The Dante Conspiracy (8 page)
‘Actually, I wasn’t thinking about those so much as one particular
relic which is intimately associated with Dante, and which does seem to me to be
a better fit for what is described in those verses than anything else I’m aware
of here in Florence. And you could also hide something in it.’
‘Now you’ve certainly got my attention,’ Perini said, swinging
his chair around to look at the younger man. ‘What you talking about, exactly?’
Lombardi shook his head and gave a slightly rueful smile.
‘First, let me explain the way I’ve been thinking,’ he said.
‘The thing that seems perhaps the most unusual about those verses is that reference
to the “animal of the Greeks”. When we were talking about it earlier, you said if
you asked most people the question, the majority would probably say the animal of
the Greeks was either a goat or a donkey, because those are the two creatures which
always seem to be most closely associated with that part of the world. And that,
as we both agree, doesn’t make any kind of sense in the context of some relic left
by Dante. But then I started thinking laterally, and I wondered if we’re looking
at that particular aspect of the verses in too narrow a fashion.
Because there is one other animal, of a sort, that’s always associated
with the Greeks and which seems to me more likely to be the right answer here.’
Lombardi paused and looked at his superior, waiting for him to
respond.
Perini nodded encouragingly.
‘Right, I’ll buy it. What you talking about?’
‘Well, it’s not really an animal at all, just a trick.’
‘Of course,’ Perini
said,
his face lighting
up. ‘You’re talking about the Trojan horse.’
‘Got it in one.
Now, as far as I know,
nothing like the Trojan horse is actually involved here, but it occurred to me that
maybe we should be looking at the concept, rather than the actual mechanics of what
happened at Troy. We already know that Dante was banished from Florence, from his
home, in perpetuity. We also know that he was desperate to get back here, but that
he never managed to do this, and that his bones still lie in his tomb in Ravenna.
So taking all those facts and putting them together, I wondered if, before he died,
he might have asked one of his friends in Ravenna or elsewhere to try to get something
of his, something important to him, back into the city of his birth, just as a kind
of token, I suppose you could say, after his death. But because he had been sentenced
to permanent exile, they couldn’t do this openly, because the city fathers of Florence
would almost certainly have refused to accept whatever it was. So the only option
would have been to get something sent here that probably would have been accepted,
but include something else in the package, just like the Greeks did with the Trojan
horse.’
Lombardi paused for a moment, as if marshalling his thoughts.
Then he continued.
‘So that’s my theory, if you like. The trouble is that I can’t
really make the other cryptic references in the new verses fit the object I think
is being referred to, and there’s also another problem. If Dante’s friends were
trying to sneak something into Florence in accordance with the poet’s dying wishes,
I’m also not sure whether or not the city fathers would have accepted this particular
relic.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense, Cesare. What are you talking about,
and where is it?’
‘It’s in the Palazzo
Vecchio
, and it’s
Dante’s death mask.’
‘I can assure you, Inspector Perini, that our security precautions
are entirely adequate. This palace contains a large number of extremely valuable
objects, and several that are almost literally priceless. The chances of anyone
being able to break in here are extraordinarily slim. As well as what you might
term our perimeter defence, the external walls, windows, doors and alarms, many
of the exhibits here are protected by their own individual security systems, everything
from armoured glass to motion sensors and infrared detectors.’
The senior custodian of the Palazzo
Vecchio
,
a short, dapper and slightly plump middle-aged man who looked as if he should probably
be wearing spats, twirled the end of his well-trained moustache before he continued.
‘And the other obvious objection to this theory you seem to have
concocted is that this object’ – he tapped the top of the polished wooden box containing
Dante’s death mask – ‘is realistically little more than a curio. Its value depends
entirely upon who wants it, but if a gang of thieves was, as you have suggested,
determined to break in here and commit a robbery I can think of fifty or sixty items
that they could take which will be worth far more money on the black market for
antiques than this.’
Perini opened his mouth to point out that that wasn’t actually
what he’d said at all, but Lombardi beat him to it.
‘We are not suggesting simply a random robbery, as we’ve already
explained to you, twice now, in fact. What we believe is that a gang of thieves
may try and enter this building intent on stealing just this one object.’
The curator looked at him in an irritated manner.
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Why would they want to steal this object,
which I have already explained to you’ – he gave a small tight smile to show that
he was deliberately repeating the phrase Lombardi had used just moments earlier
– ‘is of almost no value?’
‘We think,’ Perini said, ‘that members of this gang believe that
an important and valuable relic has been concealed either in the box or perhaps
even behind the death mask itself, and it is that object which they will be attempting
to steal.’
An expression of utter incredulity spread across the curator’s
face.
‘Relic?
What relic?’
He pointed a pink forefinger at the wooden display box, inside
which a grey representation of a face which may or may not have been that of Dante
Alighieri – the death mask had been recreated, and was not the original – was suspended
against a background of purple fabric.
‘I can tell you precisely what is inside this box. A length of
material and the death mask itself.
Nothing else.
There
are no secret drawers or hollow sections. In short, there is nowhere for anything
to be concealed.’
Lombardi was clearly getting progressively more irritated by
the man’s haughty and condescending attitude, and Perini sensed that he was about
to say something that they might both regret. So he stepped in first.
‘If you recall, I didn’t say that there
was
anything concealed within this box. I only said that members of
the gang possibly
believed
that there
was something concealed in it, which is an entirely different matter. However, we
are both busy and I’m sure you are as well, and I have no wish to prolong this conversation.
So I will state our position again. We believe that an attempt may be made to enter
this building and steal this relic, possibly as early as tonight. Are you prepared
to allow two of my armed uniformed officers to remain here overnight as a precaution
and as a backup to your existing alarm systems? Please consider your decision carefully,
because I will obviously be making a report of the substance of this meeting and
your decision to my superiors.’
And that was essentially a line drawn very clearly in the sand.
Both detectives stood in silence, looking at the curator and waiting for his decision.
For a few moments, he didn’t reply, his eyes flicking from one
man to the other. Then he gave a reluctant not.
‘This is a complete waste of time,’ he snapped, ‘but if it will
keep you happy you can station two men here. They will need to arrive at least half
an hour before we close so that I can brief them on the internal alarm systems and
other matters. I do not want them blundering around knocking things over or setting
off the motion detectors.’
Five minutes later, Perini and Lombardi walked out of the building
and headed for their car. But after a few yards, both men stopped and looked back
at the palazzo.
‘Arrogant arsehole,’ Lombardi muttered. ‘We were trying to do
him a favour, and he acted as if we were trying to rip him off. I hope he does get
burgled,
and preferably sometime soon. And I thought we
agreed that we should station four armed officers in the building? What these people
did to Bertorelli shows what they’re capable of.’
‘I know we did,’ Perini agreed, ‘but I changed my mind when we
were in there. The curator’s quite right. The Palazzo
Vecchio
does have an entirely adequate alarm system and it would be a difficult place to
get into, but that wasn’t the reason. We were able to just flash our badges, walk
in their and examine the death mask, and there’s absolutely no reason why these
criminals can’t pitch up there themselves, pay the admission fee and then do exactly
the same. And if they did that, I’m quite sure that they would also come to the
same conclusion, that the box containing the relic is simply too small to have anything
else concealed in it.’
Lombardi looked crestfallen.
‘So you think I’m wrong? That I’ve read more into those verses
that there is to be found there?’
Perini slapped him on the shoulder.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I think you’re quite right. I just don’t
believe that that relic is going to be the target of whatever these men do next.
There must be something else here, something directly connected with Dante that
we’ve missed.’
It had taken a lot longer than he had expected, because some
parts of the city archives had suffered during the flooding of the River Arno, floods
which had been both a common and a highly destructive feature of the city of Florence
through the ages. There were gaps in the records, and several times he had been
forced to make what amounted to educated guesses as he attempted to trace the thread
that ran through the documents from the end of the thirteenth century to the present
day.
When he reached the end of the research, he’d started again,
going back and double-checking everything once again, just to make sure. Only then
did he make the telephone call to arrange a meeting with his client.
‘How certain are you that this is correct?’ Stefan asked, looking
down at the pages of notes, principally comprising names, dates and addresses, which
the dark-haired young man sitting opposite him had just handed over.
Dino
Spagnoli
was a professional researcher,
employed on a freelance basis by everybody from authors trying to get the facts
right in their latest novel and historians farming out part of their research, to
people looking for a heirs who had unaccountably gone missing, and others trying
to trace past property ownership – shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you asked me to quote a figure,’ he said, ‘I’d say about
ninety per cent, and that is about as good a result as you’re going to get from
anybody. The problem isn’t tracing information back through the records. That’s
the easy bit. The trick is trying to fill in the gaps where the records literally
no longer exist. You’ve obviously heard about the floods we’ve had here in the past.
A lot of information was simply lost due to water damage, and some of the other
records which were saved are still awaiting restoration and can’t be accessed by
me or by anybody else. But I’m confident that the end result is right.’
He leaned forward over the small circular table in the cafe on
the outskirts of Florence which Stefan had suggested for their meeting, and pointed
at the last line of the sheet of paper the other man was studying.
‘What I’m saying is that I have almost no doubts that that piece
of information is correct.’
Stefan nodded, reached into his pocket and took out a sealed
envelope which he tossed onto the table.
‘Your fee,’ he said, ‘as we agreed.’
Spagnoli
used the handle of his coffee
spoon to break the seal and glanced inside the envelope. It looked about the right
amount. Then he got to his feet with a smile and extended a hand across the table.
‘A pleasure doing business with you, my friend.’
The other man glanced at his outstretched hand but ignored it.
Then he looked up briefly at the young man’s face, before returning to his study
of the papers.
Spagnoli
dropped his hand to his side,
his smile dimming somewhat at the other man’s rudeness. But as he walked away his
smile returned, and he glanced at his watch. The timing was just about perfect.
His services were much in demand in Florence, but the two telephone
calls he had received the previous day less than thirty minutes apart had been a
first, even for him. Both callers had been looking for precisely the same piece
of information and both had agreed to the fee he had suggested without the slightest
quibbling. He had effectively been paid twice over for doing the same job.
The second meeting of the afternoon was at another Florentine
cafe less than a mile away, where he would hand over an exact duplicate of the information
he already supplied to his first client a few minutes earlier.
He just hoped that the Russian would pay up as promptly as the
man from the Balkans, and with as little fuss.
Night in the old city on the Arno.
The
goldsmiths’ shops that lined the Ponte
Vecchio
, the bridge
that Adolf Hitler had thought was too beautiful to be destroyed as the German Army
began its final retreat from Italy, were deserted, the streets empty of all but
the last one or two Florentines finally heading home from the bar or restaurant
where they’d spent the evening. The pale moonlight, filtered through a scattering
of cloud layers, played over the Santa Maria del Fiore, commonly referred to as
the
Duomo
, and the
Baptistry
,
giving life to insubstantial shadows that seemed to flicker and move around the
ancient buildings.