Once again, Arnold remained silent.
It seemed Kovlinski required no reply. ‘For me, a man with no background whom fortune has chosen to make extremely wealthy, men of that kind, Mr Stacey’s kind, are suspect. Life is easy for them; they make no struggle; they have … how do you put it? … a golden spoon always in their mouth.’
‘Silver,’ Arnold offered.
‘Hmmm. If you say so. But when such a man is met in
business
, I am careful. When he is also a politician, I am even more careful.’ An edge had crept into his tone. ‘It is dangerous to let
such men get close. As it is dangerous to let children distract from business.’
Kovlinski threw away the stub of his cigar in a sudden gesture that seemed almost angry. The cigar traced a brief glowing arc in the darkness before disappearing. Kovlinski turned to face Arnold directly. His features were shadowed but a shaft of light from the library window sent a yellow bar across the chest of his dinner jacket. ‘So this Stannard … she is not your woman. I am told you work in the Department of Antiques and Museums in Morpeth. You have been there many years. And now working with a woman as your boss. This must mean you have a great interest in the work you do. I could not work for a woman. But perhaps that is because I am Georgian. Stalin was a Georgian, you know.’
‘You speak very good English.’
‘I have been in your Western world for forty years. And in business, English is the international language. And I must use it with politicians like Alan Stacey. I wonder what his obsessions are? Power, probably. You might think that mine are the same. Oil, business, wealth. But you would be wrong. My interests do not divert greatly from what I imagine yours might be.’
Arnold was nonplussed. ‘I’m sure, Mr Kovlinski, we do not have a great deal in common.’
‘Ha!’ Kovlinski snorted, almost delightedly. ‘That is where you are wrong!’ He stood facing Arnold, staring at him fixedly for a little while, one clenched hand thrust into the pocket of his dinner jacket. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Then, abruptly, in a tone that was accustomed to be obeyed, he commanded, ‘Come with me.’
He turned his back on Arnold and began to walk away towards the darkened part of the terrace. Arnold followed him. Kovlinski turned at the corner of the building and Arnold glanced to his right, to see the moonlight shimmering on the lake. When he looked back he realized Kovlinski had stepped
into a doorway: a shaft of faint light from the open door lay across the terrace. Arnold followed his host.
They proceeded down a corridor, Arnold some ten feet behind the oil magnate. Several turns and twists and he realized that the last doorway led into the entrance hall to Leverstone Hall. Kovlinski glanced back towards Arnold and then led the way towards the grand staircase. As they ascended in silence the sounds from behind the closed door of the library reached them as a subdued murmur. The polished oak balustrade was smooth under Arnold’s hand. At the top of the stairs Kovlinski turned to the right and proceeded along a narrow corridor.
The room they entered was in darkness. When Kovlinski used the switch the light was subdued, a faint glow that barely illuminated the narrow room. Kovlinski stepped to one side, beckoning Arnold forward. Puzzled, Arnold hesitated, then moved past his host to stand just inside the room. As he did so a new light gleamed to his left: he glanced sideways and saw that in an alcove set into the wall the new automatic spotlight had picked out a bronze mask, grotesque, challenging, with teeth and eyes sharp with dread. He stared at it, not understanding.
‘Twelfth century,’ Kovlinski said quietly. ‘It is Nigerian in origin.’
The oil magnate himself moved forward past Arnold and another light gleamed on the wall. Arnold realized that there must be pressure pads under the carpet: as one moved, a specific light sprang into life. This time it picked out a headless marble torso. ‘Greek,’ Arnold murmured almost to himself.
Kovlinski nodded. ‘Thrown, I am assured, by Euxitheos himself.’
Arnold followed as Kovlinski slowly moved forward into his room of treasures. Each object had been arranged to best
advantage
for the spectator: each was separately lit and highlighted. Ranged along one wall was a sequence of small stone heads which Kovlinski described as originating from the royal
household
of the kingdom of Ife; there was a bronze Egyptian Zodiac next to a small bust of an unknown ancient princess; on the far wall were mounted items that Arnold guessed would have come from Etruscan tombs; he glimpsed a
calyx krater
, bronze swords, a Saxon jewel-decorated horse harness, an embossed shield…
‘An eclectic collection, is it not?’ Kovlinski murmured. ‘And, I’ve no doubt, you will have swirling in your mind the thought that much of this collection will have come with doubtful provenance.’
The thought had indeed crossed Arnold’s mind.
Kovlinski shrugged, spread his hands wide. ‘But what is one to do? When I am offered a piece I make the most detailed
investigation
of its history. Some pieces I refuse because I am aware of the trade that exists in such objects, and of the venality of the sellers. Sometimes, however, I am forced to conclude that it is perhaps better if a piece ends up in my collection, because my intentions are quite transparent and well known to those who deal with me. On my death this collection will go to the British Museum. This country has been good to me. It will be my way of showing gratitude.’
Arnold was uncertain about the validity of the argument but was disinclined to discuss it: he was well aware that the trade in ancient artefacts was corrupt and venal. He contented himself with spending the next half-hour moving around the room, inspecting the various items that Kovlinski had collected over the years. It was an impressive display.
‘Do many get to see this collection?’ he asked at last.
Kovlinski was silent for a little while, then shook his head. ‘Very few. No one has been in here, apart from myself during these last few years. My family … well, my wife was never
interested
: she was a simple woman. As for my daughter …’ A certain bitterness entered his voice. ‘One might say her interests lie in a more hedonistic direction.’
Abruptly, he turned away. ‘I think it is time I returned to my guests.’
Arnold preceded him from the room. He was left with the feeling that he had been a privileged visitor but he was unclear what had motivated Kovlinski to show him his collection. He suspected it was part frustration: there would be few who would be able to appreciate the excellence and value of the collection. But the trigger for showing it to Arnold was, he suspected, something else entirely. Perhaps it lay in the view Kovlinski held of the company that evening, or of his daughter, her lifestyle, and her preferences.
Kovlinski would have been well aware, as Arnold had been, of the adoring glances the girl had bestowed upon the Minister for Industry, Alan Stacey. Glances of which Stanislaus Kovlinski, it would seem, had not approved.
When Arnold returned to the milling crowd in the library via the terrace he realized Karen Stannard had been looking for him. She came across, her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed him by the arm. ‘Where have you been?’ she hissed. ‘A male escort is supposed to dance attendance on the lady he accompanies.’
He could have replied that it would have been difficult in view of the manner in which she had been working the room. But there was no point in arguing about it. Accordingly, he submitted himself to spending the next hour at her elbow while she circulated, chatting to chief executives of her acquaintance and making small talk with various other self-important individuals and their hangers-on. All under the sharp eyes of their suspicious wives. During that time Arnold noted that Alan Stacey had taken leave of the gathering.
So had the daughter of Stanislaus Kovlinski.
A
WEEK AFTER TH
e reception at Leverstone Hall, Arnold cleared his desk, had an hour’s discussion with Karl Spedding regarding matters that would have to be dealt with during Arnold’s absence, and next morning set off early to Newcastle Airport.
The flight left on time. He made the connection at Stansted with only a brief wait and he arrived in Albi in the early
afternoon
. He was due to meet Carmela the following day but had decided he would not warn her he would be arriving early for their meeting: he had never visited Albi before and it would give him an opportunity to spend a few hours alone, looking around the town that had been the scene of the Albigensian Crusade in 1209.
He checked into the hotel Carmela had recommended, took a shower and then ventured out into the streets of old Albi. The town itself was completely dominated by the cathedral-cum-fortress of St Cecile: in 1198 Pope Innocent III had resolved to stamp out the so-called heresy of the ‘pure ones’, the followers of Catharism, and priests and bishops had been defrocked, to little avail until Simon de Montfort was finally put in charge of the ‘crusade’. He slaughtered wholesale the inhabitants of Beziers and Carcassonne but even twenty years of bloody killings failed to stamp out the heresy: it took the Inquisition and a massacre at Montsegur to finish it off once and for all.
Thereafter, the Catholic Church had to move swiftly to
re-establish
its authority in the wake of the Albigensian heresy and the cathedral had been constructed to demonstrate and symbolize the new power and grandeur of the church in Languedoc. Arnold, standing on the bridge across the Tarn to better observe the cathedral proportions, was interested to note that this meant a dual purpose church building: it served also as a fortress, emphasizing that faith sometimes needs to be backed up by physical force, whatever the early Christian fathers might have felt about it.
The old city itself was fascinating: fifteenth century mansions with
solelhiers
under the eaves, drying rooms for woad; corbelled first floors and in Rue Henri de Toulouse Lautrec balustraded staircases and galleries with basket-handle arches; old
brick-built
mills overlooking the Tarn and always the cathedral towering on the skyline.
As evening fell he found himself in Place de Vigan which proved lively enough with café terraces and restaurants and he sampled what he was assured was the local speciality,
tripes a l’albigeoise
, in a red-brick restaurant in the heart of the town.
Finally, he sat in a small
auberge
in a winding, narrow street overlooking the Tarn and thought again about his future. His conversation with Karl Spedding had sharpened his thoughts; he had still failed to express himself adequately to Karen, but he knew that he was coming to a point of no return. He had never wanted the post of Head of the Department and having accepted it, reluctantly, he was now convinced that it had been the wrong decision to make. And were he to leave, it could be with a clear conscience: he had no doubt that Karl Spedding could handle the job more than adequately. The problem was, he had no clear idea what he would do if he were to resign his position.
The invitation from Carmela was allowing him a brief
opportunity
to get away from the pressures surrounding him in Northumberland: the familiar scenes, the local loyalties, the debts he felt he owed to those who had helped him in the past.
And of course, those tasks that still remained to be completed. It gave him time to think things through, decide what he wanted to do with his life.
As for the tasks that lay behind him in Northumberland, he was convinced they could be done more than adequately by Karl Spedding.
In spite of his musings, which remained inconclusive, when he returned to his hotel he slept soundly.
The exhibition to which Carmela had invited him was being held in the Palais de la Berbie, which also housed the Musée Toulouse Lautrec so Arnold took the opportunity to enter the building an hour or so before his scheduled meeting with Carmela. He made his way along the shadowed walk lined with marble statues of Bacchus and the Four Seasons, climbed up the grand seventeenth-century staircase leading to the gallery of archaeological exhibits and lingered over the 20-year-old
Venus de Courbet
. In fact he did not have the opportunity to enter to view the exhibition of paintings in the Toulouse Lautrec
collection
itself because he spent too long over the archaeological exhibits.
He checked his watch and realized he would be due to meet Carmela in ten minutes. As he turned away from the exhibits he became aware of a tall, middle-aged man who seemed to be observing him. The man was white-haired, sparse of figure but stiff-backed, smartly suited. A thin moustache adorned his upper lip: his lean features were tanned and his eyes were of a remarkable blue, sharply intelligent. As Arnold caught his glance the man smiled slightly, hesitated for a few moments, then came forward. ‘Excuse me,
signor
… I think you may be Mr Landon, from England?’
Arnold smiled in surprise. ‘You’re right, but I don’t believe we have met.’
The stranger extended his right hand. ‘It is true, but I am happy to make your acquaintance.’ His English was precise, his
tone somewhat clipped. ‘Please permit me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Messi, from Pisa, of the
Guardia di Finanza
. At your service.’
His handshake was firm. Arnold shook hands, then said, ‘I don’t understand how you would be able to recognize me. This is my first time in Albi.’
Colonel Messi smiled: his teeth were very white and regular against the deep tan of his features. ‘Well, let me admit that it is not due to any particular perspicacity or detective work on my part: rather, I should say that I have been told about you, and in fact I recognized you from a photograph that was provided to me. By my cousin.’
‘Your cousin?’
‘Carmela Cacciatore.’
‘Ah! I see.’ Arnold hesitated. ‘But I don’t understand why she would have shown you my photograph.’
Colonel Messi placed his left hand on Arnold’s shoulder in a confidential, friendly manner. ‘Do not be alarmed. It was merely to bring me up to date with her activities, and her intentions. You see, Mr Landon, I have a personal interest in the meeting to which she has invited you.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Indeed, we are now due at that meeting.’ He glanced over Arnold’s shoulder. ‘As my cousin is clearly coming to tell us.’
Arnold turned as the colonel’s hand fell away. Walking towards them was Carmela Cacciatore.
She was as he remembered her: large-bosomed,
round-cheeked
, smiling and exuberant. She was already opening wide her arms. ‘Arnold. I thought I’d find you here, precisely on time.’ She took him firmly by his upper arms, kissed him on both cheeks then stood back to take a long, careful look at him. ‘You are well, I see, though perhaps a little tired about the eyes from too much office work, is that it? And I see you have met Colonel Messi.’
‘Indeed. Your cousin, I understand.’
Carmela laughed, linked her arm in his and began to lead him
across the room. ‘In a distant way,’ she said, as the colonel fell into step beside them. ‘But we do not see much of each other. We work in somewhat different fields. Though in respect of today, we have a common interest, one might say. Come, we have a room,’ she announced, ‘in the
Aile de Suffragens
. The others will be along soon.’
‘The others?’ Arnold was somewhat mystified. ‘I thought you wanted to have a private discussion with me.’
Carmela laughed. ‘I have misled you!’
The pressure on his arm was firm.
The room was set up high in the building; tall windows looked out over a cool courtyard where a fountain played. The floor was of dark polished wood; a long oak table dominated the centre of the room and six chairs had been set, grouped at the far end of the table. The colonel wandered away from Carmela and Arnold, took one of the chairs and set it against the wall, near a window, a little distance from the table. Arnold guessed he was demonstrating that he was not to be an official member of
whatever
group was assembling here. Arnold turned to Carmela. ‘A formal meeting? I thought you had invited me to an exhibition, and then to talk personally about something.’
She pouted prettily at him. ‘And if I had invited you to a meeting, would you have come, without wanting to know more? I thought I would have a better chance of snaring you if I remained somewhat vague. The exhibition was merely an excuse, and one which you could perhaps offer to your friend Miss Stannard.’ There was mischief in her smile. ‘I think perhaps she did not approve of you coming to meet me? She likes to keep you to herself?’ When Arnold did not rise to the teasing, she added, ‘Yes, there is to be a meeting, which I would like you to attend for reasons which will become apparent.’
‘And it needed some sort of clearance from the
Guardia di
Finanza
?’ Arnold asked, in a lowered tone, gesturing discreetly towards Colonel Messi.
‘Not at all,’ Carmela replied, with a sideways glance at her cousin. She frowned slightly. ‘But when the colonel asked permission to sit in on the meeting, I thought it best to explain to him who you were.’
‘So he could check up on me?’
‘Colonel Messi checks up on many things, Arnold.’
There was little time for further conversation as the door behind them opened and two men and a woman entered. Carmela left Arnold to greet them and then waved each individual towards the long oak table in the centre of the room.
The group was quickly seated around the table, with the exception of the colonel from the
Guardia di Finanza
. Carmela settled herself, smiled broadly around at the small group and began by introducing Colonel Messi, describing him as an observer. He rose and bowed, but said nothing. She then introduced Arnold. She made no attempt to explain who he was so Arnold guessed she had already briefed the group about his presence and background. Even though she had given him no clues yet as to why he was here.
Carmela then identified the other woman for Arnold’s benefit. She was French, dark-haired, dark-eyed, middle-aged: Alienor Donati. Beside her was a broad-shouldered, beetle-browed American, introduced as Michael McMurtaghy. The German beside him, Joachim Schmidt, a lean, silver-haired individual, kept his head down, poring over some papers in front of him. He barely acknowledged Arnold’s presence.
Arnold sat quietly, and listened as Carmela spoke to each of the group in turn. It was by nature of an updating process for a committee which had clearly met on several occasions before.
As she spoke, Arnold’s mind drifted back to his previous experiences with Carmela, when they had hunted down the
calyx krater
, and had exposed the activities of the
cordata
, the rope-like, world-wide link that brought together dealers and middlemen, archaeologists and museum curators, wealthy
businessmen and the
tombaroli
who dug in the earth for the treasures of Etruscan tombs. It was clear, as he listened to the conversation around the table, that the work was continuing, that the
cordata
, the secret structure that bound the corrupt world of illicit dealing in ancient artefacts, was far from finished, that large amounts of money were still changing hands in the dark
underworld
of artefact looting, in Turkey, Nigeria, south east Asia, Syria and throughout Europe.
Each member of the group made a contribution to the discussion. It seemed that Alienor Donati had been concentrating on information gathered earlier during the investigation in which Arnold himself had participated. ‘The analysis of the telephone records in
Casa di Principe
demonstrates that there are five men in particular who have made a lot of international calls. An attempt was made to hide these calls by using a series of disposable mobile phones. However, we are now able to identify the central centre for these calls, the receptor one might say, and during a raid at a house in Vienna we were able to discover, in a floor set under the mansard roof, shelving on which were hidden frescoes, jewellery, silver artefacts, including Bulgarian and Greek items which are clearly the result of looted material being passed around the
cordata
personnel, for eventual sale to various museums who might be prepared to make a purchase in spite of doubtful provenance….’
Arnold listened with interest. It was clear that the work he and Carmela had undertaken was ongoing; he was slightly puzzled nevertheless that Alienor Donati seemed to have taken the work from Carmela herself. He was unclear as to the Frenchwoman’s background, and why she was now reporting to Carmela.
Michael McMurtaghy followed Alienor Donati’s report with a printed document which comprised a list of looted artefacts. A copy was handed to Arnold to inspect. It detailed a list of items which were identified by way of transactions, and Arnold was
able to follow the movement of individual items across Europe. ‘Items seven to fifteen,’ explained the heavily built American, ‘actually came to light when a building company were clearing a road. The road collapsed … the reason being that
tombaroli
had built a tunnel under it to get to a house on one side of the street, to a
stipe
– a room attached to a temple – located opposite. The objects had been smuggled out by way of the tunnel, but, of course, once the road collapsed the very distinctive antiquities have been on our watch list ever since. This was the evidence which I was able to present to the Metropolitan Museum in New York.’ He raised his head, stared grimly at Carmela. ‘Discussions for return of the artefacts are ongoing.’
Arnold could guess what he meant. In his previous work with Carmela, and discussions he had had from time to time with his deputy director Karl Spedding, he was aware that many museum directors were almost in a state of denial. They were prepared to accept items from private collections as legitimate acquisitions: it could take years of pressure before museums reluctantly agreed that items, bought, they claimed, in good faith, were in fact indisputably looted material.