The Fallen (19 page)

“You’d better be careful with that,” Greaves said.

Maglietta patted the stock of the gun. “I like that it’s unreliable. This way, I have to think twice before I pull the trigger.”

Greaves went to the doorway and looked out into the street. The sky had begun to lighten, but in the roadway everything was still cast in shadows. Soon, though, the sun would climb high enough to burn off the night’s dampness that slicked the cobblestones. He saw the young policeman standing by the wall, watching the doorways of the other buildings. He had started the engine of the dark green sedan and left both the driver’s door and the rear passenger’s door open. Greaves went back inside to collect the prisoner.

He came out with the boy at his side and Maglietta behind, the butt of the carbine propped against his hip. After a few steps the boy stumbled and fell to his knees. As Greaves bent down to help him up again, he caught something out of the corner of his eye, like a shadow that had sprung to life. Maglietta shouted and Greaves turned in time to see the flash from the sawed-off muzzle of a shotgun. The
brigadiere
levelled his carbine and fired off six quick shots that sounded like six sharp handclaps. Then Greaves’s head began to spin and he fell onto
his backside on the cobblestones. He felt a searing pain on the left side of his face, and his ears hummed as if he had a head full of cicadas.

Maglietta was kneeling at his side. “It’s all right,” he said. He put a hand on Greaves’s back to keep him from toppling over. He slipped another hand beneath his collar.

“What happened?” Greaves said. “Where’s the boy?”

“Don’t worry about the boy. Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you feel your fingers? Your toes?”

Greaves nodded. He looked past Maglietta. In the middle of the road, his body stretched out at an odd angle, was the boy, his head turned to the side so that he was facing Greaves. Everything below the cheekbone was gone, and white bits of brain speckled the pavement.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Maglietta said. “He’s dead. And the other one too.”

“The other one?” Greaves said, his own words sounding far away to him. “Who’s the other one?”

“Who knows? Another brother, maybe, or a cousin—it doesn’t matter now.”

A wave of nausea washed over Greaves, and he vomited down his shirt front.

Maglietta yelled to the young policeman. “Come help me get him into the car.” Then he looked Greaves in the face. “Listen to me. You are wounded, but it is not very bad. I am going to take you back to my house. Cordelia will fix you up.”

“And then what?” Greaves said.

“And then we must all leave,” said Maglietta.

Cioffi could sense someone watching, but he carried on with what he was doing. He reorganized the cameos on the narrow shelf of the display case and then stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. When he did so, he also shifted the medical bag with his foot, surreptitiously tucking it behind the base of the cabinet. Then he turned around to check who was there.

“Ah, Luisa,” he said, seeing his uncle’s assistant standing in the doorway of the small gallery.

Luisa came into the room. She looked into the display case. “What are you doing, Aldo?”

Cioffi closed the glass-fronted door of the cabinet and locked it with the keys that Augusto had given him. “I am doing the same as you. I am taking the inventory.”

“These exhibits have already been catalogued.”

“Yes, but you know how particular my uncle can be.”

“Are you saying Augusto asked you to do this?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Cioffi. “Augusto asked me.”

“You’re lying.”

“Don’t be silly. Why would I—”

Luisa stepped around him and picked up the bag from where he’d tried to hide it. He made to take it from her, but she swatted his hand
away. Then she reached into the bag and brought out a handful of cameos.

“What’s this?” she said, holding them out to him.

“Please,” Cioffi said. “Let me explain.”

“I knew you couldn’t be trusted.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“I understand fine. You are a thief. You always have been.” She dropped the cameos back into the bag. “Your uncle will not help you this time. I won’t let him.”

As she started to walk past him, Cioffi grabbed hold of her arm. “Please,” he said. “I beg you.”

“Let go of me.”

But rather than release her, Cioffi held her more tightly, digging his fingernails into her forearm. He had hoped to hurt her, but her face betrayed no hint of pain.

“They’ll kill me,” he said. “And then they will kill him.”

“What are you talking about?” said Luisa. “Kill who?”

“They’ll kill Augusto,” Cioffi said, his voice high-pitched and anxious. “They will kill me and then they will kill Augusto.”

“Let go of my arm,” said Luisa through gritted teeth.

When he took his hand away, she struck out at him, a flurry of open palms that caught him about the head and face. He shrank from her, but she pursued him until his back was to the wall. She kept swinging, boxing his ears, her nails stinging his cheeks. Before he was even conscious of it, he was weeping. Tears streamed down his face. With upraised arms he tried to shield himself from her blows. Then his knees weakened and he felt himself sliding slowly to the floor. Finally, she stopped.

She loomed over him, and in a calm voice said: “Who, Aldo? Who are
they
?”

“Salvatore Varone and his people.”

“Who is Salvatore Varone?”

“He is Camorra,” Cioffi said through his sobs. “A boss.”

“And you let yourself get involved with him?”

Cioffi nodded.

“My God. You’re not just a fool, are you? You’re a dangerous fool.” She put her hand to her forehead and sighed. “What have you promised?”

“I’m to bring him things,” Cioffi said. “Pieces from the collection that he can smuggle through the lines to contacts in the north.”

“It’s not enough that they loot the excavations, now you invite them into the museum as well. Perhaps I should let this Varone kill you.”

For a moment it seemed as if she were considering the option, until he said: “And Augusto? What about him?”

She stared down at him, and Cioffi thought she might attack him again. But she did not. Instead, she went to where the medical bag lay. She picked it up and went to the display case. She unlocked the door and began to return the cameos to the shelf—all but one. This last cameo she held out to him.

“Give him that,” she said. “I’m sure it will satisfy him for the moment. And don’t you breathe a word of this to your uncle.”

Cioffi took the cameo. He held it to his chest. “I won’t say a thing,” he told her. “But … but what will you do?”

“You let me worry about that,” Luisa said.

Then she turned and left the gallery. And when she’d gone, Cioffi felt not relief but an even greater dread, as if somehow a terrible thing had been not so much avoided as simply put off for a time.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve always found the French more cultured than the Italians.”

Major Woodard used an atomizer to spray the leaves of an aspidistra that had arrived the day before at Capodichino airfield. It came on a flight from London: a gift from his wife. Its arrival seemed to have lifted the major’s spirits considerably, though Greaves sensed something forced about his distraction.

“You know, when I was FSO at Philippeville, I used to go quite often to visit one of the local
colons
on his cotton plantation in the countryside. He always had excellent port. And after dinner we would have ourselves a few glasses in the salon and listen to Gilbert and Sullivan recordings on a phonograph. He had the entire collection. Even
The Grand Duke
, which he claimed to have seen at the Savoy Theatre, though I doubt that very much. Still, it goes to my point: Gilbert and Sullivan on the edge of the desert—it’s just civilized.”

Greaves waited for the major to go on, but it seemed he had finished. He stood admiring his smuggled houseplant, swaying slightly as if to a remembered tune from one of the
colon’
s comic operas. Then he set the atomizer aside and came back to his desk.

He nodded towards Greaves’s wound without looking directly at it. “A nasty bit of business, that. You’re certain you don’t want to stop by 21st GH and have someone proper look at it?”

Greaves touched the swatch of gauze taped to his neck. “The
brigadiere’s
wife saw to me. She was a nurse before she got married.”

“Well, it’s up to you, I suppose,” said the major. He leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. “And how did you leave things in Tenerello?”

“The Carabinieri have cleared out,” said Greaves. “It’s too dangerous for them now.”

“The
brigadiere
, too?”

“I took Francesco and his wife and daughters to Nola. They’ll be staying with family there until things get sorted out.”

“He’l l have to answer for leaving his post.”

“I’m sure he’d rather do it in Nola than Tenerello, sir,” Greaves said.

“Then it’s the Italians’ problem now, not ours.” Major Woodard leaned forward and began to shuffle absently through the paperwork on his desk. “And how about you, lieutenant? How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be fine,” Greaves said.

“I was thinking you might want some time off.”

“Sir?”

“I mean, it’s only natural, isn’t it, after something like this. A close call like you had can rattle a man—throw him for a loop. Especially if he’s someone who …” The major searched for the right words. “Especially if he’s someone who’s faced stress before. Perhaps you should take a few days to recuperate. Get your legs back under you, so to speak.”

“I am all right, sir,” said Greaves. “Really, there’s no need—”

“Nonsense,” said Major Woodard. “I thought Sorrento might be a good idea. Sergeant Roylance should have settled himself by now. I’m sure he’ll see that you’re well looked after. And I’ll have Sergeant Jones see to your liaison duty—he can manage that much on his wonky leg. I’ve checked, and you haven’t anything on the docket at Castel Capuano. Bennington’s fine with the wire-cutting investigations and Philbin can take care of any vetting that might crop up.”

“That’s very good of you, sir.”

“Yes, well, we see to our own, lieutenant. We see to our own.”

What happened in Tenerello seemed to have upset the major. He was nervous in Greaves’s presence, like someone who finds himself in close proximity to the sick and fears the spread of contagion.

“If you really think it’s best, sir.”

Major Woodard nodded. “Yes, lieutenant. Yes, I do think it’s best.”

Colonel Romney and his men descended on the museum like a regiment of accountants. Attaché cases and file boxes in hand, they set themselves up in a conference room on the second floor. They arrived with a detachment of military police that took over the guard duties from the Carabinieri and sent Parente’s workmen home for the day. Sentries were posted at all the doors.

“I’m sorry about this,” the colonel said later in Parente’s office. “It must all seem heavy-handed.”

“It does,” Parente told him. “And we have not yet finished the inventory.”

“Yes, I know,” said Romney. “Don’t worry, though, my men are professionals. Most of them worked in galleries and museums stateside. Cataloguing is second nature to them.”

“But I don’t understand. I thought we had more time.”

“You do,” the colonel said as he picked up the Head of Isis from the window ledge. “You have all the time in the world. But I haven’t. For you, this museum is your only concern. For me, it’s just one of many. I still have the Capodimonte and the Civico Filangieri to worry about, and by all accounts they haven’t fared near as well as you. I’ve got a list of missing pieces as long as my arm.”

“Then why not let us finish our work?”

“Look,
professore
,” said Colonel Romney. “The thing is this: The Fifth Army is about to break through at Monte Cassino. And after Monte Cassino it’s a clear road straight through to Rome. My men need to be there when that happens because, let’s face facts, there are greater treasures in Rome than there are in Naples.” He returned the
statuette to its place and wiped his dusty finger on his trouser leg. “We should have it all finished up in a day or two, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

“I want to oversee your men,” Parente said.

“Of course. You are more than welcome to observe our entire operation. I must ask you, though, not to interfere. You understand, of course, that the museum falls under the purview of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Section.”

“You mean it belongs to the Americans now,” said Parente.

“For the time being,
professore
,” Romney said, “yes, it does.”

Luisa arrived just as the colonel was leaving. He tipped his cap to her and wished her a good day and then strode out of the office. Once he was gone, Parente felt himself sag; it was as if what little spirit remained in him had been quashed under the heel of the colonel’s boot. He went to his desk and sat down.

“Augusto? Are you all right?”

“Where have you been, Luisa? All of this going on and I can’t find you anywhere.”

“I’m sorry. I was with Aldo. We were rechecking some of the exhibits.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. They’ve taken it from me, Luisa. The Americans—they have taken my museum.”

How many times had he secretly wished it would happen, wished that someone would come along and relieve him of the burden, so that he didn’t have to worry anymore about the bureaucracy or the bombs or the thieves? But now that someone had done just that, Parente faced the unpleasant reality that, without the museum, he did not exist. Without the museum, he was just a useless old man in a city that was already overflowing with useless old men.

Luisa came and stood behind him. She put her hands on his
shoulders and gently massaged his tired muscles. “Perhaps it is better,” she said. “For a little while, at least.”

Her words left him hollow, as if in saying them she became part of the betrayal.

“Maybe you are right,” he said. “Maybe it is for the best.”