The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (187 page)

Chapter Ten

Once inside the elegant old house, Ben saw he’d entered a private art exhibition. The entrance foyer was filled with stands of posters, pamphlets and guides, and framed prints around the walls gave a taste of what lay inside. He felt very out of place in his jeans and denim shirt. Scanning the crowd he counted roughly thirty-five guests. Apart from one or two elderly couples, most of the people were in their mid-to-late thirties or older, many sporting a carefully-cultivated arty look. With the exception of one or two bohemian scruffs, everyone was very well dressed, and being Italians there was an unspoken war going on as to who could look the most chic. Probably the winner out of the whole bunch was the square-jawed guy in the Valentino blazer who’d clearly been dividing his time between working on his tan and studying old Robert Redford movies. Mr Dashing. Ben smiled to himself and shook his head.

After Gianni, the youngest person in the room was a sullen teenage girl with long curly blond hair, who was doing everything possible to distance herself from her parents and make it clear that she’d rather be anywhere but here.

‘Donatella Strada,’ the boy’s mother said warmly, keeping a tight hold of her son with her left hand while extending her right.

‘Ben Hope.’ He took her hand. It was slender and felt delicate in his. Donatella was small and petite, almost elfin. He liked the sharp look of intelligence in her eyes. She didn’t have that air of pretension that he could sense in many of the others.

‘You are English? But your Italian is excellent.’

‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled a bit, that’s all.’

‘Well, Signor Hope, I must thank you again. Are you living nearby?’

‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Academia Giordani,’ she said. ‘One of the most established and respected schools of fine art in the region. They’re celebrating the opening of the brand new exhibition wing, which has just been finished.’

‘The modern bit. I saw it from the road.’

She smiled. ‘Modern monstrosity, you wanted to say.’

‘No, modern is fine. So is old. I like all kinds of architecture.’

‘What about art, Signor Hope? Is it something you appreciate?’

‘Some. What little I know about it. Not sure I go for sheep in formaldehyde, or unmade beds and dirty underwear – or does that make me a philistine?’

Donatella seemed to approve of his taste. ‘Not in my book. You’ll be pleased to know there is nothing like that here. No gimmicks, no publicity stunts or con tricks. Just pure art. The owners have put together a wonderful collection of works from across the centuries, on loan from galleries all over the world.’

‘Hence the high security,’ Ben said. He’d already noticed the glassy eyes of the CCTV system watching from well-concealed vantage points around the room.

‘Oh, yes. Smile, you’re on camera. A state-of-the-art system, apparently. Not surprising that the galleries would insist on it, when you have hundreds of millions of euros hanging on your walls.’

‘So, do I take it you’re part of the art scene around here?’ Ben asked as he followed her through the crowd towards where the staff were checking invites and ushering guests through an arch leading to a glass walkway. He guessed it connected the old part of the building to the new wing.

‘My husband Fabio is. He’s one of the region’s top art and antiquities restorers. I just dabble in it, which is nice for me because I get to go to all the exhibitions with him.’

‘Is he here today?’

‘He’s supposed to be,’ she said. ‘But he phoned earlier to say he might not be able to get here. His company are helping to restore an old church outside Rome, and they ran into some kind of delay. He’ll be very disappointed if he can’t make it. And he’ll be sorry he didn’t get to thank you personally for what you did.’

‘I didn’t do that much,’ Ben said.

Donatella showed her ticket, explained to the woman at the desk that Ben was her guest, and they were ushered through the arched entrance to the glass corridor. At the end of it, they stepped into a bright, airy, ultramodern space that was the pristine new exhibition wing of the Academia Giordani. The floor was gleaming white stone, laid out with strips of red carpet that wove around the displays. The paintings were encased behind non-reflective glass, arranged by artist and period. A number of guests had already started doing the rounds of the exhibition, talking in low voices and pointing this way and that. As more people filtered inside behind Ben and Donatella, the murmur of soft conversation gradually filled the sunlit room. Some seemed impressed by the new building, though one or two faces showed disapproval.

‘It’s hideous,’ a stringy, white-haired woman in a blue dress was muttering to her husband. He was about ninety and walked with a stick. ‘Maybe not quite as offensive as the Louvre pyramid,’ she went on, ‘but hideous just the same.’

‘I find the concept has a very . . .
organic
quality, don’t you?’ one of the bohemians commented loudly to the woman he was with. ‘I mean, it’s so . . . what’s the word?’ He was padding about the gallery in open sandals, which together with his unkempt hair and beard probably attracted more offended glances from the other Italians than the design of the building. The Redford clone ignored him altogether.

‘So what do you think, Signor Hope?’ Donatella asked.

‘Like I said, I really don’t know that much about art,’ Ben said. But he knew enough to understand now why galleries across the world had been jittery about lending their pieces for this exhibition. The canvases around the walls bore enough famous signatures to pop any art lover’s cork. Picasso, Chagal, Monet. ‘And Da Vinci,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Oh yes,’ Donatella chuckled. ‘All the big names are here. They really wanted to put on a show to launch the centre. Fabio told me they wanted to get a Delacroix too, but they didn’t have the wall space.’ She touched Ben’s arm and pointed across the gallery at a man in an immaculate silk suit, forties, carefully groomed. ‘That’s Aldo Silvestri, one of the owners. And see that man over there, standing beside the Picasso?’

‘That little fat guy there?’

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear you say that. Luigi Corsini is Silvestri’s business partner. But the real money comes from Count Pietro De Crescenzo. Without his influence, the gallery would not have been possible, and certainly not an exhibition of this calibre.’

Donatella pointed out the man to Ben. Late fifties, tall and gaunt with thin oiled hair, he could have passed for an undertaker if it hadn’t been for the dapper bow tie. He was standing with a group of people on the far side of the room, sipping a glass of wine. ‘The De Crescenzos are one of the oldest aristocratic families of this region, with quite a colourful history,’ she filled in.

‘You know them?’

She nodded. ‘The count has funded several of Fabio’s projects in the past.’

De Crescenzo seemed to sense them talking about him. Giving Donatella a smile, he excused himself from the group and approached. Donatella explained to the count that Fabio had been held up, and introduced Ben. ‘Please call me Pietro,’ De Crescenzo said as he shook Ben’s hand. ‘I only use the title to open doors and impress stuffy politicians and museum boards. So, Signor Hope, I gather despite your extremely fluent Italian that you are not from these parts.’

‘I’m just passing through,’ Ben said.

‘You are on vacation? Remaining a few days in Italy?’

‘Sadly not. I’ll be flying to London tomorrow.’

De Crescenzo shuddered. ‘Air travel. I cannot bring myself to get on one of those things. Quite irrational, I know.’

‘It’s a very impressive setup you have here,’ Ben said.

De Crescenzo smiled widely, showing uneven, grey teeth. ‘Thank you, thank you. We have been extremely fortunate in securing such a fabulous and eclectic range of wonderful pieces.’

‘Have your family always been patrons of the arts?’ Ben asked, knowing his supply of cultural small talk was going to run out fast.

‘Far from it. My grandfather, Count Rodingo De Crescenzo, was a boorish and tyrannical man who despised culture with almost as much passion as he loathed the artistic genius of his first wife, Gabriella. It is to her that we owe the artistic heritage of my family. After doing everything in his power to suppress her talent, my grandfather ironically did the most to nurture it when he expelled her from the family home in 1925, leaving her destitute. Freed from his controlling influence, she eventually went on to find fame and fortune painting under her maiden name, Gabriella Giordani.’

Ben nodded and smiled politely, a little taken aback by De Crescenzo’s somewhat dramatic account of his family past. When he suddenly realised that the count was waiting for him to react to the mention of the name Gabriella Giordani, he shrugged apologetically and said, ‘As I was telling Donatella, my knowledge of art is pretty limited. I’m afraid I haven’t come across your grandmother’s work.’

De Crescenzo frowned sadly and shook his head. ‘Rodingo and Gabriella had no children. My father was born only after Rodingo had remarried, to a woman of great beauty but little else. Otherwise, I might have had the honour of being related in more than name to the most accomplished and admired Italian female artist of the twentieth century.’ He swept an arm enthusiastically behind him at a section of the exhibition.

Ben gazed in the direction he was pointing. ‘And that one too?’ he said, motioning at an oil portrait of a striking-looking man of about thirty, in a red velvet jacket with a high collar.

‘You have a keen eye for style, Signor Hope,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Yes, that is also a Giordani.’

Ben took a step closer to the portrait and examined it for a moment. There was something aristocratic about the man in the painting, yet not supercilious or arrogant. The artist seemed to have captured a real sense of humility and gentleness in her subject. The little plaque below the edge of the frame simply said ‘Leo’, with the date 1925. Ben wondered who Leo had been.

‘Just one of her many celebrated works here on display,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Including a quite incredible recent discovery.’ He said this in a hushed tone of reverence, as though referring to the finger-bone of Christ. Ben waited for more.

‘During the recent restoration of my ancestral home, the Palazzo De Crescenzo – it is far too large to live in, of course – workmen came upon a secret room where it seems the young and terribly unhappy countess carried on her art behind her husband’s back. He had forbidden her to paint, you see. We found several previously unknown works of hers, which are being exhibited here today for the very first time.’ Looking even more excited, De Crescenzo added, ‘And sensationally, among the pieces we discovered in her personal collection were several items by other artists – including a most magnificent miniature charcoal sketch by the artist Goya that had long been believed lost.’

Ben turned to look as he pointed out the piece of artwork across the room. It was a small, simple, shaded monochrome image of a solitary man kneeling humbly to pray inside what could have been a monastic cell.

Again Ben could feel De Crescenzo’s eyes on him and felt expected to comment knowledgeably, but he just nodded appreciatively and tried not to think about that glass of wine Donatella had promised him. He fought the urge to glance at his watch.

‘Naturally it is almost worthless compared to some of the other works here on display,’ De Crescenzo went on rather too grandly. ‘But I founded this academy in April 1987 to honour Gabriella Giordani’s sad passing the previous year, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to be able to mark the inauguration of our new centre with a display of her very own collection. For me, it is what makes this exhibition so special.’

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Ben said. ‘Congratulations.’

‘You’ll be wanting that wine now,’ Donatella whispered as they left the count to carry on the rounds of the guests.

‘I don’t know what gives you that impression,’ Ben said.
What a character
, he was thinking.

Donatella smiled slyly. ‘This way.’ She led him through the crowd to the far side of the gallery, where two doors led off from the main space. One was shut and marked ‘Private’. The other was open, leading into a side room where a long table was covered in expensive finger food and drinks. The glasses were crystal, the white wine was on ice and the red had been opened in advance to breathe at room temperature. Catering done properly. Donatella chose white, while Ben helped himself to a glass of excellent Chianti and suddenly felt much better.

Gianni was allowed to wander about the exhibition on strict orders to behave himself and stay within sight. Away from the chatter of the guests, Ben and Donatella sipped their drinks and talked for a few minutes. She was warm, vivacious and smiled a lot. He found her company relaxing and enjoyable. She told him a little more about her husband’s church restoration project, and then asked him about his own business. Ben had long ago learned to answer those kinds of questions without sounding evasive but without getting too specific about the kind of training that went on at Le Val. She’d visited that part of France a few years earlier and was curious to know if his home was anywhere near to Mont Saint Michel, which he told her it was.

As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.

Chapter Eleven

It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.

‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.

The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’

‘Not that I was told about.’

The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’

Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’

‘So?’

‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’

‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’

‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’

‘I
am
the boss.’

Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’

‘Fine.’

Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.

Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.

The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.

‘What is it?’ Buratti said.

‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’

‘What?’

‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’

‘You’re shitting us.’

‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.

Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’

‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do we look like to you?’

Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.

The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Buratti backed away in a panic, then let out a wheezing gasp as Bellomo stepped up behind him and buried a combat dagger in his back. He slumped down on top of Ghini.

Spartak Gourko jumped down from the van. In his hand was the hilt of his knife, a long steel spring protruding where the blade should be. A trophy from his Spetsnaz days. He kicked over the bodies and retrieved the detachable blade from Ghini’s chest. Slipping it into a metal sheath, he compressed it back inside the hilt with an effort before replacing the weapon in his belt.

Anatoly Shikov jumped out of the van next, followed by the other three Russians, each holding a large black canvas holdall. Strong hands grasped Ghini and Buratti by their collars and belts and bundled them messily into the back of the Mercedes.

The ornamental slabs and edging stones were lying in a ditch miles away.

Anatoly slammed the doors shut, peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, checked the dial of his shiny Tag Heuer. Dead on time, the radio gave a splurt and a fizz. He snatched it up. Petrovich’s voice, transmitting from somewhere beyond the woods.

‘You’re good to go,’ Petrovich said in Russian. ‘Landline dead?’

‘As disco.’

‘OK. You and what’s-his-name stand by.’

‘Caracciolo. Copy. See you when it’s done, boss.’

Anatoly shut off the radio. He unzipped a plain black gym bag, took out the cellphone blocker his father had given him, set it down on the van’s passenger seat and activated it. Just like that, all communication to and from the Academia Giordani was cut off. Also in the gym bag was the padded case his father had given him, tailored to the dimensions of the Goya sketch. Anatoly put the strap around his shoulder.

The eight men walked fast across the gravel and paused outside the entrance to unzip the holdalls. First, out came the black balaclavas, standard three-hole military issue. Rocco didn’t like to remove his shades, but couldn’t wear them over the mask. He took them off reluctantly and slipped them into his pocket. Next came the tight-fitting leather gloves; and finally the weapons. Five Steyr TMP ultra-compact 9mm machine pistols with twenty-round magazines; Anatoly grabbed one of those like a kid in a sweet shop, while Rocco Massi helped himself to one of the two AR-15 assault rifles fitted with 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers. Gourko claimed the other. The last firearm to be handed out was the short-barrelled Remington 12-gauge autoloader with folding stock. Good for blowing locks and generally blasting apart anything at close range. That one fell to Garrone.

Between them, it added up to enough firepower to hold off a regiment.

Once everyone was kitted up, all eyes fell on Anatoly. Waiting for his command. He loved this moment.