Goddess of Death (16 page)

A
RNOLD
L
ANDON
SAT
patiently on the bench in the empty corridor outside the office in Whitehall, aware that he would be kept waiting there as a matter of principle. He had flown into Newcastle two days earlier after making the
appointment
, taking up Carmela’s suggestion and contacting Hope-Brierley at his office. The man had seemed reluctant initially to undertake the enquiries Arnold had asked for but had finally conceded, grudgingly agreeing he would do what he could. Arnold had made no attempt to call Karen: he was uncertain how she would respond if he suggested a meeting while he was in England.

It was perhaps best that he let things settle somewhat since their last, surprising, encounter.

As he waited in the silent corridor Arnold’s thoughts drifted back to the events of the last few days. On his return from Spain, and the funeral of Antonio Zamora, he had reported to Carmela, telling her what he had learned from the sister of the dead man.

‘So she knew her brother was handling artefacts that were either of doubtful provenance or, in fact, fakes.’

‘It would seem so,’ Arnold confirmed. ‘And her story seems to be supported by what the local police have turned up.’

‘And she was not personally involved?’

Arnold shook his head. ‘She claims that she and her brother
had been leading quite separate lives. She kept her distance. Certainly, working as a respected lawyer she would not have wanted anything to do with her shady sibling.’

‘And the Artemis statuette?’

‘Señora Gonzales was right about that. I spoke with the experts the police had drafted in. There were in fact two such statuettes among Zamora’s collection. Both were fakes.’

‘Two? How do you account for that?’ Carmela asked, puzzled.

‘Señora Gonzales told me that before her father left and disappeared he had made a gift of an Artemis statuette to his wife. Made a big thing about it: a token of love. Much appreciated by his wife, and cherished by her. She never knew it was not an original. Later, it looks like Tony Zamora had the fake statuette copied and was hoping to make sales of both, even though both turned out to be fakes. Maybe he knew that; maybe he really believed one was an original. The father, it seems, was not above making fools of his own family, and some of the genes seem to have passed to the son.’ Arnold hesitated. ‘And I gather you’ve had other bad news.’

Carmela rose, walked across the room to the window to stare out onto the busy street below. The afternoon sunlight caught glints in her hair. She was wearing it longer, Arnold noticed. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve had a report from McMurtaghy. When he heard the net was closing on the man who had been hired to kill Peter Steiner he got permission to join in the manhunt. Things didn’t work out the way they had been expecting. They had managed to trace the killer to a small town in the Pyrenees, but before they arrived they had a report from the
Surété
that someone had been there before them. There’d been another killing.’ She turned to face Arnold, folding her arms over her capacious bosom. ‘McMurtaghy was at least proved right: the information he obtained from his contact was correct. The killer of Peter Steiner was indeed an ex-military man who had moved into contract killing. His name was Byrne. Known in the
business
as Iceman, apparently.’

‘And?’

‘Iceman had himself been disposed of. McMurtaghy was able to view the scene shortly before the body was taken away. Byrne had been shot in the head. There had been a struggle. Byrne had come off second best.’

‘Clearly. What about the man who murdered him?’ Arnold asked.

Carmela shrugged. ‘No information yet … though a local café owner says that Byrne had been visited by an American shortly before Byrne died. Description is vague. Apparently the café owner was more interested in French rugby on the television to pay much attention to casual customers.’

‘Does McMurtaghy have any information on the motive for the killing?’

Carmela shook her head. ‘Again, not yet. He’s keeping in touch with his contacts in Europol. It looks as though it could have been another contract killing, or it could perhaps have been the settling of an old debt. Who knows? Byrne inhabited a shady, murky world. And died there.’

‘So we don’t know if Byrne’s death is connected to Steiner’s.’

Carmela was silent for a little while, frowning. At last she said quietly, ‘We can’t be certain. But if one thinks it through logically, there could be a connection. It’s interesting that the
Sureté
, Europol and Interpol were able to pick up the trail of this man known as the Iceman quickly. The theory is that he had been out of action for some years, was tempted back in with a lucrative contract, but had lost his touch, become careless, left a trail that could be followed … his Porsche, and certain bank accounts …’ Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a little while she seemed to distance herself from the room they were in, her gaze became distracted as though she was searching her mind, turning her thoughts inward, weighing up possibilities. Arnold remained silent.

At last Carmela clicked her tongue, brought herself back to the present. ‘So what if the people who had contracted him realized
that they had made a mistake, using a man who was no longer the efficient killer they had known? Perhaps it would be sensible to remove him from the scene. If he had been arrested, perhaps he would have talked, made a plea bargain with the prosecutors, given up the people who had hired him in return for a lighter sentence.’

Arnold nodded. ‘You suggest maybe he was removed from the scene by the people who had first hired him.’

‘Using, this time, a more efficient killer.’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘McMurtaghy tells me it’s one the authorities are working on.’ Carmela took a deep breath. ‘However, in a sense that’s none of our business. To us, it means that an avenue of information has been closed. This Iceman, as he was called, could perhaps have explained to us just why Steiner was killed, but we are now no closer to finding out what happened to the hoard looted from the Trophy Brigade loot in Moscow. Steiner just showed us a photograph and gave us the name of Nunza. Gabriel Nunza led us to Zamora, as did George Cooper in the States. But George Cooper has finally taken his revenge, and Antonio Zamora is dead; the statuettes he held were fakes, and we now seem to have come to a dead end.’ Reluctantly, she added, ‘Perhaps we’d be best advised to concentrate on other things, matters we
can
pursue with more hope of success.’

Arnold shared her reluctance. He was silent for a little while, observing Carmela who seemed to be once again lost in thought.

‘There is one further link we might be able to follow,’ he suggested.

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. ‘What link?’

‘The Englishman who betrayed Major Kopas.’

‘And took a new identity in Spain? But we can conclude he died some years ago. And his son Antonio Zamora has now joined him in Hell.’ She frowned, shook her head. ‘What link do you suggest we follow?’

Arnold shrugged. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, turning things over. What little we know about the mysterious father of Antonio Zamora would suggest that he was English and occupied a senior position in Moscow at the end of the war. He was able to organize events, bribe people, persuade others, and
control
events. We know his name was Stoneleigh. It’s a good enough guess to suggest he held a diplomatic post, probably acted as an intelligence agent, but used the situation to enrich himself. Then, when things got a little too hot for him, he fled, took a new
identity
for himself in Spain. Became the businessman Zamora.’

‘So?’

‘Perhaps he wasn’t acting simply on his own account.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Maybe he was helped to set up in Spain.’

‘By Franco?’

Arnold shrugged. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of his earlier employers. We’ve been assuming he fled from Moscow to Spain because of his grabbing some of the loot Kopas had acquired. But there’s another possibility. The theft might have been a sideshow, feathering his own nest of course, but perhaps not the reason he left the country. If he was holding a diplomatic position in Moscow, and acting as an intelligence agent, it’s possible his employers had further work for him to do. Outside Russia. In the right wing Fascist regime that was no great friend to the Allies.’

‘His employers….’

‘The British Government.’

Carmela stared at him a glint of excitement in her dark eyes. ‘He made a quick exit from Moscow. You’re right, we’ve perhaps been too quick to assume it was to escape the consequences of betrayal and theft.’

Arnold nodded. ‘But maybe the theft occurred once he knew he was to be
transferred
. To carry on his intelligence work, under a new assumed identity. A new assignment.’

He could see that the idea appealed to her. ‘If that was the case, once his work was done in Spain, or perhaps when possible exposure was coming close, it could be he was transferred
again
.’

‘His daughter, Señora Gonzales, she seems to believe he disappeared because he had a mistress and wanted to begin a new life.’

‘She may be wrong. Perhaps he was told to leave Spain … and incidentally chose not to take his family with him. For reasons of security. Or to start a new life with his mistress.’

‘It’s a possibility. And in those circumstances, it’s highly likely he would have been told to report back to his masters and stay where they could keep an eye on him for the future. After all, he was probably getting long in the tooth; experienced, and too long in the field. Maybe he was given a desk job, where they could use the expertise he had gained, the knowledge he had accumulated. Perhaps he was promoted. And it’s just possible they never knew about his part in the theft from the Trophy Brigade loot obtained by Major Kopas.’

‘Or simply didn’t care.’

‘For the greater good.’

She caught the sarcasm in Arnold’s tone. ‘But now we live in a different climate. We have set up a committee, devoted to the recovery of looted artefacts. It is supported internationally; it has the backing of the European Union and—’

‘The support of the British Government.’

She smiled at him: it was a wide, triumphant, beaming smile. ‘And you are a representative of that government. Arnold, I think it is time you went back to England, to discuss matters with your contacts in Whitehall!’ She came forward, gave him a big hug, pressing him enthusiastically against her capacious bosom. ‘Don’t stay away too long. I shall miss you … and there is still so much to do!’ 

Arnold was brought out of his reverie by the sound of a door closing down the corridor and the next moment saw Hope-Brierley approaching briskly. The civil servant waved a file at him, apologetically. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Landon. Shall we go along to my office?’

Arnold rose and followed the man.

‘I could do with some coffee,’ Hope-Brierley muttered as he seated himself behind his desk. ‘You?’

‘Not for me, thanks.’

Hope-Brierley picked up the phone and muttered into it to his secretary. ‘She won’t be pleased,’ he said to Arnold, as he replaced the phone. ‘Doesn’t think it’s part of her job. Women’s rights, that sort of thing. Have to keep her in her place, you know.’ He chuckled mirthlessly. There was an odd nervousness in his manner; a tension about him that suggested to Arnold his visit was not welcome.

Hope-Brierley leaned back in his chair, linked his hands across his chest in an almost defensive gesture. ‘Now then, these requests for information you’ve made to us, it’s not quite in line with your position as our representative.’

Arnold raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t agree. It’s very much in line with the work that is expected of the committee. We’ve been following the trail of artefacts that were smuggled out of Russia at the end of the war. We’ve reason to believe certain items have finally resurfaced. And the information we’ve requested may well help us to trace those items.’

Hope-Brierly sniffed. ‘You’ve made mention of one item only: an Artemis statuette.’

‘It was part of a hoard which was, we believe, stolen from Moscow. If we trace it, there could be other items that will come to light also.’

‘Stolen from someone who was himself described as a thief.’

‘Major Kopas.’ Arnold eyed Hope-Brierley carefully. ‘It’s still theft on the part of this man Stoneleigh.’

Hope-Brierley grimaced. ‘Yes. Stoneleigh. I’ve talked to various people, as you requested. Outside my own department. I must say, I think … well, let’s say it’s caused ripples. And
difficulties
. As a consequence of which, I fear there is little I am able to tell you.’

There was a short silence. Arnold waited, but Hope-Brierley avoided his eyes. It seemed he was reluctant to continue with the conversation.

‘Well, maybe I should just make some suggestions to you,’ Arnold said, ‘which you might be able to either dismiss as
incorrect
or … agree with?’

Hope-Brierley considered the matter. He wrinkled his nose. ‘My colleagues … people I’ve spoken to about this matter … they have raised the matter of official secrets, files the contents of which cannot be disclosed for security purposes and—’

‘Stoneleigh has been dead for years,’ Arnold interrupted.

‘That is so, but—’

‘So why can’t we talk about him, and what he was up to?’

Hope-Brierley wriggled. ‘There are apparently … difficulties. Perhaps we could follow the suggestion you made. I will merely confirm what … what I am able to do.’

‘All right. Let’s start with Moscow. This man Stoneleigh, he held a diplomatic position in Moscow in 1944?’

Hope-Brierley nodded. ‘That is so. It is a matter of published information. He worked for a number of years in the service. Then, and later.’

There was a light tap on the door. Hope-Brierley called out and a slim woman with short blonde hair came in, carrying a cup of coffee. Her bearing was stiff, disapproving. Hope-Brierley took the cup, made her no acknowledgement. Arnold waited until she had closed the door behind her. ‘Some of his duties concerned the gathering of intelligence?’