Goddess of Death (6 page)

T
HE FLY BUZZED
self-importantly, wandering uncertainly above the stone table on the terrace, attracted by the fruit displayed on the plate. It settled on the rough stone, crawled over the warm raw flesh of the ripe green fig and hesitated, nervous. Some red wine had earlier been spilled on the table and Sam Byrne watched as the insect buzzed away from the fruit, approached the red stain, then dropped, folded its wings, investigating, twitching its proboscis inquisitively.

He raised his hand, fingers curled. It was all about hand-eye co-ordination. Approach from the rear. The multi-lensed,
swivelling
eye of the fly would see the danger, but he knew that in flight flies took off backwards. That split second gave him the opportunity. As split seconds always did.

As he snatched, he knew immediately that he had succeeded. There was a faint tickling in his fist. He kept his fingers clenched for a few seconds, then slowly opened his hand. He was not in a killing mode today. The fly took off with a relieved buzz and vanished beyond the bougainvillea which clung to the villa wall.

Not in killing mode.

That had been the case for almost three years now. Not that it mattered a great deal. He was confident that the old skills would not have deserted him. His body was still as finely toned as it had been on his resignation from his commission. Here, at his villa on the Costa Blanca, he was able to swim most days in the pool; the surrounding hills gave him the opportunity to run and
climb, and among the deserted, decaying olive-tree plantation that extended behind the villa he was able to keep his eye in with regular target practice.

He had no need to continue his earlier activities, of course. After leaving the army he had made himself available for certain mercenary duties that had been extremely well paid: it was only a short step beyond that to take up the various contracts that had been offered him. And the system had been simple. There would be no connection to be traced between him and the target. Payment was made into a discreet bank account in Madrid, and the people who employed him were not known to him. A phone call, a code word, and instructions delivered by e-mail, ostensibly innocuous, to give him the coded details he required. His bank balance had grown impressively.

But, perhaps inevitably, once the commissions dried up he had become bored at his existence. An edge had gone from his life however much he might dispute the fact mentally. Consequently, when the latest message had appeared on his personal computer he had responded in spite of the fact that it had not arrived in the usual coded form. The target, as was always the case, was not known to him personally and there would be no way in which Sam Byrne could be linked to the individual identified. On the other hand there had been a surprise: this time the person commissioning the hit was known to him.

The last fact was not welcome, but after due consideration he had decided he would accept the commission, if only for old times’ sake. Payment arrangements had been agreed, the sum determined upon had been more than acceptable and he had been disturbed only by occasional doubts. He was aware he was exposing himself more than he had been accustomed in the past but … he was bored.

And there was also the equipment he had recently purchased.

It had been manufactured by Lewis Machine & Tool Company
in the US. The semi-automatic weapon fired a 7.62 millimetre round, larger than the standard issue SA80A2 assault rifle he had been accustomed to use during his time in the Guards, and since his retirement. He had spent the last few weeks using it against targets among the olive trees on the rocky hill. He had quickly realized that it was far more accurate than the previous weapons he had used: he had found it accurate over a distance of more than 800 metres.

But his target practice had already left him vaguely
dissatisfied
. It was one thing to hit a piece of card pinned to a tree. Or explode a ripe melon on a post. It was quite another to feel the adrenalin rush when the target was a living, breathing human being. The line of perspiration on his upper lip; the measured breathing; the silence during the waiting until the moment arrived; the gentle pressure upon the hair-trigger….

He knew he had a need, a
hunger
to use the Sharpshooter rifle for the purpose for which it had been designed. He needed to end the barren months he had experienced since his last
assignment
.

So, though there were problems, even dangers involved, he had accepted the commission. He had checked the bank: the upfront payment he requested had quickly been made. He was now committed. Arrangements had been put in place. Soon, he would be fitting the telescopic sight, settling down into position and caressing the smooth barrel of the rifle.

It would all be over in seconds, when it happened.

But it was what he had been trained for. It was what he still
needed.

C
ARMELA HAD ARRANGED
a cab to the airport next morning; when they arrived at their Spanish destination she picked up a hire car and insisted on driving. Arnold was happy to concede the argument since he disliked driving in Europe, but was less relaxed when he observed the hectic pace at which she drove. She seemed to throw the vehicle around the twisting bends that led towards the coast and when the tracks narrowed he found himself praying fervently that they met no other car ahead. But the countryside seemed almost deserted in the heat of the morning and, as the road began to ascend into the coastal hills, he caught occasional shimmering glimpses of an intensely blue sea. He switched on the
air-conditioner
to stay cool: he caught the knowing grin Carmela gave him. Grimly, he thought to himself he always seemed to be driven by women.

They swung away from the main roads as they climbed. They reached a small, sleepy village with a creamy-stone church and a market-square that contained two cafés and a general store and then proceeded along a cliffside track lined with groves of gnarled olive trees twisted into grotesque shapes by the prevailing offshore breezes.

They finally came to a halt as the dusty track reached the top of a hill overlooking a small, secluded bay. Ahead of them,
overlooking
the cove, was a scattering of whitewashed villas, each with its pool, sheltered below the lee of the hill, against a background of green pine trees and scrubby maquis. Carmela pointed to one of the villas, halfway along the narrow road that skirted the steep-sided
barrancas
. ‘It seems that’s where he hides himself these days,’ she commented in a surly tone.

Arnold inspected the villa. Its pool glittered blue under the hot morning sun; built at two levels the villa boasted a terrace that ran around three sides of the building in order to take advantage of the sun most of the day. The house seemed well maintained, its walls shining white against the green of the trees, and was protected by tall gates which Arnold guessed would be electronically controlled.

‘Your Mr Steiner seems to have done well enough for himself,’ he suggested.

‘The wages of sin.’

‘What exactly did he do?’

Carmela growled deep in her throat. ‘Put simply, Peter Steiner was a thief. But more than that, in our eyes. He betrayed the confidence people had placed in him, and contributed towards the damage of our ancient heritages.’ She leaned forward, cut the engine, sat in silence for a little while, frowning. ‘He was well qualified, and highly regarded. He had spent some years working for various international auction houses and he came recommended to the position of administrator in the Prado Museum. He remained there for about ten years, and built up a good reputation as an excellent administrator, but it was there that he carried out his depredations.’

Arnold could hear the drone of the cicadas in the trees rise to a crescendo like the buzzing of a manic electricity generator. Then, abruptly, they all stopped as one. ‘How did he carry out his thefts?’ Arnold asked.

‘He was eventually placed in charge of the museum
paperwork
as far as buying and selling of antiquities was concerned.
He controlled the transfer of funds in and out of the museum also. He had access to all confidential information in that respect, and oversaw financial transactions between the company and its customers.’

There was bitterness in her tone. Arnold recalled how her colleagues had opposed her meeting the man they clearly all despised. ‘What exactly did he steal?’

Carmela was silent for a little while. Then she shrugged. ‘It was not exactly what he stole that was important. We were able to identify certain items: a bronze
maenad
, a third-century helmet, several vases and a stone head of Etruscan origin but it was the
manner
in which he took them that was important. He had forged a release note which stated that he had official permission to have these objects at home. But we all felt that this was merely the … tip of the iceberg, is that what you say?

‘How do you mean?’

Carmela scowled. ‘There was some evidence that the artefacts I have described, they were merely the last items in a much longer list that had been removed. And it was clear that Steiner had hidden his trail. Records had been deleted with deliberation, traces removed of doubtful and criminal transactions … When the authorities finally got hold of him Steiner was charged with twenty false accounting activities, though most of those were eventually dropped as the investigation proceeded.’

‘Why?’ Arnold asked in surprise.

Carmela turned her head to stare at him. Her glance was stony. She was silent for a little while. ‘That was never fully explained to me and my colleagues in the
carabinieri
. It is my belief that certain pressures were brought to bear. It is likely that political careers were involved, important people did not wish their private affairs to be exposed. We never did find out who was involved in the decision making we suspect was done with Steiner as a front man, and Steiner himself never spoke out. After his arrest, he gave no more information than he had to. It
is why my colleagues are so bitter about him. If he had co-
operated
, he could have helped trace many items, disclose links in the
cordata
, expose people who were using their high positions to hide their crimes. He chose not to do so.’

‘But he served a prison sentence?’

‘Three years.’ She bared her teeth wolfishly. ‘It was far less than he deserved. If all the charges of false accounting had been proceeded with…

They sat in silence for several minutes, staring at the villa. Finally, Carmela switched on the engine again, and they proceeded down the hill to cross the
barrancas
on narrow tracks and make the short climb up the far hill beyond to the villa that sheltered Peter Steiner.

When they reached the gates that sheltered the house Arnold got out of the car and pressed the button set into the wall. After a short delay there was a click and the black-painted, wrought iron gates began to move. He returned to the car. Carmela drove past the gates to the gravelled drive flanked by a small grove of lemon and orange trees and parked at the foot of the steps that led up to the villa. When Arnold looked back he saw the gates closing behind them. Peter Steiner was clearly security conscious.

They left the car and climbed the steps. As he followed Carmela, Arnold glanced back to the vista beside them: the craggy hill, a few scattered whitewashed villas sweltering in the sun, the blue, glittering sea. When he looked back over Carmela’s shoulder he realized there was a man standing at the terrace, watching them. As they approached the terrace he turned, walked away from them out of sight.

On the terrace they saw that he had retreated inside the house. They followed. They found him in the room beyond, standing beside the open picture window that gave a view of the sea. He turned to face them as they entered. He was a lean man, perhaps fifty years of age, tall, cadaverous in appearance, tanned, with thinning silver hair. His eyes were deep set, heavily lidded, his
forehead marked with a deep line of dissatisfaction. He wore a loose, brightly coloured batik shirt, baggy shorts and sandals. He held a drink in his left hand; he bowed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Signorina Cacciatore.
Buon giorno
—’

‘We speak English, please,’ Carmela cut in.

Steiner raised an inquisitive eyebrow, glanced at Arnold, then nodded. ‘If this is preferred.’ He gestured with his right hand towards the floridly cushioned cane chairs beside him, each facing the window. ‘Perhaps you would like to be seated?’ His lips writhed back in a mockery of a smile. ‘And would the
carabinieri
wish me to extend hospitality? A drink, perhaps?’

His tone was measured but there was a hint of suppressed anger. Carmela shook her head. Abruptly, she replied. ‘I am no longer attached to the
carabinieri
.’

‘Yes, forgive me, I had heard you were now part of an
investigative
committee.’

‘It is known as the International Spoliation Advisory Committee.’

‘Spoliation? A fine word. ISAC, then, no doubt. And you have agreed to see me.’

‘You suggested we meet. My colleagues think it’s a waste of time. I would not wish that we stay too long.’

Steiner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You find my offer of
hospitality
offensive. That is your loss. It’s a hot day.’ He moved away from them in a languid fashion, took one of the seats facing the sea, and over his shoulder eyed Arnold. ‘You have brought a companion, Miss Cacciatore. May we be introduced?’

‘This is Mr Landon, from England.’

The deep-set eyes lingered on Arnold. Steiner frowned. ‘You are a policeman?’

‘I work in the Antiquities Department in the North of England,’ Arnold corrected. ‘I’m here merely as an observer.’

‘Not a sleuth, then?’ Steiner turned back to gaze out to sea. ‘The North of England … There is someone I know who went
there, into obscurity after a career in the museums of Europe. A man called Karl Spedding.’

‘He’s my deputy.’

‘Indeed? An interesting coincidence. But the world of museums is a small one. Karl Spedding and I, we occasionally did business, in the old days. I had heard he left his position to take up some obscure post. I often wondered why he would give up a successful career to escape into a backwater … however, that is not my business.’

‘What exactly
is
your business?’ Carmela demanded, moving forward so that she could stand directly in front of Steiner, obscuring his view of the sea. ‘Why did you want this meeting? What do you have to say now, after your silence over the years?’

‘The years of my imprisonment,’ Steiner replied softly, and sipped at the dark-coloured liquid in the glass he held. He grunted in displeasure. ‘Mr Landon, you will have heard what they say about me?’

‘I understand you were imprisoned for theft.’

Steiner shook his head in a slow, almost regretful movement. There was a spark of resentment in his eyes. ‘Ah, so simple a statement. But life is actually much more complicated than that. Imprisonment for theft … and yet, so much more did not come out at the trial.’

‘It was your decision to remain silent, nevertheless,’ Carmela muttered angrily.

There was a short silence. Steiner stared at her, then glanced at Arnold. ‘There is a time for everything. And timing is all. Prison allows one to think, to plan, to reach decisions … Perhaps I should explain to you, Mr Landon. Miss Cacciatore, she has been too involved to remain other than prejudiced against me. But I agree with her, it was my decision and I admit there was much that did not come out at the trial. There were reasons for my silence. But now it is time to say what I have to say.’

‘To what purpose?’ Carmela snapped.

‘To right wrongs,’ Steiner replied almost amicably, then his tone hardened. Once more, he addressed himself to Arnold. ‘The fact is, Mr Landon, the arrest, the trial, the imprisonment, none of this need ever have happened. But although I was given promises, I was betrayed. There were arrangements made in high places, decisions taken behind closed doors, identities protected and … large sums of money paid. In those circumstances, I realized that it was pointless my insisting on being heard: my position would only have worsened. So I accepted my fate, did not dispute the charges against me. I served time for my … so-called crimes.’

‘You stole artefacts from the museum,’ Carmela said harshly. ‘And you covered your tracks with false accounting. You damaged efforts on our part, hid systems we could have exposed. You set back our investigations, twisted our—’

‘One moment.’ Steiner held up a lean, narrow-wristed hand. His smile was hard-edged. ‘Did you come here to continue the tirade you made against me in court years ago? Or did you come to hear what I have to say? The past is the past, Signorina Cacciatore. I am concerned with the future.’

‘The future?’ Carmela’s tone was scornful. She glanced about her, then gestured to the view outside the window. ‘Your future seems comfortable. You seem to have set yourself up well enough here. All this, I’ve no doubt, will have been paid for by your depredations at the museum, sales of artefacts that you covered by setting up two bank accounts under fictitious names. You regularly paid yourself relatively small sums that no one noticed for a while, but which in the end amounted to considerable sums of money. That’s how you’ve been able to establish yourself here, set yourself up in comfort—’ 

‘You are mistaken,’ he interrupted her harshly. ‘The accounts you mention … I admit to setting them up, but they were
identified
and impounded. I was left penniless, believe me, and as
for this villa, this lifestyle … the house is rented, I have no income to speak of and little to fall back on.’

‘And you expect sympathy from me?’ Carmela demanded scornfully.

There was a short silence. The man’s eyes were hooded. He shook his head slowly. ‘Your feelings are irrelevant. What I seek is … revenge.’

Carmela glanced at Arnold. He moved slightly to stand beside her. The two of them stared at the man seated in front of them.

‘You see, the trial should never have been held. You see me as a dishonest and unethical man. But I was not alone, you must understand. There were others, who were stealing on a much greater scale than my puny efforts. I was simply following a trend that had been long established in the world in which we all moved: you, me, Mr Landon here. You must know that many of the charges that could have been brought against me were never exposed. Never investigated at the trial. You were not surprised by that?’

‘I put it down to illegal influence,’ Carmela said bitterly.

‘Oh, that, and more. Not least that to bring all the charges would have brought out into the open evidence that would have proved damaging to many other people. Not bringing the charges, that was part of a deal I struck. Or thought I had struck with the authorities. But I was conned, trapped, betrayed … and now I want revenge.’