Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (20 page)

“Understood,” I said.

Drago continued, “As I said, the Hope Diamond originally came from the Kollur Mine in southeast India. While the gem that became the Hope Diamond was mined around sixteen fifty, a similar gem had supposedly been found about a hundred years earlier. It was a little smaller and not quite as perfect. Nevertheless, it was huge and had a blue color very much like the Hope Diamond.”

Drago shifted in his chair. “You remember our Tommaso de’ Medici. Tommaso was a very awkward child, especially around girls. And he was unable to shake that as he grew to an adult. More than his illegitimacy or his dark skin, it was because of his awkwardness that he was kept at the periphery of Medici power. Not being in the inner circle, he was excluded from all major decisions. Even so, his adoptive father was prominent in the family and a very successful businessman. So Tommaso did have access to certain discretionary funds to use as he pleased.”

Drago took several breaths as if he’d been swimming and just come up for air. “According to the rumor, Tommaso de’ Medici received a proposition by courier back in fifteen fifty-three. He was thirty-four years old. Tommaso de’ Medici was understandably eager to make a name for himself and show the rest of his family that they’d underestimated him. Perhaps Tommaso was the Medici contact by chance. More likely, the sender of the message knew that Tommaso chafed at not being granted family power equivalent to his cousins, and the sender thought that Tommaso would be more likely to grant the sender an audience for his proposal.”

Drago again glanced out the window. It appeared that he was looking at the Pitti Palace.

“The courier came from Constantinople, which had just fallen to the Muslim Conquest and had become the capital of the new Ottoman Empire. This courier, who may have been a thief or may have been legitimate, is said to have brought a letter that described the death of a Persian businessman. After this businessman’s death, his fortune was reportedly stolen and scattered, and his widow was left with almost nothing from her former life. She wanted to sell the diamond her husband had given her for their marriage. The diamond had never been seen by anyone at the time because it was so valuable that her husband had insisted it be hidden away from the moment he gave it to her.”

I was getting impatient. “This is about the BFF rumor?”

After a long pause, Drago said, “The letters BFF refer to this diamond, the diamond that had supposedly come from the Kollur Mine one hundred years before it produced the Hope Diamond. This diamond was reputed to sparkle unlike any other diamond ever found.

“When Tommaso received the courier’s letter, he was intrigued and realized that this might be his opportunity to prove to the rest of the Medicis that he was worthy. Tommaso turned out to be a skillful negotiator, and he arranged to purchase the Persian widow’s diamond for a good price.

“After Tommaso received it, he gathered all of his family at the Pitti Palace in the presence of Florence’s most celebrated diamond experts and revealed the diamond. The experts inspected it at great length, and all agreed that it was the most impressive diamond they had ever seen. Tommaso named it Fuoco Blu di Firenze.”

Street figured it out first. “The Blue Fire of Florence,” she said.

“Scarlett Milo’s BFF,” I said.

THIRTY

Drago nodded. “As you can see, the story is enticing. It is precisely because of this that the story endures despite no evidence whatsoever.”

Drago paused as if gathering his words.

“According to the rumor, the acquisition of what at that time was the most impressive diamond ever seen gained Tommaso the credibility that he desired among the family. And Tommaso was apparently so impressed by Fuoco Blu di Firenze’s singular quality, that, like the Persian businessman, he hid it away so that it could never be stolen by a thief or even his Medici cousins.”

“What happened to it?” I asked.

Drago shook his head. “That’s the point. No one knows. The creative storyteller who dreamed up this diamond neglected to fabricate any supporting details or records. Nevertheless, it became part of the oral history of the Medicis. And now the legend has been passed down for five hundred years.”

“If we were to operate on the notion that the story is true, where might we learn more about it?”

Professore Giovanni Drago stood up, turned away from us, and walked over to the window. He looked out at the Pitti Palace as if he were gazing back into history. After a minute, he turned, came back to his chair, and sat.

“I hate to continue with this. I don’t want to think that you or anyone else could attach my name to such nonsense.”

“But…” I said, waiting for Drago to continue his thought.

“There is a man named Bruno Valenti, originally of La Cosa Nostra.”

“The Sicilian Mafia,” I said.

“Yes. A few decades ago, he was convicted on murder and racketeering charges and sent to prison for life. After many years, he was let out under the laws of libertà condizionata, the Italian version of what you call parole. Now he is an old man and living in a town in southern Tuscany. I’ve heard rumors that he’s in very bad health.”

“You think he had something to do with the Blue Fire of Florence?”

“No. But if there were such a thing as the Blue Fire of Florence, and if someone were to have obtained it through theft or purchase or fraud, my guess is that Valenti would know about it. His specialty was acquiring hard-to-acquire things. Paintings. Rare automobiles. Ancient illuminated manuscripts. Stashes of gold, silver, and platinum. Historical artifacts. Jewels.”

“Do you know how I might approach him?” I asked.

Drago shrugged. “I suppose you could simply knock on his door and ask him. He is in his dotage. I don’t imagine that there is any kind of a moat to ford.”

I appreciated Drago’s small sarcasm. It made him seem a little less like a stuffed shirt.

“Having said that,” Drago continued, “even if the Blue Fire of Florence existed and Valenti knew about it, I can’t imagine that he would be forthcoming to you.”

“Do you have any idea of his address?”

“No. But I can make a call to someone I know in the prosecutor’s office.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

Drago stood. “Wait here, please.”

He left. We waited. We didn’t talk. I think both Street and I felt that getting all of this information had been a tenuous procedure at best. Talking might distract Drago if he could hear us from wherever he went.

Drago returned ten minutes later and handed me a slip of paper. On it were letters and numbers written in cursive. Most I recognized, some I didn’t. Italians use the same alphabet as other western countries, but they form certain letters differently.

I got out a pen. “Let me double check what you’ve written.” I rewrote what he’d written. He explained where I was confused.

“This town you’ve written,” I said. I sounded it out syllable by syllable. “Roccatederighi.”

“Yes, that is close to how we say it,” Drago said.

“You said it is in southern Tuscany.”

“Correct. I’ll show you on a map.” He left again, then returned shortly with a map of northern Italy. He opened it and pointed. “Here is where we are in Florence. An hour south of here is Siena. An hour south of Siena is a turnoff to Roccastrada.” He traced with his finger. “From there, you follow these little mountain roads up to Sassofortino, then continue on to Roccatederighi. I’ve been there, but it was long ago. I don’t remember the streets. Perhaps you can get the map details from your Google company.”

“Thank you, professor. I very much appreciate your help. I’m sorry for the time it took out of your day. And I’m very sorry that I felt I had no choice but to pressure you.”

He made a small nod. “I’m sure you will discover that the Blue Fire of Florence is one of the great fictions to come out of the Renaissance.” Drago spoke as if he was done with us.

“There is one more thing I’d like to ask you,” I said.

Drago looked frustrated and impatient.

I pulled out the warning note that had been stuck in my cabin door and handed it to him.

“Does this image mean anything to you? It looks a bit like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man drawing with a star and circle drawn around it.”

Drago looked at the piece of paper. “This has nothing to do with da Vinci. This is Agrippa’s pentagram.”

“What does that mean?”

“Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa was a Renaissance magician from Germany. He wrote three important books about occult philosophy. This pentagram was in one of the books. It is a symbol of magic. The signs at the points of the star are astrological symbols.” He lifted his head from the paper and looked at me. “I assume you know about the Reformation.”

“Not much, no.”

“The protestant Reformation, which, literally, was an attempt to reform the Catholic Church, began during the Renaissance. The church fought back. The resulting turmoil brought a renewed focus on people who didn’t worship exactly as the Church wanted. Specifically, the Church fixated on witchcraft and on those people, especially women, who practiced ancient traditions of magic. The Church felt that many kinds of magic had Satanic inspiration. Agrippa noted that this was one of the main symbols of magic.”

“Is there a reason the drawing is upside down in relation to the writing?”

“Yes. A pentagram that points up refers to white, or good, magic. An inverted pentagram refers to evil magic, otherwise known as Black Magic.”

“What does this mean for me?”

“It suggests that you are being targeted by someone who believes in evil Satanic ritual, someone who practices modern-day witchcraft.”

I stood, and Street joined me.

“One more thing I should tell you,” Drago said.

We turned back.

“This man, Bruno Valenti. He is old. Maybe eighty, maybe eighty-five. And he is also ill. He will seem feeble. But don’t let that lull you into thinking you don’t need to be careful. Bruno Valenti is a sociopath, a very dangerous man. As bad as they come. He has no empathy. He cannot understand anything from another person’s point of view.”

“Got it,” I said. “I’ve known many people like that. No empathy means they’ll kill you without concern beyond whether they might get caught.”

“Exactly,” Drago said.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said.

We left.

The next morning, we asked the woman at the residenza desk if there was a train that ran to Roccatederighi.

“I’ve never heard of this town.”

I glanced at Street. She raised her eyebrows. She pulled out her phone and showed the woman where it was on the map.

“Oh, there. There are so many places I haven’t been. But I have been to this nearby town, Roccastrada, and I can tell you that the train does not go there. So it won’t go to Roccatederighi. There are many towns... how do you say, of no account. In the middle of the country. You would have to rent a car.”

“Is there a car rental at the train station?”

“Sì.”

We said our grazies and walked to the train station.

A rental agent put us into a tiny Fiat 500, which was cute. But it felt like something a forest fairy would ride to a hobbit meeting among the mushrooms. My legs straddled the steering wheel, and every time I let up the clutch, my left knee nearly hit my chest. But the car had gopower, and we could keep up with the big BMWs as we took the freeway south out of Florence.

On our map, the drive to Roccatederighi looked straightforward, a stretch of big freeway to Siena and then a smaller divided highway south until our turnoff. From there we would take a smaller road with many more turns, which itself was followed by an even narrower paved path that snaked through the country.

Because the speedometer was in kilometers per hour, I kept being startled when I glanced at the dash and saw that we were going 120 or 130. Even adjusting the kilometers to miles, we were still moving at speeds that would get us a ticket in the States.

“This little car goes fast, huh?” Street said as we raced toward Siena. The city had just appeared on a distant hill, a picture postcard with patchwork fields in the foreground and a rock-fortress with bell towers in the background.

“Yeah.” I patted the dash. “This baby may have worked up a sweat, but there’s still more oats in her tank.”

“Is that guy speak or something?”

“Standard gearhead lingo.”

“You being a gearhead and all,” she said.

I didn’t turn to look at her, but I knew her eyes were rolling.   I said, “Whenever I get the chance, I pop the hood of my Jeep and leave it up so people can admire the motor.”

“I thought motors were electric and cars that run on gas have engines.”

“Motors, engines, whatever,” I said. “Anyway, it’s the guy stuff in me that appreciates the way you look in your turquoise confetti. You wouldn’t want to forego that, would you?”

“If it means that you keep the hood of your Jeep closed, yes. I would die of embarrassment if you left it open when I’m around. The guys who do that are the ones who walk into the Seven Eleven without a shirt on, buy a six-pack, and then pop a can open and guzzle it before they get out the door.”

“You’ve never been with me when I do that?”

Street smacked me on the shoulder. “We’re in Italy, the essence of high-style, refined living. You should squelch your primitive impulses and...” she trailed off.

“And start listening to opera?”

“Yeah, that would be a good place to start.”

“My buddies will think I’m no longer a real man if they hear Puccini on my stereo.”

“Better than having them discover that you don’t know what an engine is.”

We flew through the outskirts of Siena and continued south. Forty minutes later, we found our exit, a road that headed west across the valley and began to climb in twisty switchbacks up to Roccastrada. The countryside was beautiful, like the northern California counties of Marin and Sonoma and Napa.

Once we were outside of Roccastrada, the smaller road seemed designed to be a car-sickness testing track. Curves on top of the curves and hills on the hills and narrow passages that narrowed even more so that two motor scooters would have to touch handle bars to pass. There were stretches with drop-offs that would make a mountain donkey pause.

Street kept one hand gripped on the door handle and the other one up on the dash for support or, perhaps, crash resistance.

Street rolled down her window as we crawled through the medieval towns that graced every hilltop with a castle and a church and an accompanying cluster of buildings that served as homes, shops, and schools atop vertical fortress walls.

The single masterstroke of Italy’s formation in the 19th century - when someone had the idea that maybe all these city states could stop warring and get along - was for the new government to recognize that these towns, with all of their art and history, were the essence of what made Italy great. So the government made it mostly illegal to change them in any way. They created, in essence, the architecture police, the cultural police, the color police, the construction police, and the art police. The result was both a strangling bureaucracy and one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, one that attracts millions of tourists who want to see what the Middle Ages looked like. Modern buildings in Tuscany are as rare as yurts and teepees in Midtown Manhattan.

We climbed up to Sassofortino, a group of stone buildings  on very steep slopes. From there, we wound our way around to Roccatederighi, the town where, according to Professore Drago, the former mobster Bruno Valenti lived. He was now out on parole, living in solitude in an obscure hamlet that was a thousand years old and was almost hidden among hundreds of more spectacular tourist spots sprinkled throughout Tuscany.

As we approached Roccatederighi, there were amazing views of the fertile valley below. Stone buildings hugged the sides of the mountain. They each had a view that would give you thrills or vertigo. At times, the buildings were directly on the edge of the narrow road. If an approaching vehicle came at the wrong time and you veered an inch too far to the right, you’d rip off the side of your car on a stone wall.

Street had pulled up another map on her phone, and she gave me directions as I drove.

“When you come to the center of town, the road will make almost a U-turn to the right, at which point you turn left.”