenty-four hours after Rick’s call from Zeke, a distant sun aimed the day’s last rays across the Valle Umbra toward Assisi. From the top of the hill, just beyond the battlements of the ancient castle, the view was the best in town. The roofs of the city spread out below like terraced steps, broken only by winding streets and the occasional spire and dome. In contrast with the town, where humanity squeezed together surrounded by harsh stone, the valley that spread below it was sparsely peopled, flat, and fertile. The view extended into the hazy distance, and the dips between the hills darkened as the sun continued its descent.
It was not by chance that the rocca had been built on this hill hundreds of years earlier. The towers were silent now, but in their day, soldiers would have stood on them, watching for movement below. The view then was in some ways the same as now, in others very different. The first row of hills in the distance, where Bettona and other small villages perched, would not have changed, nor would that of the higher Monti Martani farther off. The farmland below Assisi, thanks to the Tiber River, was just as fertile now as in the fourteenth century. But today’s view was dominated by shades of green and brown inside geometric plots, sliced by paved roads, and dotted with agricultural buildings and houses. What would shock those soldiers most was the town of Santa Maria degli Angeli, back then a bend in the road to Perugia, now spread over the surrounding land, with a monumental church towering over in its center.
The narrow road leading up to the castle ended in an open area covered with gravel and dirt. Thanks to car traffic, and an almost constant wind, nothing much grew except stubby weeds, and near the walls, stubborn grass. Birds perched on the railing at the edge of the parking lot, facing the wind so that their feathers wouldn’t ruffle. The light wind brought with it the smell of pine sap from the distant woods. The olive trees below the railing gave off no scent, or if they did, the wind blew it downward toward the town. Their rustling leaves offered the only sound, had there been anyone there to hear it.
The sun’s last rays climbed up Assisi’s hill, pulling behind them the black blanket of night, while the wind slowed its moan and stopped completely. Between two olive trees, the man lay where he had fallen. In the silence, darkness covered the body like a shroud.
The next morning, his work in Sicily completed on schedule, Rick sat patiently in the chair across from his uncle’s desk at the questura in downtown Rome. Commissario Piero Fontana looked up at the ceiling and moved his free hand in a circular motion to indicate that the person on the other end of the line was rattling on too long. Rick looked around the office once again. He had spent many minutes in the past waiting while his uncle took calls, so he’d nearly memorized the room’s furnishings. The Italian flag and picture of the President of the Republic, almost a requirement for someone of Piero’s rank, were displayed behind his desk. The work surface was free of clutter, which would be expected, given the man’s obsession with efficiency. Files in one corner, a bookshelf, and a meeting table with six chairs completed the decor along with the more comfortable seating used for formal meetings. The single window looked out on the busy street that ran in front of the police station, but from where Rick sat, he could see only the building on the other side. He had politely declined the offer of a coffee, since he had just come from having his morning cappuccino and cornetto, but now he wished he had accepted. After the late flight from Punta Raisi to Fiumicino, and getting up early for his daily run, he was still a bit groggy.
“Si, onorevole. Capisco, onorevole.” With a thumbs-up to Rick, Piero indicated that the person on the line was getting close to making his point. He promised the man to do the needful, ending the call with a few courteous but brief phrases before putting the phone back in its cradle on the desk.
“Sorry about that, Riccardo. He is on a parliamentary committee that oversees our budget, so I have to be polite.”
“Something about your budget allocations?”
“Of course not, his staff deals with such things. His son-in-law is in difficulty, but tax issues are something handled by the Guardia di Finanza. I’m not sure the onorevole understands that they are a different branch.” He pushed himself away from the desk and leaned back. “I am anxious to hear about your adventure in Palermo. It was good of you to take on the assignment at short notice. Inspector Cribari was getting desperate.”
“He didn’t seem to me a policeman who would show desperation. Nobody ever explained to me why they couldn’t find a translator locally.”
Piero rubbed his chin before answering. “As you undoubtedly found out, it was a rather delicate topic. There was only one translator in the city they trusted, and she declined for reasons of health.”
“She was worried about her own.”
“Precisely. Your English transcript of the man’s interrogation should already be on its way to the FBI in New York, and there are people in Palermo who will want to find what it contains. Only Cribari, who conducted the questioning, and his boss in Palermo know what’s in that transcript. They are understandably concerned about leaks.”
“And I’m the third.”
“Well, the fourth. There’s the penitente himself, but he’s been removed to an undisclosed location for his own safety. That was part of the deal.”
“Somewhere here in Italy?”
Piero shrugged to indicate that such details were not his responsibility.
“If I too must be sent to an undisclosed location for helping the police, Uncle, please make it somewhere that has good restaurants.”
The commissario did not appreciate the humor in Rick’s comment. “I was extremely careful to keep your identity a secret, Riccardo.”
“Which is why you issued me an identity card with another name to show the airline. Where did you get that old picture of me?”
Piero didn’t answer the question. “Not even the police in Palermo knew you by anything but your first name.”
“I noticed that. But the Mafia knows about their turncoat?”
“They know he disappeared, and so might be suspecting the worst. What they don’t know is what he might have told to police, nor that what he said will be used by the FBI to go after a member of their family in America.”
“They will have to find out eventually.”
“When charges are brought against the guy in New York, the family in Palermo will know, but that should not be for a few weeks. In the meantime, we have intelligence that another prominent crime syndicate has been attempting to take over their territory in Sicily. Dealing with a turf battle should be enough to keep them busy.”
“Too busy to track down some anonymous translator?”
Piero waved his hand as if to push aside the negative thoughts going through both their heads. “Cribari treated you well, I trust? I didn’t tell him you are my nephew, of course.”
“I only saw him a couple times. He assigned two of his men to hold my hand while I was there, and from what you just said they probably didn’t know what I was doing.”
“And didn’t want to know.”
Rick chuckled. “I could not help wondering how one can tell the cops from the criminals in Sicily. I’ve thought the same thing here in Rome, but my sense is that the difference in appearance is even less pronounced in Palermo.” He crossed his right leg over his left knee, exposing most of his boot.
“Perhaps we should issue white and black hats, like in your American cowboy movies.”
“That would certainly be helpful.”
The policeman stayed silent for a moment, as if he were actually toying with the idea, before turning his attention back to Rick. “What are your plans now? Any interpreting jobs coming up? It will take weeks before the police bureaucracy pays you for your excellent work in Palermo.”
“In fact, Uncle, I was going to get on the train today for a quick trip to Assisi but not for work.” In response to Piero’s look of puzzlement, Rick told him about his phone call from Zeke Campbell. Months earlier he had attempted to explain American football to his uncle, with little success, so he didn’t mention Zeke’s involvement in that pastime, saying only that he was an old friend from the university.
Piero held up an index finger. “I have a suggestion, Riccardo.”
“A hotel in Assisi? I was there years ago with my parents, but I don’t remember where we stayed. I didn’t ask Zeke where his group was being lodged.”
The index finger waved. “No, no. A place to stay in Perugia, which as you know is minutes from Assisi. Have you ever stopped in to thank your great-aunt Filomena for renting you that wonderful apartment? She would love to see you, and since I haven’t heard from her in a while, I have been wondering how she’s doing. She usually calls me every month, but it’s been several since we’ve talked. And I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been too busy to call her myself.”
Rick groaned inwardly. What could have been a relaxed reunion with an old college friend might suddenly become a tedious visit to an aging relative. He also knew that it would be difficult to say no to his uncle. His recollection of the woman was fuzzy, going back to his grandparents’ funeral: just gray hair piled on a small head. He couldn’t bring up a face, though he remembered her as tall. But he was a small boy back then, and everyone seemed tall.
Piero, perhaps sensing Rick wavering, pushed on. “The woman is getting on in years and would love to have a visit from her American great-nephew.”
“I don’t know, Uncle…”
He reached into his pocket, took out a ring of keys, and removed one from it. “You can use my car; the tank’s full.”
“The Spider?” He had been in his uncle’s red Alfa Romeo 4C only once, an inaugural drive along the twisting roads of the Alban Hills. It had taken Rick an hour to catch his breath and get the blood back in his knuckles. He decided then that he would never have a car in Rome because the 4C was the one he wanted, and he could never afford it.
“It’s the only car I have, and I don’t drive it that often.”
“You know, Uncle, you’re absolutely right. It would be wonderful to see my aunt Filomena again.”
Piero handed Rick the key and pulled out his telefonino. “Excellent, I’ll call her now.” He stopped after scrolling partway through his phone list. “Perhaps Betta can get some time off and go with you. Filomena would enjoy meeting her.”
“Betta’s working in Pisa at the moment.”
“Her art theft cases are always fascinating. What’s this one about?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
After her arrival in Pisa on the late train, Betta Innocenti had checked in to a hotel she’d been told by the ministry to use, since it gave a discount. The Hotel Barbarossa was a short cab ride from the station and only a few blocks from the Arno River. It seemed perfect for her needs; the room was clean, and the breakfast she’d just finished was adequate. Every hotel she’d stayed in recently, either with Rick or on assignment with the art fraud squad, had the same self-service spread of breads, sweet rolls, fruit, and yogurt. This one was no different. The clientele appeared to be a mixture of Italian businessmen and German tourists.
She folded the local newspaper and slipped it into her shoulder bag. A story about the theft had been on the second page, but it didn’t give her anything different from what she’d been told in Rome. A pastel by a local artist from the eighteenth century had disappeared from a side chapel at the small Saint Ursula church on the edge of the city. The priest, Father Oresti, was beside himself with anguish, describing it as a masterpiece of inestimable value. It did have value, Betta knew, but said value could easily be estimated, since two by the same third-tier artist had recently sold in Milan. The newspaper had found a color photo of the work and published it next to the picture of the priest. It was a representation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, complete with serpent and strategically placed leaves. The colors had faded, or more likely it was just the dark style of the period. Definitely not something Betta would put among her favorite works that she’d been assigned to track down during her time in the art fraud squad. She again wondered why she’d been sent to Pisa for something that could have been handled, albeit clumsily and likely unsuccessfully, by the local constabulary. The reason had to be the confrontation she’d had the previous week with her boss when he’d made some not-too-subtle advances. The guy was a menace. Her good friend and mentor in the art police, Caterina Scuderi, had tried to cheer her up, saying it was a chance to get out of the office and do some work on her own. Betta was not convinced.
She finished her coffee, dropped the napkin on the table, and got to her feet. First a call on the local police, then Father Oresti. Perhaps she could squeeze in a visit to the cathedral. She dropped her key at the reception desk and pushed open the door to the street. Fortunately, the questura in Pisa was close enough to Betta’s hotel for her to walk to it rather than getting a taxi. As in most Italian towns, a large part of the historic center was a pedestrian zone, with exceptions given to residents who had passes for their cars. That meant parking spaces were scarce but moving vehicles minimal, which was helpful due to the lack of sidewalks. She strolled along streets that appeared relatively straight compared to other Italian cities, likely thanks to the Romans, who had left their mark everywhere. She reached the police station and looked at the drab facade, its architecture stubbornly fascist but hoping nobody would notice. She entered through the doorway under the flags of Italy and the European Union, and walked through the reception area.
“Detective Pisano, please.”
“Is he expecting you?” asked the uniformed policeman as he smiled and not too subtly checked her out.
“He should be. Dottoressa Innocenti from the ministry in Rome.”
“Oh, yes.” The cop became serious. “I’ll tell him you are here.” He picked up the phone while Betta turned and looked around the room, which could have been any of a hundred police department waiting rooms in the country. “He’ll be right out, Dottoressa.”
She thanked him and pulled her phone from her briefcase to see if Rick had texted or left a message. Nothing. He was probably poring over some translation since he hadn’t mentioned any interpreting jobs. She returned the phone to its place just as a man burst through a door, spotted her, and rushed over.
“You must be Dottoressa Innocenti.” He pumped her hand. “I am Luca Pisano. Despite my name, I’m not from Pisa. Nor from Lucca, for that matter.” The quip was delivered with a grin, like he relished using it with people he met for the first time. It added a touch of mischievousness to what was already an elfin demeanor, since Betta, of average height, stood a half foot taller than the man. Despite the spring temperatures, he wore a three-piece suit, which, had it been green, would have completed the image of a leprechaun. “Won’t you come into my office?” he said, as if requesting her help to search for a pot of gold.
The office was a few steps away and small, perhaps to match his stature. Betta took the only chair other than the one behind the desk, and Pisano hoisted himself into that one. Once seated, she realized that her chair was low and his high, resulting in their eyes meeting at the same level. After the required offer of coffee and her expected “No, grazie,” he got down to business. She figured he must have used up his repertoire with the “I’m not from Pisa” line.
“A terrible loss for Saint Ursula, Dottoressa, not to mention to the arts community of Pisa. We are grateful that your office has sent you to find it.” He did not appear to be concerned about Rome sending someone to tread on his turf. On the contrary, his tone exuded relief.
“I hope I can be successful, but the percentage of these kinds of cases that end with the return of the artwork is, I’m afraid, quite low.” She could have added that the work was likely a long way from Tuscany already, but she restrained herself. “Tell me what you know, if you would.” She took a pad and pen from her shoulder bag.
Pisano settled back into his chair, the desk keeping Betta from seeing if his feet reached the floor. “The robbery was discovered last Monday morning after the priest, Father Oresti, finished celebrating mass on the main altar. One of the celebrants, an old woman, asked him if he had finally sent it out for a cleaning. He rushed to the side chapel where it had hung and discovered it gone.” He raised his hands to indicate he was finished.
“That’s it?” Betta asked. “Fingerprints? Signs of forced entry? A ransom note?”
Pisano shrugged. “The cleaning woman had been there earlier, and she was very efficient. And the church is left open most of the time, including the previous night.”
“So anyone could have waltzed in and taken it off the wall of the chapel, without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ No alarm system, I assume?”
“It is a poor parish, Dottoressa.”
“It’s even poorer now.”