Midnight Angels (15 page)

“That may be true,” Clare said, “but then we went in with no other intent than to eat our lunch in an off-limits place. Neither of us went in expecting to find anything of value.”

“She and her young friend entered empty-handed and came out the same way,” the Raven said. “I would not be here chatting the day away if that were not the case.”

“What about their clothes?” Clare asked. “Did your eyes on the ground mention their clothes?”

“If it was important, they would have,” the Raven said, turning away from the river, his full attention now on Clare. “But I’m gathering you were told a slightly altered tale than the one I was given.”

“Or perhaps what I was told was inaccurate,” she said, walking into the elegantly furnished living room and pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee from the room service breakfast cart.

“If you heard different, then I need to hear it as well,” the Raven said, the hint of a threat to his words.

“No doubt you do,” Clare said, sipping her coffee, not bending to the implied pressure, “you just don’t need to hear it from me. Not unless we come to an arrangement that benefits us both.”

“We’ve done our share of business in the past,” he said. “I always found it to be pleasant, if expensive.”

“You get what you pay for,” Clare said, “or so I’ve heard say, usually from people with not enough money to get what they want. Luckily, that’s not the case with you.”

“It never has been,” the Raven said.

“It’s different this time,” she said. “You need to know that from the start. This is more like an expedition. It could lead us to a whole lot of nothing. But if there is a payoff, it could be bigger than anything you and I have ever seen.”

“And are we still looking at Katherine as our main source?” he asked.

“Our
only
source,” Clare said.

The Raven folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “How much will it cost to have you once again by my side?”

“Fifteen percent of market worth on anything she finds,” Clare said without hesitation.
“Black
market worth.”

“And if she comes away from all of it with empty hands?” he asked. “Or if the discovery made is not of the magnitude we expect? What’s the price for your time should either of those events occur?”

“I’ll let you off easy,” Clare said, reaching for the coffeepot and refilling her cup. “Five hundred for each day. Plus expenses, of course.”

“I will agree to all of your terms on one condition,” the Raven said. “It’s a simple one, really, and one I require from most anyone I do business with, especially at an elevated level of anticipated profit.”

“We’ve done business in the past,” she said, somewhat taken aback by both the request and the change of tone in the Raven’s voice. “I don’t recall any conditions.”

“This one’s different,” he said. “It requires a greater degree of trust on my part. Therefore, I need an additional incentive in place and won’t move forward until I have such an assurance.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Clare said.

The Raven walked toward her, reached for the coffee cup and rested it back on the tray. He then cradled her face with his hands, holding her gently, their eyes locked, thin lips inches from her right ear. “If you betray me,” he whispered, “I will slice you into small pieces and feed you to the creatures in the river below. You have my word.”

He brought Clare even closer to his side and placed a cold kiss on her warm lips. “Now, tell me all you know,” he said.

CHAPTER
17

S
ANTA CROCE IS ONE OF THE LARGEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL OF
all the Franciscan churches standing today. Work on the marble façade, begun in 1294, was finally completed in 1443, though the neo-Gothic campanile was not added until well into the nineteenth century. The monks who ran the church in those early years were both pious in spirit and astute, and their shrewdest money-making venture was, at its core, as simple as the lives they led: In exchange for a considerable financial contribution, which the monks used to support the church and themselves, they would guarantee any benefactor a final resting place within the very walls of the sacred hall. It was a bargain many of the Renaissance giants found difficult to resist, which helps explain why the tombs of Dante, Machiavelli, Rossini, Galileo, and the Divine One himself, Michelangelo, line both sides of the church.

Michelangelo had intended to be buried in Rome and for the sculpture of the Pieta to mark his tomb. But three years prior to his death he had a change of heart, and asked that his body be laid to rest in Florence. His tomb is a nondescript and uninspiring marble design. Initially, a number of Michelangelo’s associates, led by Daniele da Volterra, suggested using the statue of Victory as the funeral monument. It seemed to be a consensus choice until Giorgio Vasari, Michelangelo’s friend and advisor, stepped into the discussion. He successfully argued that since the Divine One had never fought in a war or even worn a uniform, a statue dedicated to battle would be a poor choice. He then set upon designing the tomb that rests there today, complete with a bust chiseled by Battista Lorenzi and surrounded by the three symbols of painting, sculpture, and
architecture. The final work was, according to Professor Edwards, “not a work that would have earned Michelangelo’s stamp of approval. But then again,” he liked to say, “he had little say in the matter.”

KATE AND MARCO
stood about ten feet away from Michelangelo’s tomb, staring up at the large marble work, tourists milling about them on all sides. Despite the cool air filling the spacious hall, Marco’s shirt and face were tinged with sweat and his breath came heavy and in spurts.

“You worry too much,” Kate said, doing her best to reassure her frightened friend. “No one saw us go in or come out. And if anyone had heard us either tearing down a part of the wall or putting it back together, don’t you think he would have rushed into the corridor?”

“I suppose,” Marco said.

“What we
do
need to worry about is how to get the Angels out of the corridor, and then, once we manage that, where we can put them where no one else will find them,” she said. “The first part sounds just about impossible, and the second could be even harder.”

“Why move them at all?” Marco asked. “They seem perfectly safe right where they are. If our goal is not to let anyone know we’ve found them, then I would think the best way to accomplish that is to leave them alone.”

“It won’t take them very long to figure out we were in the corridor,” Kate said. “We hid our tracks pretty well and put the wall back together as best we could, but it’s not exactly the way we found it, which means we need to move the Angels out of there before someone else does.”

“I have no idea how to do something like that,” Marco said. “I’m an art student, not a cat burglar.”

Kate turned away from Michelangelo’s tomb and looked at him. “I need to protect the Angels,” she said. “I know you’re frightened, and I am, too. But we’re not alone in this, or at least we won’t be for very long. There will be people along to help us soon, a couple of days away at the most.”

“If that’s true, why don’t we just wait until they arrive?” he asked.

“I wish we could,” she said, “but I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

Kate glanced over Marco’s shoulder, toward the entrance to Santa
Croce, and caught a glimpse of the two men standing in the shade of the thick, ornate door. They were both young, thin, and dressed in casual tourist attire, their appearance and mannerisms designed to avoid attention and detection; just two more curious onlookers among the hundreds walking the halls of the grand church. The occasional furtive glances in her direction from the taller of the two were enough to cause her concern, but it was the way they both walked—slow, choppy steps, made in a tight and semicircular pattern—that gave off an air of indifference that was rare inside the walls of Santa Croce. She turned away from the men and looked at Marco.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, quick to catch the apprehension on her face.

“Let’s walk toward the back of the church,” she told him. “Don’t turn around and don’t act any differently than you were five minutes ago.”

“Five minutes ago I was frightened,” Marco said. “Now I’m terrified.”

Kate turned and slid her right hand under his left arm. They moved away from Michelangelo’s tomb and eased past Dante’s much larger and more ominous final resting place, not bothering to turn around.

“Are you being careful?” Marco asked. “Or do you know for certain that we are being followed?”

“I don’t know,” Kate said, quickening her pace, pushing him along with her. “It’s probably just my imagination. I guess seeing the Angels kicked it into high gear.”

“Who is it exactly you think we might be running from?” he asked.

“If I’m wrong, then we’re trying to flee from two graduate students from England,” she said.

“And if you’re not?”

“Two men neither one of us would want to be caught alone with,” Kate said.

They neared the hall leading into the gardens, slices of bright sunlight guiding them toward the opening, a cluster of children staring up at the iron-railed walkways that encircled the top tier of the church. Kate picked up the pace and navigated her way around the children, each wearing a bright yellow T-shirt, blue shorts, and designer clone sneakers.

“There won’t be as many people in the gardens,” she said.

“Is that a good thing?” Marco asked.

“It is if we want to know if we’re being followed,” she said, pushing them both toward the entrance into the silent gardens of Santa Croce.

“What will they want from us?” Marco asked.

Kate could tell both by the sound of his voice and his body language that she was exhausting him. She knew she was very close to losing him as a companion and a friend and that not even the thrill of the discovery of the Angels would be enough to convince him to stay by her side. It would not be the first time she would lose a friend to her exuberant curiosity and her obsession with lost or missing works of art. She had not yet mastered the delicate balance that was often needed between maintaining a valued friendship and the nurturing of a compulsion she clearly relished. If she were forced to choose between the two, she would always come down on the side that chased the study of art, a quest she felt nourished her link to her parents. She could let a friendship fade, but would hold onto her parents for as long as she could.

“They will want to know what we know,” she finally told Marco, “and to see what we’ve seen.”

“And if we refuse?” he asked. “What will they do then? And please don’t joke. I would like a truthful answer. Not something silly like they might kill us.”

She glanced to her left, watching an elderly woman reach over and light a votive candle to a statue of the Blessed Mother, mouthing the words to a prayer. Then she looked to her right and saw a small group of Japanese tourists, always quick to pose, cameras ever at the ready, smiling before the large marble tomb of yet another Renaissance legend, Rossini. Then she looked out toward the garden, the brick and mortar overhead shielded from the blazing sun by stones set centuries earlier, the quiet of one of Florence’s most magical sights now only minutes away from having a day of peace brought to a brutal end.

CHAPTER
18

E
DWARDS STOOD UNDER A CONCRETE ARCHWAY LEADING TO THE
tarmac of the small runway, a heavy wind and rain pounding at his clothing, soaking through his jacket and coating his face. He had his back to the black private jet, fueled and prepped for takeoff, waiting for the heavy storm clouds to pass as they marked their journey slowly up the East Coast. It was late afternoon but the rain and the overcast sky had turned the day into midnight black. Edwards stared out at the rain landing with a steady beat on the parched pavement, gazing past the low rumbling jet engines toward the dark void of the horizon. He didn’t turn when he heard heavy footsteps approach from his left, keeping his eyes steady and his body tension-free.

“Why the rush?” the approaching man asked in a voice hardened by too many years of heavy smoking. “Weather report says all this will blow away in under three hours, maybe less. It’s always better to fly into a clear sky than an angry one.”

“I don’t mind the rain,” Edwards said, still staring off into the distance. “As a matter of fact, I prefer it. I’ve always felt safer traveling in bad conditions. I’m not sure why.”

“I made the necessary arrangements as soon as I got your call,” the man said, stepping up alongside Edwards. “Everything you need will be there waiting once you get to New York. And I also booked a two-night stay at your regular hotel under your travel name.”

Edwards glanced over and nodded. “I’ll only need one night,” he said. “Just long enough to pick up what I’ll need in Florence and to meet with Banyon.”

“Banyon?” the man said, not bothering to disguise his surprise at hearing the name. “I thought the Society had severed its ties with him, especially after the last escapade.”

“We can never sever our ties with men like Banyon,” Edwards said. “You should know that by now, Russell. Academically? Financially? We can compete on any level with any group out there. But our battles are not just fought in libraries and on field research. Sometimes we need to get our hands dirty.”

“I never think of men like Banyon as being on our side,” Russell said.

“He is not a card-carrying member, okay,” Edwards said. “But if the price we pay him outweighs what the competition has on the table, he will be a most valuable asset. And he won’t be the only one we’ll call on for help. I have a feeling we’ll need as many men like Banyon as we can afford.”

“Are you concerned she has yet to make contact?” Russell asked.