James Twining - The Geneva Deception

‘Yes, good morning, sir, it’s the switchboard. I’m sorry to bother you, but you asked that we should let you know if anyone asked for the location of Special Agent Browne’s office. Well, someone just did.’

Headquarters of the Guarda di Finanza, Viale XXI Aprile, Rome

18th March – 4.36 p.m.

‘When was this?’ Allegra asked, returning the bag containing the lead disc with a puzzled frown.

‘The fifteenth,’ Gambetta replied, placing it carefully back in the box.

‘The fifteenth?’ she shot back incredulously. ‘He died on the fifteenth of March? Are you sure?’

‘That’s what it said in the case file,’ he confirmed, looking startled by her reaction. ‘Why?’

The fifteenth was the Ides of March, the same day that Caesar had been killed over two thousand years before. Cavalli and Ricci’s murders weren’t just linked by the lead disc. They were echoes of each other.

‘What was he doing in Rome?’ she asked, ignoring his question.

‘He owned a place over in Travestere. Was probably up and down here on business.’

‘Who found him?’

‘River police on a routine patrol. He was hanging from one of the statues on the bridge – the Angel with the Cross, from what I can remember. Their first thought was that it was a suicide, until some bright spark pointed out that his wrists were tied behind his back. Not to mention that the rope would have decapitated him if he’d jumped from that height.’

‘You mean he was deliberately lowered into the water?’ Allegra asked in a sceptical tone.

‘The current there is quite strong. Whoever killed him clearly wanted to draw it out. Make sure he suffered.’

She detected the same hint of horrified fascination in Gambetta’s voice that she’d noticed in herself when she’d first caught sight of Ricci’s body.

‘Why’s the GDF involved? It sounds more like one for the local Questura.’

‘It was, until they impounded his Maserati near the Due Ponti metro and found fifty thousand euro in counterfeit notes lining the spare wheel. Anything to do with currency fraud gets referred here.’

She nodded slowly, her excitement at this unexpected breakthrough tempered by the depressing thought that this was probably going to make an already difficult case even more complicated. Something of her concern must have shown in her face because Gambetta fixed her with a worried look.

‘Is everything okay? I hope I haven’t…’

‘You did the right thing,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m sure Colonel Gallo will want to come down here in person to thank you.’

Gambetta beamed, a vain attempt to pull his stomach in and push his chest out making his face flush.

‘Do you mind if I have a quick look through the rest of Cavalli’s stuff?’

‘Of course not. Here, I’ll move it over there where you can see properly.’ He scooped the box up and led her a short way further down the aisle to where a battered angle-poise lamp decorated with the small stickers found on imported fruit had been arranged on a folding table. ‘That’s better.’

‘Much,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve been incredibly -’

There was a rap against the counter window at the far end of the room. Gambetta placed his fingers against his lips.

‘Wait here,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘I’ll get rid of them.’

He lumbered back towards the entrance, leaving Allegra to go through the rest of the contents of the box. Much of it was what you’d expect to find in someone’s pockets: a mobile phone – no longer working – some loose change, reading glasses, a damp box of matches and an empty pack of Marlboro Lights. His wallet, meanwhile, as loaded with the standard everyman paraphernalia of cash, bank cards, identity card and an assortment of disintegrating restaurant receipts.

There was a nice watch too – round and simple with a white face, elegant black Roman numerals and a scrolling date. Unusually, apart from the Greek letter Gamma engraved on the back of the stainless steel case, it seemed to have no make or logo marked anywhere on it, featuring instead a distinctive bright orange second hand which stood out against the muted background. Finally there was a set of keys – house and car, judging from the Maserati key fob.

An angry shout made her glance up towards the entrance. Gambetta seemed to be having an argument with the person on the other side of the window, his voice echoing towards her. As she watched, he stepped away from the window, unclipped his keys from his belt, and waved at her to get back.

Allegra didn’t have to be told what to do. Still clutching Cavalli’s keys, she retreated to the far end of the aisle and hid. Gambetta had done her a favour by letting her in here and the last thing she wanted to do was get him in trouble. Even so, she couldn’t quite resist peering around the edge of the pier as he unbolted the door.

She never even saw the gun, the rolling echo of the shot’s silenced thump breaking over her like a wave before she’d even realised what was happening. The next thing she knew, Gambetta was staggering back, his arms flailing at his throat, legs buckling like an elephant caught in a poacher’s snare. He swayed unsteadily for a few moments longer, desperately trying to stay on his feet. Then, with a bellow, he crashed to the concrete floor.

J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, Washington DC

18th March – 10.37 a.m.

The fifth floor was much busier than the one he had just come from. Even so, Tom wasn’t worried about being recognised. Of the eight thousand or so people who worked out of this building, he doubted whether any more than five knew who he was. And rather than hinder him, the floor’s bustling, largely open-plan configuration made it easier for him to blend in and move around unchallenged.

What was immediately clear, however, was that here, news of what had happened last night in Vegas had already spread. There was a strained atmosphere, people going about their usual business with a forced normality, judging from their sombre faces and the irritable edge to their voices. Tom, it seemed, wasn’t the only one who was finding comfort in anger’s rough-hewn arms. And yet, amidst the bitterness, he detected something else in people’s eyes, something unsaid but no less powerfully felt. Relief. Relief that it hadn’t been them. He wondered how many people had called up their wives or boyfriends or children this morning upon hearing what had happened, just to hear the sound of their voice. Just to let them know that they were okay.

As the operator had suggested, Tom found the room Jennifer had been camping out in the northeastern quadrant of the building. Like all the other offices that lined the perimeter of the floor, it was essentially a glass box, albeit one with a view of 9th Street and a nameplate denoting the identity of its rightful owner – Phil Tucker. Unlike the rooms which flanked it, however, its door was shut and all the blinds drawn in what Tom assumed was a subtle and yet deliberately symbolic mark of respect. Less clear was whether this was a spontaneous reaction to Jennifer’s death or part of some well-defined and yet unwritten mourning ritual that was observed whenever a colleague fell in the line of duty. Either way, it suited him well, concealing him from view once he had satisfied himself that no one was watching him and slipped inside.

Almost immediately, Tom’s heart sank. Perhaps without realising it until now, he had secretly been hoping to find a bit more of Jennifer here, even though he knew that this had only ever been a very recent and temporary home for her. Instead it boasted a sterile anonymity that was only partly lifted by Tucker’s scattered photographs and random personal trinkets. Then again, he couldn’t help but wonder if Jennifer’s hand wasn’t perhaps present in the clinical symmetry of the pens laid out on the desktop and the ordered stack of files and papers on the bookshelf, that he suspected had probably been littering the floor when she had first taken ownership of the room. And there was no debating who was responsible for the lipstick-smeared rim of the polystyrene cup that was still nestling in the trash. He gave a rueful smile. She had been here, after all. He was a guest, not an intruder.