James Twining - The Geneva Deception

Abruptly, the fuel tank exploded, the ambulance jerking spasmodically, the noise of breaking glass and the tortured shriek of expanding metal coming from somewhere inside it. Sparks flitted though the air around them like fireflies.

Allegra glanced at Tom and followed his impassive gaze to the body that must have been thrown clear before the fire had broken out. It was the priest, Orlando. From the way he was lying it didn’t look like he would be getting up again. She turned back to the ambulance, straining to see through the swirling flames and smoke, and caught the charred outline of a body in the driver’s seat, head slumped forward, hands still gripping the wheel.

‘Santos?’ she asked Tom.

Tom shrugged and then turned away.

‘If you want it to be.’

The Getty Villa, Malibu, California

1st May-11.58 a.m.

One thing was certain-they had all been asked here to witness something special. The clue, as always, had been in the expense lavished on the engraved invitations, the quality of the champagne served at the welcoming reception and the bulging gift bags positioned next to the exit.

When it came to what was going to be announced, however, opinions were more divided. Opinions that, as the minutes passed, grew ever more outlandish and unlikely, until some were confidently predicting that the entire collection of the British Museum was even now being loaded into containers to be shipped to California, and others that it was the Getty itself that was relocating to Beijing. As guesswork was layered on to conjecture, so the noise grew, until what had started as a gentle breeze of curious voices had grown into a deafening storm over which people were struggling to make themselves heard.

Then, without warning, the lights dimmed and three people stepped out on to the stage, one of them wearing sunglasses. The noise dropped as abruptly as if they had passed into the eye of a hurricane, leaving an eerie, pregnant silence.

The shortest person, a man, approached the lectern and gripped its sides, seemingly comforted by its varnished solidity. A large screen behind him showed a close-up of his face-pink, fleshy and sweating.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Director Bury began nervously, licking the corners of his mouth. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you here today. As many of you know, our founder had a simple vision. It was that art has a civilising influence in society, and should therefore be made available to the public for their education and enjoyment.’ He paused, his voice growing in confidence as a polite round of applause rippled through the crowd. ‘It is a vision that continues to inspire us today as we seek to collect, preserve, exhibit and interpret art of the highest quality. More importantly, it is a vision that continues to inspire others into the most extraordinary acts of generosity. Acts of generosity that have led us today to what I believe is the single most important acquisition in the museum’s history. Dr Bruce, please.’

He retreated a few steps, glistening and exultant, and led the clapping as Verity stepped forward. Saying nothing, she waited for the applause to die down, and then nodded. The stage was immediately plunged into darkness. For a few moments nothing happened, people craning their necks to see over or between the rows in front of them, hardly daring to breathe. Then a single spotlight came on, illuminating the jagged outline of a carved face. An ivory face. Behind them the screen was filled with its ghostly, sightless eyes.

Still Verity said nothing, the silence of anticipation giving way to an excited murmur, a few people standing up to get a closer look, one man at the front clapping spontaneously, others turning to each other and muttering words of confusion or shocked understanding. Little by little the noise grew, until the room was once again gripped by a violent, incoherent storm that was only partially muted by the sound of Verity’s voice and a second spotlight revealing her face.

‘Thanks to the incredible generosity of Myron Kezman, a man of singular vision and exquisite taste whose philanthropy shines through these dark economic times,’ she called over the clamour, waving at a beaming Kezman to step forward, ‘the Getty is proud to announce the acquisition of the Phidias Apollo, the only surviving work of possibly the greatest sculptor of the classical age.’ She paused as the applause came again, unrestrained and exultant. ‘As you can see, it is a uniquely well-preserved fragment of a chryselephantine sculpture of the Greek god Apollo. Dated to around 450 BC, it shows-’

‘Verity Bruce?’ A man in the front row had interrupted her. Standing up, he moved to the stage.

‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll take questions at the end,’ she said through a forced smile, eyeing him contemptuously.

‘My name is Special Agent Carlos Ortiz, FBI,’ the man announced, holding out his badge. ‘And if you and Mr Kezman don’t mind, you’ll be taking my questions downtown.’

The audience turned in their seats as the doors at the back of the auditorium flew open. Four darksuited men entered the room and fanned out.

‘What is this?’ she called out over the crowd’s low, confused muttering, her expression caught somewhere between incredulity and indignation.

‘I have a warrant for your arrest, along with Mr Myron Kezman and Earl Faulks,’ Ortiz announced, the sight of the piece of paper in his hand raising the audience’s muttering to a curious rumble. Kezman said nothing, his indulgent smile having faded behind the blank mask of his sunglasses as two further agents had taken up positions either side of the stage.

‘On what charges?’ Director Bury challenged him, advancing to Verity’s side.

‘Federal tax fraud, conspiracy to traffic in illegal antiquities and illegal possession of antiquities,’ Ortiz fired back. ‘But we’re just getting started.’

‘This is outrageous,’ Verity erupted, shielding her face from the machine-gun flash of press cameras. ‘I have done nothing-’

She was interrupted by a commotion at the back of the room as a man tried to make a run for the exit, only to be brought down heavily by the outstretched leg of another member of the audience.

‘It seems Mr Faulks is not as confident in his innocence as you appear to be in yours,’ Ortiz observed wryly as two of his men pounced on Faulks’s prone figure and hauled him to his feet. ‘Cuff them.’

Verity and Kezman’s shouted protests were drowned out by the hyena howl of the crowd as they leapt from their seats and surged forward to feast.

Amidst the commotion, a man and a woman slipped out, unobserved.

1st May-12.09 p.m.

‘How’s your foot?’ Allegra laughed as they made their way out into the Outer Peristyle’s shaded cloister. A light salt breeze was blowing in from the Pacific and tugging at her hair, which was now its original colour once again.

‘He was meant to trip over it, not step on it,’ Tom grinned, pretending to limp over the marble floor.

‘Do you think they’ll let him cut a deal?’

‘Unlikely, given what you copied in his warehouse and the tape.’

‘What tape?’ Allegra asked with a frown.

‘Dominique recorded the three of them discussing the mechanics of the whole deal on the phone she and Archie cloned.’

They stepped between two of the fluted columns and made their way down a shallow ramp into a large rectangular courtyard. Running almost its entire length was a shallow reflection pool, its rectangular white stone basin curving at both ends like a Venetian mirror.

‘What do you think they’ll do with the mask?’ Allegra asked as they navigated their way along a labyrinthine arrangement of box hedge-lined gravel paths to the pool’s edge.