Cold Tuscan Stone (20 page)

“Do you think you can find some rich client who would be interested in such a piece?” He tapped ashes on the dirt floor.

Rick hoped the man didn't notice how quickly he was breathing. “It depends on price, of course, but these urns are certainly unique.” He tried to shift into his role as buyer, wondering what he should be asking. “What about delivery?”

“We have shipped them to other countries before, always hidden with legitimate goods, and there's never been a problem. Customs officials in most countries are overworked and underpaid. I trust that is also the case in America.” He took another pull on the cigarette. “We will require half payment to close the deal, and the other half after delivery. Bank account numbers will be given to you. I trust those terms will be agreeable?”

“You haven't mentioned price.”

“No, I haven't. That will be the subject of another meeting. We thought you would want to talk with your people in America before we get to that point.”

“Yes, I think I would.” Rick turned back to the urn, rubbing it and picking up a trace of dust on his fingers. “When will that next meeting be?”

“Very soon.”

“With you?”

“Probably not.”

Likely with Santo again, but Rick guessed that his present companion did not want to get into such specifics as names, just as Santo had pointedly avoided them. He was about to return to the urns when he noticed, for the first time, a wide plank the size of a door, leaning against the opposite side of the room. Wires from the batteries ran under it.

“Is there another room? Do you have more pieces in there?”

The man had been slouching against the table, but now he pulled himself to full height and raised his right hand, the burning cigarette between two of the fingers. “We have not yet completely excavated the area.”

So I guess I won't see that room, Rick thought. While the man stared at him, sending the message that it was time to leave, Rick tried to think what else he should be asking. What would the Commissario ask? What would Beppo need to know? He admitted that he was more intimidated by Conti than his high school buddy. He was still trying to get his head around the concept of Beppo Rinaldi as an art cop.

The man stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and pulled the flashlight from his pocket. “I think you have seen enough, Signor Montoya, to make a decision. Go out first, and I will turn off the lights and follow.” Rick did as he was told.

By the time they climbed the path up to the car the darkness had arrived in earnest, and along with it a drop in temperatures. Rick put his hands in his coat pockets, looking across the hood of the Opel at the man who had put away the flashlight and was pulling out the keys.

“I need to make a visit to the bushes,” said Rick. “Too much wine with lunch and much too cold in that ravine.”

The man's throaty laugh turned into a cigarette cough as Rick walked behind a clump of trees. When he emerged again the man was sitting in the Opel with the engine running. The car went into reverse and made a wide turn to put it back on the narrow trail, emerging from the trees a few seconds later at the edge of the pavement. The return drive was just as twisting, and perhaps even more confusing to Rick thanks to the darkness. It was also filled with smoke, until Rick finally opened his window and leaned his head toward the fresh air. After twenty minutes of silence, the man pulled to a stop and Rick realized he was at the entrance to a large parking lot, behind which loomed the walls of the city.

“You can get out here.” He pointed to the right with his chin. “Take that stairway.”

Rick climbed out and closed the door, leaning over to say something through the open window, but before he could speak the man put the car into gear and sped off. Rick watched it drive away and realized that he had forgotten to get his dictionary from the back seat. He also had not checked the license plate. Wondering which was more bone-headed, he walked toward the stairway and realized he was in the parking lot where the American couple had watched the deadly fall of Canopo.

Had it really been just three days since his arrival in Volterra?

***

When Commissario Conti stopped pacing, LoGuercio knew what was coming.

“How long's it been now.”

The detective once more looked at his watch. “An hour and ten minutes, sir.”

“Tell me again what happened and what you did after he disappeared.”

Feeling like a suspect, LoGuercio slowly recounted his conversations with DeMarzo, how the man took a break to have a bite to eat, how the woman at the front desk told DeMarzo that Montoya had left the hotel through the front door a few minutes earlier, and how he, LoGuercio, had sent out various men to search for the American. Conti was looking out the window when he spoke again.

“So if he turned right after he got to the street, he could have gone out through the gate and left the city. How unfortunate that we don't still have guards with swords and spears at all the gates of the city, like the Etruscans and Romans did, checking everyone who comes in and out. There's a church there, San Francesco, just before the gate, did you check it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Conti continued to stare out the window. “And if he turned left up the hill, once he got to the fork in the street he could have come up here to the piazza or bent to the right, toward the cathedral and the baptistery. You sent men there too, I suppose. He might have decided to do some sightseeing or was having another meeting with the mystery man.”

“I did, there was no sign of him.”

“Most likely he got into a car, and—”

“But not his own, sir.”

“Yes, yes, LoGuercio, I got that, his car is still in the garage. He got into someone's car and now could be half way to Pisa. Perhaps my
capo
at the Questura in Pisa could start looking for him there. Should I call him?”

LoGuercio prudently decided not to answer.

“Why don't you get back to your office to continue coordinating the search, such as it is.”

“Yes, sir, I will let you know the moment he appears.”

“You do that.”

LoGuercio made his escape while Conti stood at the window watching a tall man crossing the piazza, his shadow handed off from one street light to the other as he walked. Going home after a day at the office, no doubt, something Conti wished he could do. He heard a rap on the door behind him. Perhaps LoGuercio had some news. He turned to see Rick standing in the doorway, and felt a strong sense of relief. Was it because the man was the nephew of a fellow policeman, or was he starting to like this American? He pushed the question out of his mind, and decided he would wait a bit to tell LoGuercio. Let him stew.

“Signor Montoya, you have reappeared.”

Rick looked puzzled. Suddenly he remembered the rather unspecific assurance from Beppo during his briefings in Rome. The police in Volterra will be looking after you, his friend had said. It had not occurred to Rick that he had been under surveillance these three days, but now it made perfect sense. He would have to think back on his movements since his arrival to remember any strange people who could have been following him.

“So you were expecting me to stay in my room.”

Conti shrugged. “Never mind that, take off your coat and tell me where you've been. Since you have come here instead of the hotel, you likely were not making the rounds of tourist sites. There must be something to tell.”

Rick shed his coat and recounted in detail what had happened from the pick up outside the hotel garage until the drop off at the parking lot below the north wall of the city. Conti did not interrupt the description, but when Rick finished the questions began.

“You're sure this wasn't the man who called you.”

“Absolutely. He has a smoker's voice which the caller did not.”

“So at least two people are involved in this. Three, assuming Santo is involved, and four if Landi is behind Santo.”

“My thoughts exactly, Commissario.”

“The car. Describe it.”

Rick was dreading this one. “A dark red Opel, four doors, late model, clean inside and out. I'm afraid I didn't take note of the license plate.”

Conti's reaction was relatively benign. “Your uncle would not be pleased.”

“I suppose you're right, Commissario. Another thing. He drove off before I could get my English-Italian dictionary from the back seat.”

“Of course, the dictionary. It will help them deal with the American customs officials the man mentioned.” He gave Rick a tiny smile. “Do not despair. I'm sure the ministry will reimburse you so you can buy another.” He rose from the chair and walked to his favorite window. “So you say you drove out of a gate on the north side of the city, and then started on a route with many twists and turns through a forest.” He stared out the window as he spoke. “I know that area. I could easily get lost there myself. God knows where this cave is.”

“Not just God, Commissario.”

Conti turned and gave Rick a cold look. He was not in the mood for humor, at least not someone else's humor. “
Non capisco
.”

“Well,” said Rick, “when we got back up to the car I told the man that I needed to answer the call of nature.” Conti's eyebrow raised. “When I went behind the bushes, I took out this.” Rick reached into the pocket of the jacket that was draped over the chair next to him.

“A mobile phone?”

“No sir, it is a global positioning device. I turned it on and froze it on the coordinates at that spot. May I?” He reached across the desk for a pen and paper, laid the GPS down next to them, and copied some numbers. “There.” He passed Conti the paper. “The ravine is at this longitude and latitude. If you have a computer with internet access, I can locate it exactly.”

Conti looked at the numbers as he picked up his desk phone. “Martino, you are the computer expert. I have something for you.”

Five minutes later the uniformed policeman returned to Conti's office and spread out a map on the table at the opposite side of the room. “It's right here sir, about fifteen kilometers from the center of town, just off the road to Ulignano.” He placed another sheet in front Conti and Rick. “This is a satellite picture of the area, but unfortunately the resolution doesn't bring it in that clearly.”

Conti shook his head in silent commentary on his personal relationship with technology. “Thank you, Martino, that was just what I needed.” Unaccustomed to such comments from his boss, the young policeman grinned and started to leave the room when Conti added, “Oh, could you tell Detective LoGuercio that our man is here with me and that I'll talk to him later?” He exchanged glances with Rick and then turned back to Martino. “He'll know what I mean.”

After the policeman was gone Conti gathered the maps and returned to the chair at the desk. Rick took to his regular assigned seat in front of it. After looking down at the map for a few moments, the policeman finally spoke. “Signor Montoya, it appears that you have been successful. Unless this is an elaborate hoax, and the urns you saw were fakes, the ministry was correct in sending you on this mission. As I told you when we first met, I was skeptical, to say the least, but I must now admit that I was wrong.”

Rick almost felt sorry for the man. Or perhaps he was feeling sorry for himself since this adventure, which he had been enjoying, was about to come to an end.

“At this point,” Conti continued, “we must bring in the ministry directly.” He consulted a pad on his desk and dialed a number. They both waited while a phone in Rome rang.

“Dr. Rinaldi. Commissario Conti. I have good news, I hope.”

A long conversation ensued between Conti and Beppo, while Rick sat silent. Toward the end Rick got on the line briefly to accept the congratulations of his friend and get Beppo's promise that their next dinner was on him. It was agreed that Conti and a contingent of police would make a predawn visit to the cave and set a trap for those who would eventually have to show up. Beppo would leave Rome early enough to arrive in Volterra by midmorning. He would examine the urns for authenticity and see what was in the other rooms of the cave. Most importantly for Rick, the undercover work was done. When Conti finally hung up the phone the two looked at each other in silence before the commissario finally spoke.

“Let me ask you the same question that I posed on your last visit to this office. Which one do you think it is, Signor Montoya?”

He was expecting the question; he'd been asking it to himself since the drop off at the edge of the parking lot. Conti eased back in his chair with the usual creak and watched Rick's face.

“I am still leaning toward Landi. The exporter, Polpetto, doesn't seem organized enough to run an operation like this. And as I said, our Signor Santo appeared before I even spoke to Polpetto. So unless it is his secretary who really runs his business, Polpetto is almost certainly ruled out. And even though he is a large man, he doesn't seem muscular enough, emotionally, to be
capo
of a group of criminals that must include the man who took me to the cave. Though it's true that my driver did talk about experience with customs offices, which could link him with the exporter.” Rick stopped talking for a moment and rubbed his forehead. “But something has stuck in my head about Polpetto. Perhaps it's of no significance.” Conti kept silent and waited for Rick to continue. “It was the way he looked at a small fragment from an Etruscan tomb, a piece from his office shelf.”

He looked at the policeman, whose expression was neutral, and shook his head. “But no, Landi seems most likely. I saw him dealing with his men in the workshop, and that was not the most wholesome of groups. And
la bella
Donatella? She's somewhere in the middle. Her relationship with her
maggiordomo
raised questions in my mind, and I could picture her ordering around other men like she did Dario. And she is a successful businesswoman. There would be no reason to rule her out of a criminal activity, other than pure male chauvinism.” Rick again waited for Conti's reaction.