Goddess of Death (9 page)

She sat down, raised her glass in salute. ‘So, here’s to us, the couple that never were.’

‘I’m not quite sure what that means.’

‘We’ve worked well together, albeit somewhat stormily. But
there was that one time when we were really ourselves.’ Her voice became suddenly throatier, tense. ‘I suppose, before you disappear to this committee of yours, I want to find out what really is … or could have been … between us.’

The knots in his stomach multiplied; he found it suddenly difficult to breathe. He had long desired Karen, he knew that, but it was a desire he had suppressed, not least after that one occasion in Morpeth. He had kept a tight rein on their relationship, allowing her to dictate its terms. And in a sense he was allowing her to do that again, even now. But he was not about to dispute the matter. Nevertheless, he forced himself to say, ‘You’ve already commented that you use your sex as a weapon. Are you doing it now?’

She laughed, a little uncertainly, and shook her head. ‘No. I thought about it. But this isn’t a matter of trying to persuade you to refuse this committee offer. Rather, it’s a recognition that I need to know something about myself. To discover what I really feel. What I could feel.’

‘You want me to stay the night.’

Her voice was a little unsteady. ‘It’s not an order, Arnold, but there’s a warm breeze blowing, as the song says, and I’d really like to be with you tonight….’

They slept little and spoke even less. Their lovemaking began intensely; later, it became more leisurely, explorative as they both sought to discover what the other desired. At six in the morning she rose and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. He lay in her bed, semi-comatose, trying to gauge his feelings, reviewing the evening before, and still feeling the touch of her body under his, aware of the perfume of her on the pillow, and wondering where the two of them could go from here.

He heard a buzzing sound, insistent. He lay there for a little while, uncertain, then realized it was his mobile phone. He rose, threw back the sheet covering him and rummaged in the pocket
of his shirt, extracting the phone that continued to buzz at him like an angry hornet. He grimaced: he would have to change that bloody ring tone.

He pressed the control button.

‘Arnold? At last!’

He frowned. ‘Who is this?’

‘Carmela.’

‘It’s six in the morning!’

‘Later here. Arnold, you have heard from Whitehall? You will be joining us?’

Confused, he hesitated. He looked up. Karen was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, holding a small tray with two cups of coffee. She was naked. He felt a fresh surge in his loins as he took in the perfection of her body, the outlines of her thighs, the swell of her breasts.

‘Arnold? Are you still there? Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry …’ He dragged his eyes away from Karen, and spoke quickly. ‘Yes, I’ve heard, and the answer is yes, but perhaps we can talk about this at some other time. Later today, maybe—’

‘Things have changed, Arnold! It is necessary that you come here immediately. We need you here at once.’

‘I don’t understand.’ His glance flicked back to Karen. She came forward quietly, placed the tray on the bedside table, and then sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. He could see the long curve of her body, her narrow waist, the swell of her hips. ‘Can I not ring you back later?’ he said almost desperately.

‘Of course. But you need to know. We need to move quickly. Urgently. And you must be here.’

‘Why? What’s it all about?’ he asked, in growing frustration at the urgency in Carmela’s tone.

‘That man Steiner,’ she said. ‘The one we met at his villa….’

Karen had turned her head and was looking at him. Her eyes seemed almost green, her lips were slightly parted.

‘Steiner?’ Arnold murmured almost stupidly.

‘Peter Steiner, yes. He was going to give us information, documents…’

‘What about him?’

‘He is dead, Arnold.’

‘What? How—?’

‘Yesterday morning, he was murdered at his villa on the hill. I need you here, immediately.’

When he killed the call Karen was turning to him, handing him a cup of coffee. There was a glint of resignation in her eyes.

T
HEY MET IN
a private mansion in Montpellier, reputed to be a house in which the king’s treasurer, Jacques Coeur, had lived in the fifteenth century. It was now owned by the Archaeological Society of Montpellier: the society
administrators
had carefully preserved the vaulted cellars and polychrome coffered ceilings which adorned some of the rooms dating from that period. On the ground floor was located a medieval room housing a collection of Romanesque sculpture including statuary from the Abbey of Fontaude, capitals from Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert and three ancient mounted
inscriptions
in Arabic. McMurtaghy was there to meet Carmela and Arnold in a small room at the top of the grand, three-flight staircase climbing to the majestic façade overlooking a courtyard with superimposed colonnades. But they were not there to admire the building. McMurtaghy got right down to business, questioning Arnold closely about the meeting he and Carmela had had with Peter Steiner. Carmela remained silent and watchful, listening closely to every word.

Arnold did not like McMurtaghy. He could not quite put his finger on the reason: perhaps it was the man’s brusque, forceful manner, or the dismissive way in which he seemed to react to Carmela, who was after all the chairperson of the ISAC group. But there was something else in addition: the man seemed to be
driven by some inner force, a hard core of experience that Arnold suspected had not been developed in the world of antiquities. He had an occasional crude, almost demanding way of putting questions, and he seemed to regard with an in-built suspicion everything that he was told.

When he completed his interrogation of Arnold he leaned back in his chair, drained the now cool coffee that had been placed in front of him. Arnold glanced at Carmela in the silence which followed.

She frowned slightly. ‘Mr Murtaghy felt that it would be useful if he obtained your views and impressions regarding the interview we conducted with Peter Steiner at his villa.’ Something dark flickered in her eyes. ‘It was as a confirmation of what I had told him.’

Arnold waited, while the American remained silent. After a little while, he asked, ‘Is this meeting to be just the three of us?’

Carmela grimaced. ‘It was thought to be the best way to move on the matter in hand. I should explain, Arnold. When I reported on the results of our meeting with Steiner I’m afraid the committee was less than impressed. As a group, they considered that we were being … how do you say … led by the nose. They had no trust in Steiner; his motive was one of revenge and this they deemed unacceptable; also, they balked at the demand he had made for funds. It was not an easy meeting: Alienor Donati spoke forcefully, Joachim Schmidt was not impressed …’ She glanced momentarily at McMurtaghy. ‘There was much opposition to further dealings with him.’

And they would have believed that she was being blinded by the history of her grandfather, Arnold guessed.

‘But what happened to Steiner?’ Arnold asked. ‘You said over the phone—’

‘As I said, the committee was unimpressed, doubtful about Steiner, so it was finally decided that I should telephone the man, explain to him that we needed further information, an
earnest of good faith. He was angry, but he agreed to comply. He transmitted by e-mail a copy of a document in his possession. As far as the members of ISAC were concerned, it changed things considerably. But, even as the committee agreed that we should pursue matters with Steiner, we received the bad news.’

McMurtaghy pushed his coffee cup aside with a massive fist. ‘Which is why Carmela contacted you. We need all hands to the pump.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table and scowled at Arnold. ‘The
Surété
have moved quickly on the matter, in collaboration with the Spanish police. I’ve been able to get a pile of information from them: I have a contact within the department – from way back – and it seems they’ve managed to identify the location, the position from where the killer fired the fatal shot. It was a villa close by to Steiner’s: he had rented it, or rather it had been rented for him through an agency, and they’re still pursuing that. I have my doubts about their likelihood of success. This was a professional hit. The men who ordered it, they would have covered their tracks carefully.’ McMurtaghy scowled, took a deep breath and hunched his shoulders aggressively. ‘The killer’s base allowed him a clear line of fire to the terrace that Steiner used regularly. There was only one shot. It was a clean hit. The man was – is – a professional.’

‘There is a report that he probably used a black Porsche,’ Carmela intervened. ‘One was seen in the area.’

‘The
Surété
is working on that line, and checking a few
security
camera images gathered from villas along that road from the hill. A Porsche … that’s sloppy for a professional, but it happens. Also, though the killer did a good job cleaning up all traces of his presence, inevitably there are a few little things that were
overlooked
. Over-confidence can do that to a man, even if he’s been in the business for a while.’

‘Things such as what?’ Arnold asked curiously.

McMurtaghy flexed his broad shoulders. ‘They picked up one print from the bathroom. And there was a discarded cigarette
stub below the terrace. Reasonably fresh, probably his. It will give us DNA.’ McMurtaghy wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s enough to give us a start anyway. And already, from the print, we think we know who the killer might be. Interpol quickly came up with a match. The DNA sample might confirm that. Of course, knowing his identity is only one step in the game: laying our hands on the bastard is another thing. And then, there’s also the question of who commissioned the hit.’

‘And the motive for the murder,’ Arnold suggested.

‘That’s pretty obvious, we think. Steiner was silenced because he had come out of his rat hole and was going to embarrass some pretty powerful people.’

Arnold frowned in thought and turned to Carmela. ‘You mentioned a document he’d sent to you.’

She took a deep breath, and nodded. ‘It was a few typed notes, a description. And a rather blurred photograph of a piece of
statuary
.’

She stared challengingly at McMurtaghy as though they had already had an argument about what she was about to say. He stared at his hands, shoulders hunched. Whatever his views, it would seem he had been overruled by the other members of the committee.

‘You will be aware, Arnold, that in Greek mythology Artemis was the daughter of Zeus and the sister of Apollo. She loved hunting and dancing and was one of the three virgin goddesses of Olympus. But she was also notorious for her violent anger and jealousy which led her to kill many: humans, gods and goddesses. In many ways, not merely a huntress, but a goddess of death.’

‘For those who crossed her,’ McMurtaghy muttered, almost sarcastically.

Carmela ignored him. ‘When we saw the photograph it became clear to the committee that we were probably looking at an exceedingly rare and valuable object indeed. The object is of
polished bronze, maybe eighteen inches in height. Artemis. Her hair is braided across her forehead and falls down the side of her neck. She is depicted striding out to the hunt. She wears sandals, and a thigh-length tunic which falls down her body in triangular folds. There is a hunting knife strapped to her thigh, and there is a quiver strap across her breasts. She wears a slight smile on her lips, and she looks directly ahead. Both arms are missing, at the elbow. Otherwise she is intact.’

‘Your description is remarkably detailed,’ Arnold said slowly.

‘That is because she has been seen before. And recorded.’ She glanced again at McMurtaghy, who was keeping his head lowered. ‘My colleague remains unconvinced, though the remainder of the committee are on my side. This is one reason why the matter has been left in my hands, but with the support of Mr McMurtaghy.’

‘We don’t want you running away with wild suppositions,’ the American muttered. ‘It might not even be the goddess of the hunt.’

‘The statue is of Artemis,’ Carmela stated firmly, ‘and we know this is so for one simple reason. It is a classical image and three identical versions are held in collections in Europe: one in Naples, one in Florence and one in Venice. But these are all first-century Roman copies of a Greek original that dates back to the fifth century BC. The Roman copies are intact so this … find, it is a major one. It is of inestimable value. Private collectors would fight to possess it.’

‘If it
is
the original,’ McMurtaghy said cuttingly.

‘But what’s its provenance?’ Arnold asked. ‘You say that it has been seen before. What do you know about its history?’

Carmela stared at him, then leaned back, folded her bare arms across her splendid bosom, and was silent. Behind him Arnold caught a light splattering sound: a summer squall, driving droplets of rain on the window. He turned and saw the
darkening
sky above the Avenue Charles de Gaulle. When he looked
back to McMurtaghy the man’s face also seemed to have darkened. Carmela was leaving this bit of explanation to him.

‘Have you ever heard of the Trophy Brigades, Landon?’

Arnold shrugged. ‘A little. Not a great deal.’

McMurtaghy nodded, his mouth twisting. ‘Then I’ll bring you up to scratch.’ He paused, as though gathering himself. ‘You’ll be aware, of course, that there was a Hague Convention against looting during wartime.’

‘Which was extensively disregarded,’ Arnold replied, nodding.

‘You can say that again. In spite of the Hague Conventions against looting, the First World War saw extensive theft and ignorant, callous wrecking of a host of precious artefacts. And even before the war began, as the Nazis began to move into new territories by 1938 they had demonstrated an obsessive, almost ideological fervour for systematic looting: pictures, sculptures, tapestries, manuscripts, silver, gold, jewellery, furniture, medieval armour, rare coins and prehistoric treasures. You name it. They grabbed it.’

‘They continued to do so during the Second World War,’ Arnold added.

‘Right. The progress of war thereafter only further encouraged the looters. Hitler took a personal interest in the whole business. In due course, the Führer instructed that a man called Alfred Rosenberg should be appointed as a controller of the activity.’ McMurtaghy grunted reflectively. ‘Rosenberg has been described as having the appearance of an off-duty undertaker. But then, so many of the Nazi hierarchy looked like inoffensive clerks, don’t you think?’ He sniffed contemptuously.

Arnold agreed with a nod.

‘Anyway, Rosenberg began his task by setting up
headquarters
with storehouses in Paris, but as things developed at speed, in order to store the loot collected he opened further branches in Amsterdam and Brussels. Rosenberg might have looked like a
refugee from a Boris Karloff film, but he was an efficient organizer,’ McMurtaghy conceded. The American grimaced, scratched at his chin with an irritated finger. ‘Field Marshal Goering, meanwhile, was doing his own bit of looting: he had instructed senior officers to search out art treasures for his personal
collection
and they went about it like enthusiastic bloodhounds. Then there was SS Colonel Dr Kajetan Muehlmann: he plundered Holland with what can only be described as military efficiency.’

McMurtaghy rose, pushed back his chair and wandered across to the window. He stared distastefully at the driving rain. ‘Czechoslovakia was plundered first of course, then this band of predators turned their attention to Poland, which was quickly picked clean. And when the first German troops crossed into Russian territory they were closely followed by Rosenberg’s teams of ‘requisitioning officials’. Of course, in personal terms there was too much for him to cope with eventually and
accordingly
a special formation was established.’

Arnold nodded. ‘I believe I’ve heard of that. Wasn’t it directly under the control of Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop?’

‘That’s correct. Ribbentrop was given the task of following the invading troops with so-called ‘cultural battalions’. Russia was stripped of priceless artefacts, culturally laid waste. The Nazis behaved like the barbarians they were, these cultural battalions. What couldn’t be taken away was simply destroyed.’

McMurtaghy turned back from the window, glared at Arnold, locked his hands behind his back. He seemed irritated by what he had to relate. ‘The Allies knew about it, of course. Lists of prominent looters and collaborators were drawn up; on the American side we set up a commission under Justice Roberts of the Supreme Court. In London, your lot established a group under Lt Colonel Sir Leonard Woolley.’

‘The excavator of Ur?’ Arnold asked in surprise.

‘The same. It was all hands to the pump. The US and Britain gave the situation some priority, even as the war proceeded.
When the Allied forces landed in Sicily in July 1943 the work of recovery began, hunting for locations where the Nazis had hidden the treasures they had collected. As for Rosenberg and von Ribbentrop, well, they had their own difficulties. They had grabbed so much in the looting of Europe and Russia that the problem was just where to store their looted hauls. By early 1944 the storehouses they had established were full as they used castles, storehouses and museum vaults. So they then turned to salt mines where temperatures and humidity were constant and artwork could be secured. They were in a hurry too: they knew that the Allied Art Brigades had commenced their work. As the front lines advanced the groups led by men like Lt Colonel Woolley came in behind the troops, and they found they were called upon to search basements, hay lofts, church steeples, slaughterhouses and even lunatic asylums as well as museums, bank vaults and castles.’

‘An impossible task,’ Arnold breathed.

‘For what was essentially a small group of searchers,’ McMurtaghy agreed. ‘However, the work went on and they were assisted in one way by the Nazis: Hitler and von Ribbentrop had decreed that the finest treasures of all were kept in Berlin. The location finally agreed upon was the Berlin Zoo.’