Midnight Angels (10 page)

“Yes,” Gennaro mumbled.

“When did this visit occur?”

“Three days ago,” Piero said. “They went in the front end and walked out the back, same as anyone who is fortunate enough to be granted a tour through the corridor. The only other person with them was an elderly guard who escorted them to the exit.”

“Have they gone anywhere near the Uffizi or the Palazzo Vecchio since?” the Raven asked.

“No,” Piero said. “They’ve spent the bulk of their time since then doing research work in the library and then having dinner. Their night usually ends with a gelato and a slow walk back to her apartment.”

“And the boy, does he ever go up to her apartment?”

“Never,” Gennaro said. “He says his good-byes at the door. Maybe he’s shy or just not interested in girls, or perhaps he’s just waiting for the right moment. But he has befriended her without any hint of romance.”

“Which makes him a lure by which we draw her in,” the Raven said. “She will make a move, and he will be the one, willingly or not, to show us the way.”

“A move toward what?” Piero asked. “It might help us do our job if we had some idea what she is supposed to be looking for.”

“I could share my thoughts with you,” the Raven said, “but that would be a waste of my time and yours. The short answer is I have no idea what she’s looking for. But I don’t believe for one second that her time here is simply in the interest of academic pursuits. She’s a treasure hunter. It’s in her blood.”

“Are we the only eyes on her?” Piero asked.

“For the time being,” the Raven said. “It should remain that way until a discovery is made. If that occurs, word will spread quickly, and there will be more than eyes on her.”

“What happens then?” Piero asked.

“One of us will die,” the Raven said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And our destinies will be fulfilled.”

He cast a quick gaze up at the altar, then nodded to the two men standing at his side and turned, walking with soundless steps out of the crowded Duomo.

CHAPTER
12

K
ATE STOOD IN THE CENTER OF THE MAIN ROOM OF THE FARMACEUTICA
di Santa Maria Novella, the oldest herbalist pharmacy of its kind in the world. The former monastery was the medicinal hub of Renaissance Florence as the Dominican monks worked their magic within the flowered walls of their herb gardens, seeking to cure the ills of rich and poor alike. They had teas to settle an angry stomach; dietary supplements from devil’s claw to a carbon and fennel mix, guaranteed to relax spasms and cure muscle aches; fruit concoctions packed with minerals and vitamins that promised to fortify a weak and tired body; and essential oils used to massage and refresh aging skin. Among the customers greeted as regulars by the attending monks were Dante, da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo.

“He suffered from constipation, you know,” Kate said. “Complained about it constantly and to anyone who would listen. He probably talked about that more than he did about any of his works.”

“How would you even know something like that?” Marco asked.

“It’s in a number of books and articles written about him,” she said, scanning a row of bath powders and perfumes. “And it makes sense that it would be a problem for him or anyone living in Florence during that same period, since their diets were so restricted. Remember, it wasn’t until explorers returned from America that Italians saw things like tomatoes, oranges, and grapefruits.”

“Then it was a Renaissance period not just for the masters but for the monks who ran this place as well,” Marco said.

“Do locals still shop here, or is it now mostly a destination for tourists?” Kate asked. She glanced across the marble-tiled room at a girl
in a basketball jersey and short pants posing indifferently next to an elegantly dressed older woman with a bemused look on her face.

“We all shop here still, when we can afford it,” Marco said, “but we have learned to adjust our clocks to when the tourist traffic is light, which is often toward the end of the day. My mother likes to come here to gather her spices for cooking and organic olive oil for salads, and I must confess to a special fondness for the store-made hazelnut spread they sell. It’s the best in the world.”

“Let’s get some, then,” she said.

“And it would be an unpardonable crime to leave without buying a jar of their hand cream,” a male voice behind her interjected. “Young and delicate skin deserves it.”

Kate turned toward the voice and saw an impeccably dressed man in his midforties, his thick brown hair combed away from his eyes and forehead. He had a half-smile on his face and a harsh gaze that sent a shiver down her back. She had never seen the man before, but felt his presence was not a sight she should welcome.

“Ivory soap works for me,” she said.

“An indulgence is always worth the extra cost,” the man said, holding the half-smile, cobalt blue eyes peering through her. “It’s a theory I’ve embraced for many years.”

“Not all indulgences come with a price tag,” Kate said. “Some have no cost at all.”

“Point taken,” the man said, bowing his head slightly. “Would you allow me then to offer the hand cream to you as a gift?”

Kate took a quick glance around the main room of the pharmacy, the lines to the two registers long and winding, the crowds around them thinning. The man stood slightly off to her left, across from Marco, who stood resting his back to the counter, silent and wary. “No,” she said, her voice firm, her face flushed red with an anger that sprang quickly from suspicion. “I don’t care much for surprises—or gifts given to me by strangers.”

“You’re a student here, am I correct?” the man asked. “Your gentleman friend as well, I would imagine.”

“What we are is our business,” Kate said.

“You have a quick temper,” the man said, his widening smile only making him look more sinister. “Very much along the same lines as your mother.”

The mention of her mother froze Kate. She was not used to hearing anyone speak about her, let alone a stranger whose very presence she found unnerving. She held her breath and tried to stay in control of her emotions, but was overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness mixed uneasily with anger. A cold sweat formed at her neck and she fought back an urge to cry.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice low but forceful, her teeth clenched.

“To describe myself as an old family friend would do an injustice to us both,” the man said, his words spoken slowly and seriously. “I like to think of myself as much more than that. For a time, I had the honor to be both a student and a protégé of your parents. All that I know about art and its history, I learned from their works and their words. There isn’t a day I don’t recall them or their lessons.”

“What do you do?”

“What I was always meant to do,” the man said. “What I was taught to do. Suffice it to say you and I share a passion for art long regarded as either missing or stolen.”

“I’m only a student,” Kate said.

“For now,” the man said. “But the taste for the quest is there, even if you have yet to act on it. There will come a time when you will take all you’ve learned and put it to use. When that time comes, please remember that I can be of great help to you.”

“I have all the help I need,” she said, giving a quick glance toward Marco. “But thank you anyway.”

The man turned and nodded at Marco. “I’m sure your young friend means well,” he said. “But I have my doubts as to whether he will be a match for your talents. No offense meant, of course.”

“Don’t worry,” Marco said. “I agree with you.”

“I know him,” Kate said, “and I trust him. And that’s all I need. But if I needed help beyond him, I wouldn’t turn to you.”

The man smiled and stepped closer toward her, the echoes of the shoppers’ voices and footsteps bouncing off the pharmacy’s thick walls, the air rich with the smells of sprays, soaps, and herbs. “Give some thought to our words here today,” the man said. “Don’t dismiss them easily. I ask it as a simple courtesy to someone who owes so much of who he is to your mother and father.”

“I won’t forget a single word,” Kate said.

The man nodded, bowed slightly, and walked with mannered steps toward the front entrance of the pharmacy, Florentine sunlight creeping through the openings of the old monastery doors.

“Maybe I need to reconsider my career path,” Marco said, “if your friend is any indication of the kind of people who populate the art history arena.”

“He’s not my friend,” Kate said.

“He
did
seem to know a lot about you,” Marco said, “and even more about your parents.”

“I’ve never met him before today,” she said. “But I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“Do you think he’s been following us?” Marco asked, not making any effort to hide his concern.

“I’m not sure,” Kate said. “It could have been nothing more than coincidence. I mean, it’s not like we have a tendency to visit out-of-the-way and difficult-to-find places and need to be tracked. There are two groups who are easy to spot in Florence—art students and tourists—and, in my case, I fit both profiles.”

“I would have an easier time believing all that if he had approached you and just made general conversation,” Marco said. “But you heard what he said, and I think you are pretty clear on what he meant.”

“He caught me off guard,” she said, “which was, no doubt, his intent. I’ll be better prepared the next time we see each other.”

“Prepared to do what?”

Kate put an arm under Marco’s elbow and nudged him toward the lotions lining the left wall. “That’s something I need to figure out,” she said. “But for now, how about we check out that hand cream he was talking about? Let’s see how accurate he was about that.”

“I’m one big ball of nerves,” he said. “I was never like this before. Not until I met you.”

“German chamomile flower tea should do the trick,” Kate said, guiding him across the tiled floor. “We’ll pick up a box on our way out. It’s the best thing this side of Fernet Branca for your stomach. Trust me.”

“I hate tea,” Marco said. “I’m Italian, remember?”

“Trust me,” Kate repeated, her voice a bit firmer, her grip on his arm a little tighter. “It’s all you need to do.”

CHAPTER
13

P
ROFESSOR RICHARD DYLAN EDWARDS SAT BACK AND STARED ACROSS
the empty baseball field, the sun warming his face and arms, a large bag of shelled peanuts between his feet. He was perched in the front row of a field box along the first base line in that quiet period after batting practice and before the start of the game, when a ballpark held the sanctity of an empty church.

As much as Edwards loved the game of baseball, he revered the major and minor league parks in which the game was played, putting them on the same pedestal he reserved for museums and art galleries. He had made it a personal goal to see at least one game in every ballpark of note in the country, and had so far completed only a third of his journey. He had sat through the madness of a Yankees–Red Sox contest played out in the heated confines of Fenway Park; seen the New York Mets take on the San Diego Padres in their home park of Shea Stadium, knowing it would be the last go-round for the crumbling arena; traveled to Los Angeles to watch the Dodgers swing away against the Cincinnati Reds in the massive ballpark of Chavez Ravine; and he spent a long weekend in St. Louis, managing to get in two games at Busch Stadium. But no park fed his baseball soul as heartily as the small bandbox of Wrigley Field, the home of the Chicago Cubs.

Edwards regarded Wrigley as the perfect American ballpark, its confines allowing the fan to get close enough to shout at the players. The fans were knowledgeable and rabid, devoted despite the steady diet of disappointment. It was the combination of the beauty of the park and the indefatigable spirit of the diehards who gave comfort to Professor Edwards.
He had spent many decades chasing works deemed forever lost by the art world, and so was at home with impossible quests. And much like his beloved Chicago Cubs, he had learned never to grow complacent but to embrace whatever victories came his way.

“This is our year, I can feel it,” the man squeezing into the seat next to him said. “We have it all, hitting and pitching, and nothing can stop us.”

“It shouldn’t be called Opening Day,” Edwards answered, smiling across at the man. “It should be named Optimistic Day. Would make a lot more sense. After today, it’s a straight roll down the hill.”

“Spoken like a true diehard, Richard,” the man said, “which is one of many reasons I enjoy your company as much as I do.”

“You surprise me, Andrew,” Edwards said. “Here I thought it was because I always pay for the tickets.”

Andrew MacNamera was one of six original members of the Vittoria Society, from that first meeting held in the back room of a small restaurant in a New York City suburb. Now in his late sixties and in the second year of a painful battle against the unrelenting demon of lung cancer, he was still as sharp and as focused on the group’s goals as at the end of that first long night of food and drink, where he helped devise a plan intended to secure the future of lost artistic treasures. Though he was, on the surface at least, a soft-spoken academic, MacNamera provided the Vittoria Society with what over the years would prove to be one of its most crucial elements. He had established a worldwide network of informants and enforcers meant to help the group both achieve their goals and keep a step ahead of their adversaries.

The core of this group grew out of the connections MacNamera had made early in his academic career. While still an innocent and eager college student, he was heavily recruited by a variety of CIA officials and moved off the campus of Northwestern University and into a twelve-year stint as a Black Ops agent, running a number of clandestine and extremely dangerous missions across the European continent. This allowed him to build a connective network of loyalists, government officials, criminals, and Cold War agents he felt would be both sympathetic and helpful to the cause.