The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts (3 page)

“So I see – was it the dog?”

“Yes – trapped my head in the gate.”

“You’re lucky.”

We are picked up by a yellow and black Fiat,
which drops us at the Trevi Fountain for sightseeing. Gavin is
frustrated by the amount of time I spend in clothing stores, but a
girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s gotta do. By the end of the
excursion I am the proud owner of a pair of red high heeled shoes
and a slinky outfit which will be stunning for the first round of
the tango championship tonight. I can’t wait.

Gavin has procured fabulous seats in the
front row of the right wing. We get a peek behind the scenes at
dancers in preparation for their performance on stage when the
curtain sways, and I feel my blood gush when the orchestra strikes
their opening number.

I rise from my seat despite Gavin’s frantic
attempt to stop me and dance alone. It takes but a few seconds
before spotlights illuminate my red dress with black lace trim, and
only a few more before a man joins me from the center seating. He
controls me and positions himself masterly for my leg to entwine
his at every smoldering turn. His hands ardently trace the curves
of my body and his eyes lock mine in hot blooded passion. My head
swims to the point of fainting but I am saved when the music comes
to an end. Applause rocks the auditorium and I become aware of
everyone standing and clapping in my direction – even Gavin. My
partner kisses my hand, escorts me to my seat and joins the
applause. “Bellissimo!” He yells to the crowd.

I take a bow and sit.

“Do you know who you just danced with?” Gavin
asks.

“Of course not.”

“Adriano Bellini – I read the tag pinned on
his jacket - you may not have recognized him, but I’m sure you know
the name.”

“Of course! He’s one of the best in the
world!”

“Well, he’s a judge here.”

“I danced with Adriano Bellini! I don’t
believe it.”

“Believe.” said a voice beside me. “He’s my
husband. He didn’t tell me that he would be dancing tonight
though.”

“He didn’t know.” Gavin told her. “Whenever
music plays, Arcadia has to dance – no matter where she is or
what’s happening around her - it’s a sickness.”

“That is a wonderful sickness then.” She
congratulated. “I have not seen Adriano dance with such passion for
a long time.”

“Why? Why is he not competing tonight?” I
ask.

“When I injured my leg, he swore that he
would never dance in competition until I was healed.”

“Oh, of course – you’re Antonia.”

“Yes, I am.”

You cannot imagine what willpower I drew upon
to remain seated for the rest of the evening, and my feet perform
every step of every dance until the final couple rest.

With the judging completed, Adriano comes
over to tell me that he expects me to compete in the championships
next year and gives me his business card. “If my wife is not healed
I may have to break my promise and have you as my partner!” He
jokes.

My cell phone interrupts the conversation and
I apologize. “Sorry, I have to take this call.”

“That is perfectly alright.” He says. “But
please call me soon.”

I nod. “Hello…”

“This is Roberto, I am in the taverna.
Signorina Capello says two people from here went travelling
recently – one went to Geneva and the other to Paris. She says both
left at short notice.’

“Okay, thanks Roberto, I’ll sleep on it and
see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

I relay the information to Gavin.

“Do you want me to come along?” He asks.

“Tomorrow morning - yes.” I leave the rest
unsaid.

He looks disappointed.

He looks disappointed later, when I complain
of a headache and condemn him to his own room again. I don’t know
what’s holding me back from being with him.

I get to know the ceiling quite intimately
before falling asleep and awake early enough to take a long jog
along the river Tiber, prior to meeting Gavin for breakfast.

“So what do you think?” He asks.

“I think Geneva – that’s where I would
go.”

“I think so too, but if you’re kicking me out
I could go back to England via Paris and check that out.”

“You would do that for me – after the way
I’ve treated you?”

“I know you don’t deserve it, but yes I
would.”

“Okay, let’s visit Roberto.”

He looks as bad as the hangover must feel
inside. “Been up all night?” Gavin enquires.

“No, too much vino – I had to loosen tongues
last night.”

“Ah…”

“Did you find out more?” I ask. I have an
impulse to soothe his temples, but resist.

“Just a little. The man who went to Geneva
was alone – his name is Luigi Marconi – he is at the bar most
nights so it is very possible that he heard papa talking about my
‘box’. He sells Vespa motor scooters for a living and deals
marijuana on the side - everyone knows about it, even the police
but it is seen as petty crime and so he is left alone. He left two
days ago.”

“Do you know where he is staying?”

“Si, that was easy – at the ‘Victoria Grand
Hotel’ – his mother is furious that he went without her – a few
glasses of Valpolicella had her singing like a bird”.

“What about the Paris trip?”

“Edoardo Ricci – he supposedly went to visit
his sick grandfather and I believe it – he is a god fearing man and
would not steal from anyone.”

“I think we can dispense with him then.”

“Okay.” Gavin agreed.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No.”

“Describe the ‘box’ for me.”

“It is a classic solid teak chest with metal
reinforcing banding. About fourteen inches by eighteen and twenty
four inches deep. It is dark brown in colour. The letters L.D.V.
are stamped in Gold just below the lock.”

“Thank you – one last thing…”

“Yes?”

“Did you place the ‘page’ in a bank
yesterday?”

“I did.”

“Good. Keep your father under control.”

“I will.”

“Roberto – if anyone asks – I was never here
– capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“Pray that I find the trail and can
re-acquire the books, though I don’t know who in the world has
enough money to buy them – I’ll have to work on a consortium. Okay,
I’ll be in touch.”

“I trust you and I pray for you.” Roberto
promised.

I turn as we step out. “Don’t even think of
trying to sell that page.”

“I will wait.”

My parting with Gavin is tearful, but
necessary. I must be free to make decisions and act quickly, but I
promise we’ll make up for lost time when I’m back in England.

This is not looking to be a good day, traffic
delays cause me to miss my flight to Geneva and the best option is
to take a different flight routed through Frankfurt. I take my seat
in a less than positive mood. I need a drink.

The plane is barely airborne before the ‘A2’
seat light illuminates in the galley.

“Yes ma’am” the flight attendant asks.

“A double Scotch whisky please.”

“Ma’am we are not serving alcohol at this
time, would you like coffee?”

“Is this First Class?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then can I expect First Class service?’

“Absolutely ma’am.”

“Then you can do two things for me…”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Firstly – stop ending every sentence with
the word ‘ma’am’ and secondly bring me a double Scotch whisky.”

“I’m sorry m…, but we are only serving coffee
and soft beverages now.”

“Very well – I will take an Irish coffee made
with Scotch whisky, but hold the coffee and cream. Do I make myself
clear?”

“Let me have the chief steward attend to you
Ma…‘Miss.’

“Good morning ma’am, how may I be of
assistance?”

“I am having a
very
bad day, we can
make it acceptably tolerable, or I can be a total bitch for the
remainder of the flight; which would you prefer?”

“The former ma’am.”

“Then I would very much like you to bring me
a double ‘Scotch whisky’ on the rocks.”

“We are not serving…”

“If you say the word ‘alcohol’, I’ll scream.
I assure you that if you open any dictionary and look up the word
‘
bitch
’, you will find my photograph staring back at you. So
what’s it to be?” I demand coldly.

“I will be right back.”

“I’ll take one of those also…” A fat man in a
business suit across the aisle, requests. He wants to make small
talk but I’m in no mood, so he retreats back into the pages of his
‘Financial Times’.

After a couple of sips of whiskey and I
mellow enough to put the earlier snafus of the day out of my mind.
I won’t waste time developing a plan because I don’t know what I’m
up against, so I watch the scenery unfold below like a patchwork
quilt.

We finally land at Geneva airport at eight
o’clock, as darkness falls – I could have rented a car and have
driven here in the same amount of time as the flight took and been
more mobile, but there is a readily available taxi to take me to
the ‘Victoria Grand Hotel’.

The desk clerk looks me up and down with
approval and smiles. “Good evening madam, how can I be of
assistance?”

Strange how the word ‘madam’ does not irk me
like ‘ma’am’ does.

“A room please – the best.”

“Oui, but of course. How long will you be
staying?”

“I’m not sure, three or four days, I would
imagine.”

“Then let me suggest the ‘Einstein
Suite’”.

“Great idea…” I quip, but I’m not sure he
gets it. I complete and sign the guest log at the top of a fresh
page –not what I want, so I flip back to the previous one with a
disapproving look from the clerk.

“I was wondering how many guests you have
staying here.” I explained.

I continue to scan until I see the number of
Luigi Marconi’s room – 207 and push the register away with
disinterest.

My rooms are decorated in a style reminiscent
of the storage basement of the Metropolitan museum so I feel quite
at home. Next on the itinerary is to become intimately familiar
with the hotel and to this end I walk the corridors and stairs down
to the lobby, paying particular attention to the second floor. The
fire escapes are like any others and easily accessible. Back at my
rooms I sketch the images in my mind to paper and retire with a
Sydney Sheldon novel and glass of Johnny Walker Black Label.

It’s easy to spot Marconi at breakfast –
guests not used to staying in first class hotels display an
uneasiness complex. Marconi appeared at the door and didn’t know
what to do – sit or wait to be seated? It’s written all over his
face. He knows whatever his decision it will be the wrong one, so
he waits while other guests walk past him and seat themselves. A
waitress diverts and suggests a table, which he takes with a
“Grazie”.

Aha, I am right. He is pretty much as I
expected – black slicked back hair, pencil moustache, high cheek
bones and a pointy nose. He is dressed in an ill-fitting white suit
with black pinstripes, black tie and matching shoes that would look
more in place on a golf course. Now, he is off somewhere after
eating – so I need to decide whether to follow or check out his
room. I’ll follow – it’s likely that he has placed a ‘please clean’
hang tag on his door and I cannot risk discovery by cleaning
staff.

He carries nothing when leaving the hotel
which means he already found a buyer or has the box secured
somewhere. We head south on foot along Bruxelles Boulevard before
turning left onto Bath Street and he enters an alley between
buildings. I watch from the entrance until he disappears from sight
and I continue down. There are two doorways where I lost sight of
him and neither looks inviting, but I see cobwebs undisturbed on
one of the handles. I crouch to look through the keyhole of the
other door and just as I get to peer through I am grabbed by the
neck and slammed roughly against the paneling. My karate skills
kick in automatically and I seize the wrist and twist under it to
reverse the situation and come up behind the assailant. I kick his
feet out and drop him to his knees before slamming his head twice
into the hefty frame and get out of there before I’m discovered by
anyone else. My heart pounds when I enter a shopping mall three
blocks away and look for signs of being followed, but I see
no-one.

The reason I was attacked is obviously
related to Marconi, but why? It would seem that he has made contact
with buyers for the books and if this is the case, he hasn’t
delivered them yet. I have to get back there and stake out the
place and to that end purchase a smock and hat from the store
before securing a good vantage point. A man’s head pops out from
inside the alley every thirty seconds or so and scans the street
but pays no attention to the woman looking in the antique shop
window.

Marconi appears after five minutes and I walk
ahead but allow him to overtake me. He leads me to the Suisse Bank
and reappears with a brown paper wrapped parcel of about the size
Roberto described. It’s a good bet that these are the da Vinci
books and I quiver with the feeling of being so close. I expect him
to return to the alley, but instead he heads to the hotel via a
meandering route, being fearful of being tailed. I maintain
anonymity by discarding the smock and hat at different locations
and donning sun glasses that I picked up surreptitiously from a
vendor stand. I pick a magazine and sit in the lobby while I
develop a plan.

To this day I kick myself for not being aware
of the person that was following
me
. In retrospect, he was
hiding in plain sight – gaudy tropical shirt, tan shorts, white
sunglasses and open toed sandals – who would take a second glance
at such an obvious tourist? Even when he took the elevator to the
second floor it didn’t hit home. I just did not expect to be
followed. I was completely focused on Marconi only.