Midnight Angels (12 page)

He seldom saw his father, who often worked double shifts in order to save enough money to give his son more than a month-to-month existence. It was a quiet life that offered little in the way of promise and less in the form of opportunity. Then it got worse.

Three weeks before his twelfth birthday, Antonio Rumore lost his hearing.

No one from among the small squadron of doctors his father was able to round up could offer an explanation, some even concluding their examination with a simple shrug and a shake of the head. While Rumore’s father and his few friends were distraught over the boy’s plight, Antonio accepted his submergence into a silent world, longing only for the sounds
of the love songs he so cherished. And in time he made an effort to turn his unexpected disability to his advantage. When out with his father, he would carefully study the way passersby walked, moved, and gestured, gauging their looks, the cut of their clothes, how they interacted with those around them. He would then compile a mental dossier on these passing strangers, a preteen body language expert at work on the streets of Naples.

He lived in silence for a full two years.

Then, one rainy Sunday morning as he stared into his bathroom mirror, adjusting a blue tie under the collar of a starched white shirt, as he readied for a pre-mass breakfast, Antonio heard the refrain of a car horn repeatedly bleating beneath his bedroom window. He rolled up his tie, walked out of the bathroom and pulled a cassette down from the second shelf of a small bookcase, opened the case and slid the cassette into its slot on the portable player he kept next to his bed. The boy then sat on the chair by his desk, listening to the sorrowful lyrics of his favorite song, “Parle me di Amore, Mariu,” fill the room. He lowered his head, his hands resting on his knees, thin lines of tears streaming down the front of his smooth, handsome face.

RUMORE HAD JUST COMPLETED
his two years of mandatory military service, choosing to spend his time as a navy sailor, his adventures taking him to the coast of Africa and into the hotbed of the Middle East, and was enjoying a brief break from the mundane chores that constituted so much of a life at sea. He was twenty-three, just over six feet tall, with a lithe, muscular frame; a long-distance sprinter in a country that prided itself on leisurely evening strolls. He found comfort in the silences that running around an empty track or deep inside a tree-lined trail provided, allowing him the ability to clear his head and focus on the goals he had set for himself.

Rumore wanted to be a carabinieri, the governmental arm of the Italian police force and the most respected law enforcement officials in the country. It was a childhood dream that did not dissipate as he grew into manhood. He would often walk by the local carabinieri station located less than three blocks from his apartment building and watch the men
head toward their squad cars to begin their afternoon shift—dark uniforms pressed, white shirts starched, black ties firmly in place, shoes polished and hats low and firm.

It was all he wanted out of life—to be one of them. A member of the best the country had to offer. And he sought to take it even one step further—not only to be accepted into their ranks, but to then be offered a position in the elite Rome Art Squad.

He submitted his application six months prior to the end of his military service, and still had yet to hear a word, either by mail or phone. He realized that the odds would not be in his favor. He was a southern Italian in a department dominated by men from the North. He was not a graduate of a university whose name would be enough to impress. He had majored in Art History, not exactly a degree that would make the higher-ups in the department seek out his application. Nor was he born to a family either prominent enough to have connections within the ranks or with a legacy of law enforcement. Yet Rumore vowed he would fulfill what he believed to be his destiny. And it was that belief, that wholehearted desire to be a member of the carabinieri, that led him one late summer afternoon to walk into a small, nearly empty restaurant just off the Via Venuto and approach the table of General Carlo Albertini, chief of the Rome Art Squad.

Rumore had devoured all there was to read about the general’s exploits, following his career from the early years, which were highlighted by a series of top-tier drug busts, to his later notoriety in working undercover and rising through the ranks of the most notorious art theft ring in Europe, where he helped orchestrate their eventual takedown on the piers of the Rome waterfront. That success led to the formation of the Art Squad, which he had nurtured and directed until it stood as the pinnacle of excellence in its field and made him the most famous carabinieri in the world.

Rumore stood directly across from Albertini, the general calmly spooning sugar into a large cup filled with a foamy cappuccino. He was a small man, thin and wiry. His thick gray hair was razor cut, and a small moustache, mixed with specks of gray and black, helped highlight a set of dark, penetrating eyes. He rested his spoon on the white linen spread and looked up at the young man before him.

“It was kind of you to wait until I finished my meal before you approached,” the general said. “I usually don’t receive such a courtesy when I’m being followed.”

“I wasn’t following you, sir,” Rumore said. “I was simply trying to find the proper moment to come speak to you.”

“Knowing when to make your move may be a luxury to some,” the general said, sitting back and staring up at the nervous young man, “but to a policeman, it is a necessity. In some cases, it is a skill that may take years to sharpen.”

“I’m not a policeman,” Rumore said, a bit defensively.

“Not yet,” the general said, “and perhaps never. But from what I’ve been able to observe, it won’t be for any lack of desire.”

“From the way I saw the situation, sir, I had nothing to lose,” Rumore said. “Making my case to you is my best chance, my only chance, to join the carabinieri.”

“How long ago did you submit your application?”

“Going on seven months, sir,” Rumore said. “It’s either still sitting in someone’s in-basket or it hasn’t even been opened yet.”

“You’re from Naples, am I correct?” the general asked.

Rumore nodded.

“From what both you and I know of that lovely city, it could also still be waiting to leave your local post office.”

“There is always that possibility, sir,” Rumore said with a smile. “Which is why I mailed out two applications.”

A middle-aged waiter approached Rumore, a small tray with two large cappuccinos resting in the center cupped in the middle of his right hand, a cloth napkin folded across the crook of his arm. The general calmly watched as the waiter rested one cup between the setting on the other end of the small table and the second in front of him. He then waved for Rumore to sit.

“I took the liberty to order you a coffee,” he said, “which also gave me a perfect excuse to ignore my doctor’s advice and enjoy a second cup.”

Rumore pulled back a wooden chair and sat, resting his hands around the warm coffee and staring across at the general. “When did you first notice me?” he asked.

“The real question you need to ask is at what point did I realize you were not a threat to me,” the general said. “Both sides—police as well as
criminal—always get noticed, but the motive of the man following you is never easy to ascertain.”

“And what was it that gave me away?” Rumore asked.

“Your body language does not yet have the feel of danger,” the general said, “which either means you are an eager and impatient young applicant or a very bad and poorly paid tracker. But you did cause me a few minutes of thought. A sliver of hope.”

“A good guess then on my part would be that you have also figured out why it is I needed to come see you,” Rumore said.

The general stirred his coffee and smiled. “There were at last count well over five hundred applications resting in a large pile on my desk,” he said, “winnowed down from close to twelve hundred. All of the applicants are worthy young men and women such as yourself, each one qualified, each equipped with the proper academic backgrounds. From that rather large pool, I will need to select two and assign them to my Art Squad. It would seem, on the surface at least, to be a daunting task, and in many respects it is. But in fact, it always comes down to nothing more complex than a simple gut reaction. I’ve been doing it this way for quite a number of years now, and I have yet to appoint someone to the squad who would be considered a mistake.”

“The squad has never had anyone in its ranks from Naples,” Rumore said. “Is that from a lack of applicants or does your gut deem all Neapolitans unacceptable?”

“Using bias as an argument may earn you a few points on a debating team,” the general said, “but it won’t help you secure a place in my squad.”

“What would, then?”

“An answer as to why you should be chosen over any of the other applicants,” the general said. “And save the details about how high your grade average is and how you get teary-eyed at the sight of Michelangelo’s David.”

“Most of your applicants would be worthy additions to your squad,” Rumore said. “There is no denying that. We all come into the process with the skills and sensibilities needed to master the job—we all speak multiple languages, know our way around museums and galleries, are tops in our grade level in weapons and tactics, have our own independent network of street connections, and boast a working knowledge of the
high-end criminal world. None of us would have bothered to apply if we didn’t have those attributes.”

“But you possess one other component that all the others lack,” the general said. “I’m more than anxious to hear what it is.”

“I can disappear into the criminal world,” Rumore said. “Infiltrate their ranks, be accepted as one of them, welcomed into their group, and over time be included in their plans.”

“Undercover,” the general said, clearly intrigued.

“You’ve never had one in the Art Squad,” Rumore said.

“I’ve never had need for one,” the general said. “Our solve rate is the highest of any such unit in the world. We work all our cases much like a homicide investigation, piecing together clues, linking one to the other, until all the pieces are in place, a suspect is in custody, and a valued piece of art is returned.”

“And it’s been an effective process up till now,” Rumore said. “I didn’t come here asking you to change it, just update it.”

“And if I decide such a change is called for, why would I choose you?” the general asked.

“I don’t think you would have wasted even a portion of such a lovely day if you didn’t already know the answer to that question,” Rumore said, gently easing back his chair and standing across from the general. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you and it would be an honor to work for you. I pray that whomever you finally select, it will be the correct decision.”

Rumore bowed slightly and turned to leave, heading toward an array of angry drivers and congested traffic. The general sat back, crossed one leg over another and stared at the young man moving gracefully through the now crowded streets. “We share that same prayer,” he said in a voice no one could hear.

TWO DAYS BEFORE
the Florence stakeout, Rumore sat at his desk looking over an array of mug shots. It was early and quiet, the squad room empty, the phones silent. He held up one photo and brought it up closer to his desk light, staring at it for several seconds before resting it by his elbow. He wrote the name of the man in the photo on the top line of a yellow legal pad, then reached across his desk and grabbed a file folder containing the most recent prison release dates. On the second sheet, he
found what he was looking for and transferred the information to the legal pad, writing it under the name of the man in the mug shot.

He sat back in his chair and looked out at the tree-lined street below, the chaos of a morning in Rome still several hours away. He glanced at his watch and was about to ease up from his chair and head for the Borghese Gardens and a quiet run when the phone rang.

Rumore picked it up on the second ring, noted the time and listened for a voice. “You’re the only person I know sleeps less than I do,” the man on the other end said. He was an American and a friend. He sounded old and tired.

“I think it’s the coffee,” Rumore said.

“Have you had your run yet?” the man asked.

“You didn’t call at an early hour for me and a late one for you to check on my workout schedule,” Rumore said.

There was a pause, and he heard the rumblings of a cough before the old man spoke. “Are you getting any hits on Florence?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Rumore said.

“Can you spare the time for a trip up?” the old man asked.

“If it would be worth my time,” Rumore said.

“I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t think it would,” the old man said.

“I have many old friends in Florence,” Rumore said. “As do you. Is there anyone in particular you want me to see?”

“Yes,” the old man said, “someone we both know all too well. But I doubt either of us would consider him a friend.”

“An old enemy,” Rumore said. “That’s even better.”

“Not just any old enemy, Captain,” the old man said, and then hung up.

Rumore rested the phone back on the receiver, stood and walked out of the empty office of the Rome Art Squad.

CHAPTER
15

K
ATE AND MARCO STOOD WITH THEIR BACKS AGAINST A COLD
and jagged stone wall, their university T-shirts coated with sweat. They were fifteen feet inside the blocked off area of the Vasari Corridor, shrouded in dust and darkness, their white Puma sneakers stained red from the mounds of clay that coated the path.

“Are you certain no one saw us come in?” Marco asked.

“I think they would have chased us,” Kate said, her words lacking their usual conviction. “They weren’t looking for it, so there was no reason for them to expect it.”