The Gold of Thrace (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Basel, Switzerland, August 19, 1990

“Now that we found the mosaic,” Tamar said, “I should go back to California.” She speared another shrimp and a piece of tomato with her fork. “I have to get ready for my classes. They start in a few weeks.”

With the sun pleasantly warm on her back, with shoppers strolling along Freiestrasse, Tamar didn’t want to know the truth about Gilberto, didn’t want to know that Orman was dead, or that Mustafa had killed Gilberto. She wanted to push a magical rewind button and go back to before yesterday.

And then she remembered her purse.

She had left it behind when she and Gilberto left for the warehouse.

“I may have to get a new passport,” she said. “It’s in my purse. I left it at Gilberto’s.”

“The house isn’t closed,” Enzio said. “Fabiana is still there. You could go back and get it. You want me to go with you?”

“I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.” She put down her fork. “Fabiana hasn’t left for Cortina?”

“She may stay in Basel a while. Gilberto willed the house and furnishings to the fellow she called her nephew. Name is Benito Motti.”

“Furnishings? Does that include the antiquities?”

“According to his solicitor.” He shrugged.

“How do you know all this?”

“Fischer checked the will. Gilberto left each of his other wives one hundred thousand dollars,” he added, then he laughed. “If you had married him—”

“I could be rich beyond my wildest dreams. What about the goods in the warehouse? Does that go to the so-called nephew, too?”

“I’m not sure. We have to look into what’s stored there, check what’s legal and illegal. The mosaic may not be the only stolen item.” He paused and busied himself with winding linguine on his fork. “And then there’s the question of illicit export. He may have paid for things like frescoes, but Italy can claim anything that’s cultural property, illegal to export.”

“Museums can’t buy cultural property or deal in stolen pieces. Even private parties can get arrested. Didn’t a museum get into trouble over something from Italy a few years ago?”

“The dealer did. Then he bribed some Italian officials and it all went away.”

“And Gilberto? What would he have done with the mosaic?”

“Probably sell it to the Getty. They have money to throw around.”

“As another piece from the Marquis de Cuvier collection?”

“Probably.” His fork dangled in midair with strands of linguine trailing onto his plate. “He would have found a way.” He dropped the fork and sighed. “It’s too depressing. I want to finish this and go back to my day job.”

“Your day job? I thought you worked for Interpol.”

“Only on a contract basis, as a consultant. Interpol has a list of people they call on, experts they call us, for specific jobs. I have a contract for this job. They pay well. You would be good at it, you know.”

“What is your day job?”

“I’m the Keeper of Ancient Art at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale in Naples. I specialize in mosaics—Pompeiian, mostly.”

“I should have guessed,” she said and frowned. “You know too much about archaeology.” She toyed with the shrimp, then leaned back in her chair. “You get time off from the museum to work for Interpol?”

“They clear it with the Director of the Museum. He fabricates some excuse for me to leave—sometimes a research grant, sometimes fieldwork.” Picked up his fork again and rolled more strands of linguine around it. “He’s the only one who knows I work as a consultant for Interpol. Now you know too.” He waved the loaded fork in a vague gesture. “I think Gilberto suspected it.”

“He didn’t do anything about it.”

“I think he liked the challenge.”

She waited for him to take a bite of pasta or put down the fork. He did neither, just contemplated her with the fork suspended in midair.

“They’re going to contact you, you know,” he said. “I recommended you, told them how you worked with us. They need a replacement for Orman.”

“Who?”

“Interpol.”

“A university isn’t the same as a museum. We have a schedule of classes. I don’t think I could get away.”

“Orman managed it. Interpol could arrange things with your dean.” He still held the fork in the air. Some loose pieces of linguine looked dangerously close to falling on the table. “It pays exceptionally well.”

Tamar stabbed at another shrimp, then pushed her plate away. “I’m not very hungry,” she said.

Enzio raised his eyebrow and said, “You need something to rouse your endorphins.”

He finally put down the fork and shoved his plate to the side. He summoned the waiter and ordered a Coupe Danois for Tamar and a Coupe Framboise for himself. The waiter cleared the table.

“What did you order?” she asked after he left.

“Gelato. A hot fudge sundae laced with Grand Marnier for you. Mine has a Cointreau-raspberry sauce.”

“Guaranteed to awaken endorphins?”

He nodded and smiled at her.

The gelato, topped with whipped cream, came in tulip glasses with long-handled dessert spoons. Tamar’s had a small pitcher of chocolate sauce on the side that she poured over the gelato. It hardened slightly, then floated on the softening ice cream.

She tried a spoonful, felt it melt on her tongue, savored the luxury of chocolate and cream with the bite of orange brandy.

“Magnificent,” she said, and took another spoonful.

Enzio lifted his spoon, arched it over to her plate and dipped into the tulip glass for a dollop of the Coupe Danois. He tasted it, licked the spoon, took another spoonful, and smiled.

“Definitely a magnificent moment,” he said.

He poured the raspberry sauce over his gelato and, grinning, fed a spoonful to Tamar. She savored the bright flavor of warm raspberries, the rich taste of vanilla ice cream, the soft tang of Cointreau, and reached over to the Coupe Framboise for another spoonful. She rolled it on her tongue to appreciate the full flavor before she swallowed it, then tried the chocolate coupe again and threw back her head and laughed.

She dipped into it again. When the soft ice cream spilled on her dress, she laughed, and laughed again when Enzio dropped a spoonful on his shirt.

They continued this way, spoons across the table flashing in the sun, laughing all the time, dipping into each other’s servings, smiling into each other’s eyes, lips shining, sticky with chocolate and raspberry.

They scraped the last few drops of sauce from the bottom of their dishes, licked the spoons, and leaned back, still laughing.

“I’m all endorphined out,” Tamar said after a while, and they still sat, looking at each other and smiling until a truck pulled up to the kiosk next door and the driver tossed a stack of newspapers tied with a cord on the curb in front of the kiosk.

Enzio said, “Today’s
Tribune
.” He braced both hands on the table, stood up and started next door to the kiosk.

Tamar signaled the waiter for a bottle of Evian water. He had just cleared the remains of the gelato and wiped the table when Enzio returned. Enzio pushed aside the chairs, moved the glasses, and spread the paper on the table.

There on the front page below the fold, the headline read
NOTED ART DEALER MURDERED IN BASEL
.

They stood side by side to read it. The story said that Mustafa Yeğin, Turkish archaeologist, was being held as Gilberto’s alleged killer. It continued on an inside page with a paean to Gilberto as an outstanding antiquities expert and art dealer.

Two columns over, another a story with the heading
SMUGGLER ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF ARCHAEOLOGIST
with a dateline from The Hague grabbed Tamar’s attention. The article, only three paragraphs long, said that Mario Firenzano, recently released from a Turkish prison for trying to smuggle out hashish hidden in an ancient figurine, had been extradited from Basel and was accused of the murder of Orman Çelibi in The Hague.

“Mario Firenzano,” Tamar repeated. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Is that the Mario you meant? Fabiana’s friend? The one she gave the deposition for that first day I went to Gilberto’s? I remember. They had to let him go.”

Enzio looked up at her. “He was one of Gilberto’s runners.”

“I remember. Gilberto said he stole some coins. Why would he risk dealing with Gilberto by stealing something as minor as coins?”

“The coins were a payment to Firenzano. That’s why the window was left open. Firenzano gets paid. Gilberto gets the money back from the insurance company to cover the robbery.”

“So that’s why Gilberto called the police and reported the robbery? For the insurance?”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I’m not sure how much Gilberto knew.”

“That Fabiana was paying Firenzano off?”

“The extent of it.”

“I think I met Firenzano. What does he look like?”

“He’s easy to spot. Has a scar that runs from his eye to the corner of his lip.”

“Makes it look like he’s sneering?”

Enzio nodded his head. “It does look like that.”

“He’s stocky, with curly gray hair and large liquid eyes?”

“You’ve seen him here, in Basel?”

“He drove us to Augst. And before that, I saw him leaving Gilberto’s by the basement door.”

“When you saw him, was that before or after Gilberto gave you the bracelet?”

She tilted her head in thought and sat down. “You think Firenzano could be the one who brought it from Bulgaria.” She closed her eyes and tried to remember. She got out of the taxi the day she saw him at the basement door, and told Gilberto about it. A friend of Fabiana’s, Gilberto had said, and then Enzio showed up.

“The day you came with the
oinichoe
,” she told him.

“Firenzano had just arrived from Bulgaria that day. He stopped at Gilberto’s before he went to The Hague.”

“The bracelet came from Firenzano? He brought it to Gilberto?”

Enzio folded the paper and sat down next to her. “Looks like it. Firenzano killed Binali Gul, killed Orman, killed Chatham, and he was after you when he showed up at Gilberto’s. He came after you in the tunnel at Augst.”

Tamar rubbed her forehead, dropped her hands in her lap, and looked down at them. “You were in Augst too, I saw you.”

“I followed him in, and we tussled. I carried you out and put you on the grass.” He smiled. “The fireman’s lift. It wasn’t easy. I had to walk bent over, lugging a heavy weight through that narrow tunnel.”

“You didn’t arrest him?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t arrest anyone. I’m a consultant, just do investigations and report to the local police. I called Fischer. He had Firenzano picked up and extradited to The Hague.”

Tamar played with her fingers, bending them to form a pagoda, closed them into a fist and lined up her thumbs side by side. “I thought maybe you were the one who knocked me on the head.”

“I saved you. I carried you out with rats from the tunnel clutching at my pants leg.” He leaned forward and stroked her arm. “Ah, the things I do for you.” He sat back and gazed at her fondly, then said with a frown, “We have to face it. Wherever we look, everything points to Gilberto.”

She reached for the water and took a long gulp. “I don’t think so. He didn’t know it was going to happen.”

“Gilberto wasn’t running the whole thing,” Enzio said.

She thought of Mustafa’s words, ‘It’s done,’ thought of Demitrius coming to Gilberto when he was looking for the Thracian gold. But Gilberto bought books for her in Augst. He expected her to come out of the tunnel alive.

“He wasn’t responsible for what happened in Augst,” she said. “Gilberto may have been wheeling and dealing in antiquities. But someone else was running Gilberto.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Basel, Switzerland, August 19, 1990

Tamar pushed the bell again and kept her finger on the button until she saw someone, not Fabiana, descend the red carpet to the door. Tamar could make out just trouser legs and soft Italian shoes through the beveled glass.

A man with brown curly hair tumbling over his forehead and bright amber eyes opened the door. She had never seen him before.

“Herr Dela Barcolo isn’t here,” he said with a soft Italian accent.

“I’m aware of that,” she said and paused, not sure of what to say next.

He looked like a real estate agent. He wore gray slacks, a blue blazer, and a tie.

“I can show you what you want to see in the absence of Signor Dela Barcolo,” he said at last. “I know the collection.” He stood aside and made a welcoming gesture in the direction of the foyer. “Please to come in.”

He led her past the vitrines of the foyer, past the staircase. “You wish to see something of classical Greek, no?”

She was ready to answer, to say that she only came to collect her purse, but she let him go on.

“I will show you the work of a master,” he said. “If you see it, you will want it.” They passed the salon. “No need to buy now, you must think about it, taste it with your mind.” They continued into the dining room, where he skirted the enormous table, today piled with books and ledgers.

“I am Ercole Sforza,” he said.

His foot felt along the floor, and Tamar realized he was searching for the button to open the cabinets on the far side of the room.

“Sforza?” she said. “Like the medieval Dukes of Milano?”

His foot wandered back and forth beneath the table. “I can only dream.” His voice strained from the exertion of probing for the button. “The name is Sforza, and I am from Milano. Alas, from the wrong side of the blanket.”

He found the button at last and waved his arm in a dramatic gesture as if he were performing a magic act. The cabinets opened and he glided over to the far wall and reached for a
kylix
.

He held it out to her. “You see. It is signed Epiktetus,” he said, and turned it over.

“With a flute player and dancer in the tondo,” she said, remembering. “It’s beautiful.”

“But not so beautiful as you. Your eyes are magic. You have held many a man captive with your eyes.”

His voice was low and intimate but his delivery was not as good as Gilberto’s. Tamar wondered what would come next, when Fabiana’s strident voice came from the doorway.

“What do you want here?”

Fabiana advanced into the room, all the while railing in rapid Italian at Sforza. She called him Benito. As far as Tamar could make out, Fabiana told Benito to leave, that she would take care of everything. He reddened, then shrugged, and left through the kitchen.

“Why are you here?” Fabiana asked Tamar.

She crossed the room and shoved the doors of the cabinet closed until they clicked and turned back to Tamar. “You haven’t made enough damage? You destroyed Gilberto. If it weren’t for you….” Her face was red and the veins of her neck stood out. “And now you’re after me and Benito.”

“I came for my purse,” Tamar said.

“You think I stole it? It’s locked in the desk upstairs. Everything is safe, just as you left it, your purse, your wallet, your passport. You think I need your money?” She said all of it quickly, without stopping.

“I left it yesterday—” Tamar began, but Fabiana had already started for the stairway.

Tamar followed.

“The young man,” Tamar said. “You called him Benito?”

“He’s my nephew.”

“Benito Motti?”

Fabiana’s grip on the banister tightened so that her knuckles stood out. “Yes. My nephew,” she said again.

“From Cortina?” Tamar climbed the next step. “He told me his name was Ercole Sforza.”

“He changed it.” Fabiana turned around and looked down at her. “He studied at the university in Florence,” she said, as if that accounted for a new name.

And maybe it did, Tamar thought. When Gilberto was Sergio Benetti, he was a street lout in an ill-fitting suit, but as Gilberto Dela Barcolo, he could charm the sweat off a horse. Sergio Benetti married Fabiana. Gilberto Dela Barcolo married a rich American widow and sold antiquities on Madison Avenue.

Benito Motti is just a peasant boy from a village in the Alps. Ercole Sforza can walk with princes—princes and thieves. And Fabiana can teach him how, just as she probably taught Gilberto.

Gilberto and Ercole are creations of Fabiana, just as Firenzano was. It was Firenzano who sneaked through the basement window that Fabiana had left open when the coins were stolen from Gilberto. It was Firenzano Tamar saw at the basement door after he met with Fabiana, Firenzano who brought the Thracian gold from Bulgaria.

Fabiana continued up the stairs toward the gallery. Tamar trudged after her, uncertain whether to follow.

Fabiana couldn’t have run it all—run Gilberto, run Firenzano, run smuggling contraband, run stealing finds from archaeological sites that ended up in Basel.

They had reached the landing now. The vitrine stood against the far wall just as it had before, but the desk had been moved closer to the railing into a dark corner of the gallery. The Kore stood alone on its plinth near the corner of the gallery.

Light filtered from the skylight and glanced off the glass door of the vitrine. Tamar noticed gaps in the shelves; the place where the Roman Kybele had been was empty. The Kybele was gone.

Fabiana grunted and pointed to left lower drawer of the desk. “In there,” she said.

Tamar had to wedge herself into the narrow space between the desk and the railing to open the drawer.

The drawer was stuck. She tugged again. It pulled loose, she stumbled against the rail, the purse fell to the floor.

She reached for it. No room to bend. She kicked at it with her foot, pulled it up by the handle.

Fabiana had moved to the front of the desk, crowding Tamar into the corner next to the Kore. Tamar tried to wriggle past. Fabiana blocked the way.

Fabiana reached into the top drawer of the desk, took out a packet wrapped in blue tissue paper and began to unwrap it, rolling the paper along the top of the desk.

“This dagger belonged to an Arab sheik in the time of the Crusades,” Fabiana said without blinking. “Gilberto has a buyer who will pay a million dollars for it.”

A diamond hilted dagger with a gold blade rolled out of the wrapping and across the desk.

Gold is too soft to do any harm, Tamar thought. It’s just decorative.

“Beautiful,” she said.

Fabiana picked up the dagger, wrapped her hand around the hilt, and jabbed it in the air. Her face was blank and cold, with no expression—no acknowledgment, no rage, no warning.

Tamar felt a chill of fear, her pulse quickened; she backed further into the corner. The purse swung awkwardly from her shoulder. She squirmed in the narrow space, tried to get around Fabiana.

Fabiana lurched forward, the dagger clutched in her fist, pointed at Tamar.

Tamar ducked. The tip caught her right arm.

“Just decorative,” Tamar said.

She looked down. Her arm was bleeding.

She tried to move out, swung the purse. Fabiana ducked, pressed closer and let loose a rapid spate of Italian.

Tamar’s arm throbbed.

“Gold over steel,” Fabiana said and fingered the tip of the blade. “Like me.”

Her grip tightened on the handle of the blade. “It was used for royal executions.”

She lunged, thrust the dagger at Tamar.

Tamar dodged. It caught her on the side, rent her dress, nicked her arm again.

She shrank back, wedged tighter into the corner, held the purse in front of her like a shield.

“It’s all gone,” Fabiana said, almost spitting. “You took everything.”

She let loose a spate of curses in rapid Italian and pounced again, this time straight at Tamar’s chest.

Tamar parried with the purse, heard the blade crush into the straw, felt the force against her body, felt the prick of the dagger embed in the purse.

The purse dropped over the railing, tumbled purse over dagger, dagger over purse onto the stone floor of the foyer.

“
Merda
,” Fabiana said and grabbed Tamar’s injured arm, wrenched it.

The pain flared up into her shoulder.

Footsteps in the foyer, Ercole shouting, “No, no, no.”

Fabiana clutched Tamar’s sleeve. The sleeve tore away.

“No, no, no,” from down below. Fabiana looked down.

Tamar pushed her back, back, scrambled out from behind the desk and Fabiana charged, rammed with her head.

Tamar staggered, lost her balance, backed farther, fell to the floor, her back against the stand of the Kore.

She saw it rock, tilt off the plinth. She closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her head, ducked and rolled away.

She heard a thump, heard a groan from Fabiana, heard the Kore shatter.

“No, no, no.”

She opened her eyes, saw Fabiana on the floor, still gripping Tamar’s torn sleeve, her eyes still open, her head at an odd angle. The broken Kore lay smashed on the floor next to her head.

Ercole had come up the stairs, bent over Fabiana and let out a soft cry. He sat on the floor with Fabiana’s head in his arms and rocked back and forth.

“Is she breathing?” Tamar asked and sat down next to him.

She couldn’t stop shaking.

Still rocking, Ercole leaned down, listened with his head close to Fabiana’s face. Tears ran down, over the bridge of his nose, across his cheek, onto Fabiana’s open eyes, and he continued rocking.

“Does she have a pulse?” Tamar asked.

Ercole’s nose was running. He wiped it with the back of his hand, fumbled for Fabiana’s wrist, and began to sob.

Tamar started to reach out to him, then changed her mind.

She crept down the stairs. Her hand, sticky and wet with blood, clutched the banister.

She searched in her pocket for the card Fischer had given her, went into the small alcove off the living room, and called him.

She sat in the alcove, staring out the window until she saw Fischer’s car pull up and went to the door to let him in. Enzio was with him.

Enzio looked at the cut on her arm, her torn, bloodstained dress. “You certainly are hard on your clothes,” he said.

She led them up to the gallery. Fischer knelt down next to Fabiana, felt for a pulse, then shook his head. He looked over at Ercole, seated on the bottom step of the stairway, his hands pressed against his forehead.

“My name is Benito Motti,” he said. “I come from Cortina.”