James Twining - The Geneva Deception

‘It’s Roman,’ Dominique whispered, stooping to look at a small section of the frescoed wall which hadn’t crumbled away. ‘Probably a private villa. Someone rich, because this looks like it might have been part of a bath complex.’ She pointed at a small section of the tessellated floor which had given way, revealing a four-foot cavity underneath, supported by columns of terracotta tiles. ‘They used to circulate hot air through the hypercaust to heat the floors and walls of the caldarium ,’ she explained.

They tiptoed through into the next room, their path now lit by spotlights strung along a black flex and angled up at the ceiling, the amber glow suffusing the stone walls. Dominique identified this as the balneum , a semicircular sunken bath dominating the space.

Picking their way through the thicket of metal supports propping the roof up, they arrived at the main part of the buried villa, the tiled floor giving way to intricate mosaics featuring animals, plants, laurel-crowned gods and a dizzying array of boldly coloured geometric patterns. Here, some restoration work appeared to have been done: the delicate frescoes of robed Roman figures and carefully rendered animals showed signs of having been pieced back together from surviving fragments, the missing sections filled in and then plastered white so that the fissures between the pieces resembled cracks in the varnish on an old painting.

An angry shout echoed towards them through the empty rooms.

‘You think Santos is already here?’ Dominique whispered.

‘Allegra first,’ Tom insisted. ‘We worry about Santos and the painting when she’s safe.’

They tiptoed carefully to the doorway of a small vaulted chamber. The walls here had been painted to mimic blood-red and ochre marble panels, while the ceiling had been covered in geometric shapes filled with delicately rendered birds and mischievous-looking satyrs. And crouching on the floor with their backs to them, checking their weapons and speaking in low, urgent voices, were the three men they’d seen earlier.

Tom locked eyes with Archie and Dominique; both of them nodded back. On a silent count of three, they leapt inside and caught the three men completely cold.

‘ Tu ?’ one of the men hissed as, one by one, Archie taped their hands behind their backs and then gagged them.

It was Orlando-the priest from the Amalfi. Tom returned his hateful glare unblinkingly. Strangely, the murderous rage that had enveloped him in Monte Carlo had vanished; he felt almost nothing for him now. Not compared to Santos. Not with Allegra’s life at stake.

‘I’ll watch them,’ Dominique reassured him, waving the men back into the corner of the room with her gun.

‘You sure?’

‘Go.’

With a nod, Tom and Archie continued on, a bright light and the low rumble of voices drawing them across an adjacent chamber decorated with yellow columns, to the next room where they crouched on either side of the doorway.

Edging his head inside, Tom could see that they were on the threshold of the most richly decorated space of all, the floor covered in an elaborate series of interlocking mosaic medallions, each one decorated with a different mythological creature. The frescoes, meanwhile, looked almost entirely intact and mimicked the interior of a theatre, the left-hand wall painted to look like a stage complete with narrow side doors that stood ajar as if opening on to the wings. To either side, comic and tragic masks peered through small windows that revealed a painted garden vista.

‘Look,’ Archie whispered excitedly. Tom followed his gaze and saw that a large recess, perhaps nine feet high, six across and three deep, had been hacked out of the far wall. And, hanging within this, behind three inches of blast-proof glass, was the Caravaggio. It was unframed, although its lack of adornment seemed only to confirm its raw, natural power.

‘That’s Faulks,’ Archie whispered.

At the centre of the room, over a large mosaic of a serpent-headed Medusa, was a circular table inlaid with small squares of multicoloured marble. The man Archie had pointed out was clutching an umbrella and standing in front of three other men who were seated around the table as if they were interviewing him.

‘The guy on the left is De Luca,’ Tom breathed, recognising the badger streak running through his hair and the garish slash of a Versace tie. ‘And the one in the middle who’s speaking now…’ He broke off, his chest tightening as he realised that this was the face of the man he’d overheard on the yacht in Monaco. The same man who’d ordered Jennifer’s death. ‘That’s Santos.’

‘Which must make the other bloke Moretti,’ Archie guessed, nodding towards a short man wearing glasses who was seated on the other side of Santos. Completely bald across the top, his scalp gleaming under the lights, he had a bristling wirewool moustache that matched the hair clinging stubbornly to the back and sides of his head. He was wearing a grey cardigan and brown corduroy trousers, looking more like someone’s grandfather than the head of one of the mafia’s most powerful families.

Tom nodded but looked past him, distracted by the gagged and bound figure he could see slumped in a chair to Faulks’s left. It was Allegra. Still alive, thank God, although there was no telling what they might have done to her. Or what they might still be planning.

‘She wants to speak to us,’ Faulks protested. ‘She said she had a message.’

‘Of course she does,’ Santos shot back in English, his tone at once angry and mocking. ‘She’s working on the Ricci and Argento cases.’ He glanced across at De Luca. ‘I thought you said you’d taken care of her?’

De Luca shrugged, gazing at Allegra with a slightly dazed look.

‘I thought I had.’

‘She managed to locate and break into my warehouse,’ Faulks retorted. ‘Who knows what else she’s found out.’

‘She broke in and, from what you’ve told us, took nothing apart from your pride,’ Santos reminded him. ‘You should have taken care of her in Geneva. You have no business here.’

‘In case you’ve forgotten, I have two seats on this council.’ Faulks spoke in a cold, deliberate tone. ‘I have as much right to be here as anyone. If not more.’

‘An accident of history that you delight in reminding us of,’ De Luca said dryly.

Santos took a deep breath, attempting what Tom assumed was intended to be a more conciliatory tone.

‘This meeting was called by the Moretti and De Luca families-’ he nodded at the two men either side of him in turn-‘as representatives of the founding members of the Delian League, to resolve their recent…disagreements. Disagreements that, as we all know, have led to two former members of this council not being here with us tonight.’

‘We had nothing to do with D’Arcy’s death,’ Moretti insisted angrily.

‘Cavalli was a traitor who deserved what he got,’ De Luca retorted, both men standing up and squaring off.

‘Enough!’ Santos called out. Muttering, they both sat down. Santos turned back to face Faulks. ‘They asked me here to help mediate a settlement. I let you know we were meeting as a courtesy. But, as I told you when we spoke, there was no need for you to come.’

Faulks looked at them, then nodded sullenly towards Allegra.

‘Then what am I meant to do with her?’

‘What you should have done already.’

‘I dig bodies up, not bury them,’ Faulks said through gritted teeth.

‘Then I’ll finish what you are too weak to begin,’ Santos snapped, taking his gun out from under his jacket and aiming it at Allegra’s head.

20th March-10.54 p.m.