Turned to Stone (17 page)

24

Port of Cagliari—Sardinia

“Impossible! What you’re saying is
impossible
!”

Rosa Mazi stood among the pieces of the expensive vase she’d just dashed against the timber floor of the
Phoenix
, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Control yourself, Rosa.”
The voice crackled through the speakers on either side of her father’s portrait.
“Leonardo always understood the risks involved in our work. He took on that risk willingly and was equal to the task. But leading such an audacious enterprise on his own, without saying anything to the family, was a foolish thing to do, and foolish choices have consequences.”

“Consequences? How can you talk like that? Your son is dead! They murdered him!”

“He wasn’t murdered. My informer tells me he fired first. All his captive did was defend himself.”

For Rosa, things were happening too fast. It had only been a few days since she’d returned to Cagliari and joined her fiancé in making final preparations for the exhibition that would open to the public in less than a week. A crew member had called and summoned her to the family yacht, back now in its usual berth at the port, and she’d just learned her brother had been murdered while conducting a secret and unauthorized mission. “Are you trying to justify his killing?”

“Not at all, Rosa. I regret his death as much as you do. I’m not a monster. He was a good son—strong and intelligent. But his hunger for power blinded him. He wanted to be smarter than his father, and he got the punishment he had coming. I’m sure you’ve heard me say it a thousand times: betrayal gets the reward it deserves.”

“But . . . what are you saying? He was always loyal to you. He did everything you asked. He stole the Medusa to impress
you
!”

“No one authorized him to lead that mission, and he certainly didn’t have the right to do it behind our backs. He wanted to get rich by cutting ties with the family—the same family that gave him everything he had and without which he wouldn’t have become half the man he was. Now what is he? A corpse at the bottom of the sea.”

The rage that besieged Rosa began to give way to a deep sorrow. She felt this grief not because her brother was dead, but because she understood that she was now further than ever from the kind of life she longed for. She remembered the last conversation she’d had with Leonardo, when they saw each other on the yacht. He’d said he was working on another operation, and when she asked him what it was, he had replied with another question: “Do you really want to know?”

Maybe if she had shown an interest then, she could have convinced him it was a bad idea, and her brother would be alive.

“How did you find out?”

“You continue to underestimate me, Rosa! I may not be able to move, but I still have contacts all over the Mediterranean. Your brother hired mercenaries to steal the artifacts and hijack the freighter, and one of them is an old acquaintance who has since told me everything. In the end, a father is always wiser than his son. Part of the merchandise seized is on its way now to the home of our best client.”

“Galliano.”

“If Leonardo hadn’t been so greedy, he would have come to me. We would have made a plan together and taken every precaution, and we’d now be enjoying the reward together.”

“You’re no better than him if you’re going to profit from his death.”

“May it serve as a lesson to him in his next life! The worst thing is not that Leonardo betrayed his family and died, Rosa. The worst thing is that he died because he was deceived.”

“Deceived? What are you talking about?”

“The man who hired your brother did it from the shadows. They never looked each other in the eyes. He heard that the EHU was planning to board the cargo ship, he found a way to contact your brother, and he promised Leonardo that all the artifacts in the hold would be his if he hijacked and sunk the ship.”

“But why? What did he hope to gain?”

“Supposedly, his intention was to kill the researchers on board. But I have another theory. Based on what I know of Nascimbene, this entire spectacle was arranged to trick and kill Leonardo.”

“Nascimbene?” Rosa sounded horrified. “The man’s been dead for years.”

“Don’t call him a man! He’s a degenerate, an enemy of your family.”

“Whatever he is, he’s dead.”

“So am I, supposedly, and look at me.”

Rosa looked at the portrait and felt stupid. Her brother was dead, and her father wouldn’t let himself be seen except in the form of this ridiculous canvas. She felt like throwing herself overboard, swallowing water, and drowning herself. Better still, she’d swim to dry land, marry Dino, and disappear, never to return again.

“Nascimbene’s dead. He died in a car accident.”

“And I ‘died’ when the yacht went under. No, Rosa. I’m certain he was the faceless person who hired Leonardo to do the job. His intention was not so much to kill the EHU team as to get rid of another member of our family. When Nascimbene swore vengeance against the Carreras, he was not just referring to me. And now you, my girl—you’re next.”

“But that can’t be right. You told me yourself: Leonardo didn’t die in the explosion.”

“He would have, had Vicente Amatriaín not first driven a grapnel through his throat.”

Rosa felt bile rise up and stop at the back of her mouth. “Amatriaín?”

“He and the Greek inspector were heading the operation.”

“I don’t understand any of this. I know—” She took a deep breath and corrected herself: “I
knew
Leonardo, and he would never have let himself be tricked like that.”

“Greed is blind. And it kills. Whoever had his finger on the detonator intended to kill Leonardo along with the others. The only reason he didn’t is that Amatriaín killed your brother first. And there is something else you should know, Rosa.”

From the tone of voice, Rosa understood she needed to steel herself against another surprise as unpleasant as the ones she’d just heard.

“Jaime Azcárate was another survivor.”

“Azcárate? For the love of God! What was he doing there?”

“Supposedly, helping the EHU. But it’s curious that Amatriaín and Azcárate survived two successive attempts to eliminate them.”

“I don’t understand any of this. It doesn’t make sense—”

“It all fits: the blue smoke, the hijacking of the ship, and worst of all, the cruel and twisted killing of a Carrera. We both know only one monster is capable of all this. That snake is still alive, Rosa, there can be no doubt. He tried to kill me on board this very yacht, and he failed. Now he wants to wipe out my family. He started with Leonardo, and God knows he won’t rest until you’re in the ground.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re as bad as he is!” Rosa exclaimed. This was too much. She wanted nothing more than to forget everything and escape forever the life of double-dealing and family pacts that could only end in a bloodbath. She thought of Dino, of the gallery, the exhibition . . . those were the only things she could allow to matter anymore.

She turned and, without saying good-bye, marched angrily out of the yacht’s lounge.

25

Madrid

Roberto Barrero hung up the telephone and kicked his bare feet up on the sofa in his little apartment in the Argüelles neighborhood. He had been calling the Petrarca Gallery for three days, and the only voice he’d reached had been the one on the answering machine, asking him to leave a message.

Sick of getting the same old message in Italian, he pushed the phone away and laid his head against the soft arm of the sofa. The job Jaime had given him was boring to the point of insult for someone who’d spent the best part of his youth digging for archeological treasures in Israel, trafficking relics, and sneaking into mansions and churches to steal ancient codices. Although he was almost fully rehabilitated and his activities were now completely legal—not counting the small liberties he took in his role as a security guard—Roberto was used to action. Calling a telephone number repeatedly and never getting a response was putting him in a bad mood.

For a moment he wished he could trade places with Jaime, but he quickly rejected the thought when he remembered the nightmare his unlucky friend had endured on board the
Artemis
. Roberto didn’t know how he managed it, but Jaime always found himself in the thick of things. And this time it had very nearly cost him his life.

The sound of the doorbell startled him out of his daydreaming. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “Time to move your butt,” Roberto told himself.

When he opened the door he found himself looking at Laura Rodríguez’s pallid face. “It’s you, Presidenta,” he said in surprise.

“Is it a bad time?”

“Only if you’re still blocking the doorway when the pizza guy arrives. Come on in.”

Laura walked into the living room and was shocked by what she saw: a television on mute, a cell phone on the floor, papers all over the coffee table, several dozen cigarette butts in an ashtray, and an empty potato chip bag. In one corner, standing like a silent bodyguard, a life-sized Batman mannequin—fully equipped with cape and gadget belt—seemed to stare at her through its mask. Roberto was wearing shorts and a Spider-Man T-shirt covered in holes and stains, and his feet were bare. Crumbs in his goatee and smudges on his glasses rounded off an unkempt appearance that matched the room.

“Fighting off zombies again?” Laura ventured.

“I wish. I’ve spent two days and two nights trying to find a woman who owns an art gallery in Rome. The guy who invented answering machines should be strung up by his balls and forced to listen to an endless recording of ‘The person you are calling is currently unavailable’ on repeat.”

Laura straightened a cushion on the untidy sofa and sat down. “Is this about something important?” she asked.

“I suppose not. It’s a job Jaime gave me.”

“I thought it might be.”

“If he’d stayed here and done it himself, he would’ve saved himself a lot of pain. He’s not cut out for shoot-outs and explosions. Believe me: I know what I’m talking about.”

“You didn’t know him in college,” Laura said. “He was the same then, and he won’t ever change.”

“You liked him, huh?”

“Where’d you get that idea? Not that it’s any of your business.”

“He’s never said much about it, but he’s mentioned a trip you took together to Marrakech back then. I’m guessing he liked you, though maybe not enough to try to get you into bed.”

“Are you done?”

“I guess.” Roberto picked up a wrinkly cigar from the table and lit it with a lighter he pulled out of his shorts. “Jaime’s got more balls than a bowling alley, but he’s hopeless when it comes to matters of the heart.” He coughed a couple of times. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put the garbage out. Though you can take it down when you leave.”

“I came to warn you that Requena’s upset with you. That’s two things now, and it would be a good idea if you took things back a notch.”

“Two things? As far as I know, he’s only mad about me butting in today.”

“There’s also what you do at night at the CHR when you think nobody’s looking.”

“Gaming’s no crime,” Roberto argued. “It helps a guy keep his reflexes sharp and practice his marksmanship.”

“All the same, you should give it a rest. If not for yourself, for me; I’m the one who recommended you.”

“Don’t blame me. I wanted to be a photographer.”

“You’re impossible. And would you mind putting that cigar out? I’m trying to stop smoking.”

“That’s your problem.”

Laura sighed. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re investigating?”

“It has something to do with the Medusa. For a while it was exhibited at the Petrarca Gallery in Rome. They won’t pick up the phone or reply to my emails.”

“Is this for one of Jaime’s stories?”

“I’m helping out.”

“Okay,” Laura said, “but I’m not paying you a penny.”

“Now, why would you think I’m as money oriented as you are?”

“What you are is useless. For one thing, investigating a Roman gallery by phone and email is a sloppy approach. You have to visit.”

“Yeah, sure, visit the place. You’d love to do that, wouldn’t you? Send me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Rome courtesy of
Arcadia
?”

“You don’t have to actually go there. There’s a little thing called the Internet, and I bet that gallery has a website. I’m sure that under that pile of trash, there’s a laptop. Why don’t you try turning it on?”

Roberto rooted under the piles of paper for his computer and was soon inputting the web address for the Petrarca Gallery.

Laura wrinkled up her nose. “Don’t you ever open up the windows in your apartment?”

In response, Roberto pulled a bottle of
Star Trek
cologne out from somewhere and sprayed half the living room.

“You’re such a geek. You know that, don’t you?”

“Sweetheart, geeks are just intellectuals with an expanded universe.”

“Sure they are.” Laura turned her attention to the computer, which was covered in fingerprints, dust, and beer and Coca-Cola stains. “Here we go. Let’s see what it says.”

The website looked as if its design had cost as much money as the gallery building itself. On the home page, animated graphics jumped out from the four sides of the screen and swirled around in the center before joining together like a jigsaw puzzle and forming the image of a classical-looking building with walls of gray stonework and rounded, English-style windows. Over all this was superimposed an elegant logo that read
Petrarca: Galleria d’Arte
.

When Laura clicked on the image, it broke up again and new icons emerged out of the swirl. The screen was divided into sections:
Storia, Servizi, Agenda, Artisti, Antiquariato.

They chose the latter and were led into a world made up of marble gods and heroes. The Petrarca Gallery focused on local contemporary artists, but it also had a sizeable section devoted to Renaissance and baroque works. Bolgi’s famous Medusa would certainly not have been out of tune with the gallery’s catalogue.

Laura then clicked on the word
Contatto
. A window opened that included space for entering a message.

“What are you doing?” Roberto asked. “Are you sending them an email?”

“Didn’t you want to ask them something?”

“Haven’t you been listening to me? I’ve been asking them to call me for three days. It’s as if I don’t exist.”

“No offense, Roberto dear, but do you speak Italian?”

“Sure I speak Italian. It’s the same as Spanish but the words end in
i
.”

“You’re such a Neanderthal.” Laura’s fingers took up their positions over the keyboard. “Right, then. Watch and learn, Roberto. Watch and learn.”