‘Good,’ said Gunther.
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘Do the police know anything?’
‘No. All quiet on that front.’
‘Even better.’
‘Yeah, but we need to move quickly. Even the Italians will wake up and smell the espresso eventually.’
‘So when…?’
‘Tomorrow. I just hope Antonio’s up to it. He seems so laissez-faire about the whole thing, but if anyone recognizes him in that car…’
‘You’ll be fine, Jeff.’
Gunther hung up. Jeff wished he felt reassured.
You can still pull out, he told himself. It’s not too late.
Then he thought about the two little Roma boys. It was too late for them.
Go to hell Roberto Klimt. Tomorrow’s the day.
*
‘TOMORROW’S THE DAY.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Police chief Luigi Valaperti tapped his desk nervously. His source had better be right. Roberto Klimt was not a man Chief Valaperti wished to disappoint, under any circumstances. His predecessor had retired three years ago to a palatial apartment in Venice, bought and paid for by the art dealer. Chief Valaperti already had his eye on a villa outside Pisa. Or more accurately, his wife did. He and his mistress preferred the two-bedroom love nest overlooking the Colosseum, a deal at under two million euros. Klimt probably has bigger dry-cleaning bills. But Luigi Valaperti wasn’t greedy.
‘His henchmen are doing the legwork,’ the source went on. ‘You can catch them in the act, make yourself a hero, then pick up Stevens at the airport later. He’ll be trying to board the eight p.m. BA flight to London.’
‘Without the bowl?’
‘He’ll have the bowl. Or what he thinks is the bowl. We know the drop-off location, so you can plant a decoy.’
Chief Valaperti frowned. ‘And exactly how did you come by this information? How do I know we can trust…’
The line went dead.
ROBERTO KLIMT GAZED OUT OF THE tinted window of his armoured town car as they left the city behind. The hills around Rome, dotted with poplar trees and firs and ancient villas whose terra-cotta-tiled roofs balanced precariously atop crumbling stone walls, had barely changed since the Emperor Nero’s day. Cupping the gold bowl lovingly in his hands, Klimt imagined that legendary, insane, all-powerful man making this very same journey, leaving the stresses of Rome behind for the peace and pleasures of the countryside. Roberto Klimt felt a sublime kinship with Nero in this moment. The priceless gold artefact in his lap belonged to him for a reason. It was meant to be his. The pleasure and pride that that one bowl brought him was immense.
He wondered when, exactly, ‘Anthony Duval’ and his accomplices would make their move on his apartment. Roberto Klimt imagined the scene. The alarms ringing out across the Via Veneto, the metal grilles slamming shut, the police, already waiting in force in the surrounding streets and alleyways moving in for the kill. He smiled.
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