Turned to Stone (31 page)

44

Jaime didn’t waste any time. Certain that his friends were in the process of alerting the authorities, he figured he’d try to get as much information out of the old man as possible. “I suppose the Medusa’s here, behind one of these doors.”

“The Medusa?” the man asked. “I don’t know what Medusa you mean.”

“Sure you do. Bolgi’s Medusa, which you ordered stolen from the Pontecorvo House Museum. Of course, you already know that it’s not by Bolgi, and that it’s much older than people think. You still have it stored here because your buyer, Dr. Galliano, was arrested before you’d gotten your hands on the document that proves that the sculpture is also a reliquary containing the blood of Medusa.”

Jaime was disappointed not to see any surprise register in the old man’s face. The lips remained firm, the eyes under the dark glasses did not blink, and not a drop of sweat appeared on the wrinkled brow. “Suit yourself. I’m calling the police.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the end of the corridor. Jaime turned and was stunned to see the figure approaching them. “Azcárate, step aside please.”

Jaime moved out of the way. He could just make out Paloma and Roberto at the end of the hallway, watching from a safe distance. Then he looked at Amatriaín. The sight of him pointing a handgun at an old, profoundly disabled man was almost absurd.

“What’s happening?” the man asked. “Who are you?”

“I’d keep quiet if I were you,” Amatriaín said. “Don’t make the situation worse for yourself.”

“There’s been a mistake. I don’t know what you’ve been told about me, but I’m not who you think I am.”

“Oh but you are.” Amatriaín advanced until the barrel of his gun was less than an arm’s length from the old man’s head. “You’re what was left of Angelo Carrera after his boat sunk. Are you going to deny it?”

“What is it you want?” the man asked.

“You know exactly what. Where’s the Medusa?”

“You as well? You’re all obsessed.”

The appearance of Amatriaín had taken Jaime by surprise, but it also put him in an awkward situation. It was clear that he had little choice. He could either stay and watch as the conversation deteriorated or leave with his friends before the shooting started. The first choice could be one he would regret; the second might mean losing the Medusa forever. He decided to take a risk.

“If I may, I suspect that—”

“Shut up, Azcárate, and don’t underestimate this old man. He’s tricked us all since he faked his death in that shipwreck. Unfortunately for him, he almost died for real before his son and daughter gave him oxygen and got him to dry land. After they managed to get him out of the water, a stroke turned him into a vegetable.”

“How do you know any of this?” the old man asked.

“I can answer that.” Jaime threw a few glances at Roberto and Paloma, trying to warn them of what was coming. He took a deep breath. “He knows because he’s the one who tried to kill you.”

Angelo Carrera looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“So this is the historic moment,” Jaime said, “when Angelo Carrera and Alvino Nascimbene finally come face-to-face.” To judge from Amatriaín’s face, one would think that time had stopped. The expression on his tanned, scar-covered face was ice-cold. Unblinking and apparently unmoved by Jaime’s words, he continued to point the gun at the old man. Though he remained silent, his lips began to tremble.

That was when Jaime knew he had struck a bull’s-eye. Paloma and Roberto had gotten the message and retreated, which bolstered his confidence. Now he just had to stay brave. He wished now that he’d finished his whole margarita.

“Nascimbene?” Angelo Carrera stammered. “You’re Alvino Nascimbene?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Amatriaín said, his lips still trembling.

Jaime slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on now, Vicente. We know each other! Oh, sorry!” he apologized, realizing he’d struck the injured shoulder. “I didn’t mean to call you Vicente—or to hurt you. Are you all right?”

“I’ll say it for the last time, Azcárate: step away and let me do my job.”

“And what is your job? To kill this old man like you killed his son on board the
Artemis
? To steal the Medusa and then take credit for finding it? Or perhaps to destroy it, along with the dreams of this man you hate so much? Don’t be fooled, Signor Carrera,” Jaime said to the man in the wheelchair. “This person’s name is Alvino Nascimbene, and he’s no policeman, or secret agent, or anything close to it. He was a security guard. He’s married and has a daughter and a little house in Trujillo. His last known employment was at the Leoni Antique Center, until it burned down in a fire. A fire that
he
started.”

“You’re out of your mind, Azcárate.”

“Oh, really? And what do you call murdering your classmate just to get your hands on a statue he knew absolutely nothing about?”

“Classmate? What are you talking about?”

“An old friend you studied art curation with: an agent who specialized in the recovery of stolen artifacts. His name was Vicente Amatriaín.”

“I’m Vicente Amatriaín!”

“Well, that’s what your face says, and no doubt your identity card and Europol badge, too. Documents can be forged, and plastic surgery can work wonders. And fingerprints, as you well know, disappear if you have a convenient sulfuric acid accident, for which no records, anywhere, exist. However, there’s one thing you were unable to completely erase: your talent for drawing. As an art historian, I could tell that the sketch of the Medusa that you showed me in El Burgo de Osma was by the same hand as the portrait you did of your wife.”

The man who had been passing himself off as Vicente Amatriaín turned and trained his weapon on Jaime. His eyes were bloodshot, and spotless dentures showed through what appeared to be a demented grin. “I thought you were intelligent, Azcárate, but you’ve proven yourself a total idiot. What are you hoping to achieve? You could’ve just left and I wouldn’t have had to kill you.”

“You’re right about that,” Jaime admitted with a defiant smile. “But you’re forgetting about my friends.”

45

While Jaime was doing his Hercule Poirot act, Clark entered the Cassiopeia Gallery and looked around in horror at the crowd of artsy intellectuals. Dino, who was serving customers behind the bar, noticed the newcomer and went to meet him. “Hey, can I help?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for your bimbo.”

“Excuse me?”

“My cousin Rosa. Where is she?”

Dino wrinkled up his nose. The man wore a dirty baseball cap and a grimy brown raincoat and smelled foul. With his bruised face, broken nose, and scabby hands, he looked like he’d been in some kind of accident.

“You’re Rosa’s cousin? The one that called in the middle of the night? It’s good to meet you. Rosa has never introduced me to anyone in the family.”

“No shit, dickhead. So, run along and get her, will you? And bring me a beer or I’ll help myself.”

Dino was unaccustomed to being spoken to this way, but he put up with it since it was a relative of Rosa’s. He went grumbling to the bar, served Clark a bottle of Peroni from which he drank deeply, and then Dino pointed toward the exhibition area. Clark found Rosa doing her best to dodge the advances of a short young man who seemed rather drunk.

“Hello, Rosetta. Your boyfriend has very bad manners.”

“Clark! You’re here already?”

“No, I’m a hologram. Who’s this dwarf?”

Giuliano Fiore puffed his chest out and clenched his fists. “Who are you calling dwarf, asshole?”

Clark smiled like a barracuda and opened his raincoat to reveal the butt of the pistol he wore under his armpit. All hostility drained from the painter’s expression.

“Excuse me, Rosa. I’m going to . . . speak to the press.” Fiore scuttled off with a few backward glances.

“Who was that idiot?” Clark asked.

“Giuliano Fiore. The artist.”

Clark looked around him. “These paintings are his?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I like them. They have style.”

Rosa gave a restless sigh. “How are you, Clark?”

“Wiped out, as always.” He winked at his cousin and lifted his bottle. “Although I feel much better now.”

Rosa screwed up her nose and noticed that some nearby guests were throwing side glances at Clark and matching her expression. With his appalling appearance, dirty clothes, and bad odor, he stuck out like a skunk in a parade of pedigree dogs. She took her cousin by the arm and led him to a corner. “This is my last night of family business, Clark. If we get through this, I’m done.”

“Come on, Rosa. This work is hard for me, too. I’ve been loyal to your father for twenty years, and to tell you the truth, I’ve fucking had it with getting the crap kicked out of me for the sake of some old cripple. But I’m still here.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. And don’t push it; that’s my father you’re talking about.”

“I don’t give a shit. How’d it go on the boat?”

“There’s nothing left. I copied everything onto an external drive and infected the computers with a virus so the data will be impossible to recover.”

“Good work, cousin.”

“I hope so. Now go up there and get everything ready to bring down to the truck. And while you’re at it, take a shower.”

“A shower?” He sniffed his underarm. “What for?”

As Clark elbowed his way past the guests who looked at him with irritation and disgust, Rosa stepped outside for some air. In less than an hour, they would usher the people out and close the doors to the gallery. She and Clark would then bring down the works of art that her father kept in the apartment upstairs and load them onto the truck to take them to the family’s warehouse at the port.

She sighed, hating herself for having been unable to cut free from her bonds sooner. Now her special night stood to be ruined by her father’s absurd ambition—his damned obsession with accumulating more money and power than he could ever use, especially since he was supposed to be dead. She turned to go back into the gallery and found herself looking at Clark’s flushed face.

“What is it now? Weren’t you going upstairs?”

“I was, but come and see what I’ve found.”

Rosa followed Clark to the basement storeroom. There, tied to each other with rope, were a stout man with a shaved head and goatee and a dark-haired woman.

“What’s this?” Rosa asked, perplexed.

“
This
is Paloma Blasco and Roberto Barrero,” said Clark. “And if you let me kill them right now, you’ll make me the happiest man on earth.”

46

“All right, Jaime. How long have you known?”

Jaime was surprised that Alvino Nascimbene was admitting so openly that he’d been unmasked, but he was even more amazed that he was being given the opportunity to keep talking. “Didn’t you hear what I said? My friends heard our conversation. The police will be on their way.”

“Do you think the police will believe your ridiculous story? I’m Vicente Amatriaín, the EHU officer with an impeccable reputation in the field of stolen art recovery.”

“Sure, that’s Amatriaín. But you screwed up in Amsterdam. Admit it.”

“And you’ve screwed up by coming here. But what do you mean? I’m curious.”

“It wasn’t difficult to figure out.” Jaime tried to control the trembling in his voice. The man’s cool demeanor, the way he seemed to think he’d beaten everyone else to the punch, made Jaime think he was prepared for any eventuality. “We tracked the history of the Medusa up to the fire at the Leoni Center.”

“It’s true,” Carrera cut in. “This worm set fire to the center and blew up my yacht. He’s a lunatic and a murderer.”

“You’re one to talk, Angelo,” Jaime said. The only thing he could think of that might keep the bullets in the clip was for him to keep talking. “I know about the war that’s been going on between you two since Alvino was a boy. He has it in for you, Angelo. Your abandonment, his mother’s beatings, and his time in care left him seriously disturbed, to the point that revenge became his purpose in life. That’s why he burned down the Leoni Center: because he knew there was something there that you’d been obsessed with ever since Paloma Blasco went to visit you in Rome.

“After your conversation with Paloma you began making your own inquiries, and you too concluded that the sculpture was much more valuable than the catalogues reported. Nascimbene realized the same thing. He knew that the most important thing in the world to you was the Medusa, so he decided to strike where it would hurt you most and burn down the gallery, hoping that the bust of Medusa would be destroyed. Fortunately the sculpture survived, and the Petrarca Gallery acquired it soon afterward. Now that I think of it, a guy would have to be a bit shortsighted to attempt to destroy a marble statue with fire.”

“Not bad, Azcárate. Have you thought about opening a private detective agency?”

“What for? I’m a journalist. You know what they say: the media is the fourth branch of government, or something like that.”

“Go on with your story. I was finding it quite fascinating.”

That’s what worries me,
Jaime thought. But he had no option but to keep talking. “Carrera remained interested in the statue until he decided to buy it for the museum where his daughter worked as director. His interest was such that he was willing to pay a huge sum of money for it, and not long after he transferred it to Verona, his yacht sank under mysterious circumstances. Or maybe not so mysterious.

“You, Alvino, caused the explosion on the boat, and like everyone else, you assumed Carrera had died. Mission accomplished. But one thing kept nagging at you: the Medusa. Why had Carrera paid so much for that lump of marble? The whole thing smelled fishy to you, and you took your suspicions to an old university friend: Vicente Amatriaín. And don’t tell me you’re the real Vicente Amatriaín, because no one’s buying it anymore.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“So much the better. A year later, Angelo determined that the Medusa could become the biggest deal of his life if he could find the right buyer. And he found Dr. Galliano, an eccentric collector from Bergamo who was obsessed with Greco-Roman mythology. As it happened, he also had been the best customer of the Pole’s gang. Galliano knew that a sculpture and reliquary linked to the legend of the blood of Medusa would be the jewel of his collection, but he needed to be sure it was the genuine article. Angelo decided he’d deal with that later and first asked his daughter Rosa to return the bust. But she refused and left the museum to come back here and run this gallery with her fiancé. Then Angelo planned the robbery and sent his son to carry it out.”

“Leonardo.” Carrera made a groaning sound. “This bastard killed him, too.”

“That was self-defense,” Nascimbene argued.

“We’ll get to that,” said Jaime. “We know that you, Angelo, needed to persuade the doctor that the sculpture was what you’d been told it was. So you watched Paloma, discovered my relationship with her and our university essay, and sent your daughter and that mercenary with the mustache after us. Meanwhile, the EHU launched an investigation led by one of their most distinguished officers: Vicente Amatriaín. But you, Alvino, had other plans for him. Here I admit I don’t fully understand the details. What made you kill Amatriaín and steal his identity?”

“Are you expecting a full confession, Azcárate?”

“I’m curious. But it’s not important. I imagine you met up with Amatriaín at some point, and he told you that he was on deck to join the new EHU. You hoped that would put you on the trail of the most notorious art thieves. Maybe you even suspected that Angelo Carrera was still alive, and that he and his son and daughter were behind some of the more spectacular robberies, so you didn’t think twice. Or maybe you thought long and hard about it. You figured you’d kill Amatriaín and assume his identity in order to get to the Carrera family and finish them off. You wanted to see them rotting in jail or massacred in a firefight. Whichever it was, you wanted to be responsible for it. That was the extent of your bitterness toward the man who abandoned you to a psychopathic mother. So you told your family you were going to take a training course in Paris, but, before you left, you went to ask your adoptive mother for money. Money that would help you pay for an operation to transform you into a carbon copy of your friend Amatriaín. Dr. André Fournier obviously did a first-class job.”

Alvino Nascimbene had listened to Jaime’s suppositions, guesses, and stabs in the dark with quiet interest, but this last sentence seemed to take him aback. “André? How—?”

“Your wife mentioned him.”

“You spoke to Isabel?”

“I sure did. She told me André Fournier was a regular customer at the Leoni Center. I looked him up on the Internet and learned that in the early nineties, he opened a plastic surgery clinic in Paris. I also made inquiries with the private security firm where you worked: there was no required course held in France or anywhere else that year.” The rage that flashed in Nascimbene’s eyes told Jaime he had guessed right again.

“The physical similarities between you and Amatriaín were striking,” Jaime continued, “and that suited your plan in two ways. First, it ensured the cosmetic surgery was a success, and second, it meant that when you killed Amatriaín, you could put his body in your car and set fire to it, faking an accident in which you supposedly died. As far as anyone was concerned, the charred body belonged to Alvino Nascimbene, the security guard. As Amatriaín, you were in charge of the investigation, so you were able to switch DNA samples and close the case. You involved yourself in various operations, including the one in which you managed to conveniently lose your fingerprints so that you couldn’t be identified. A person would have to be pretty sick in the head to go to such lengths to get revenge—which you clearly are.”

“Incredible,” Angelo Carrera exclaimed. “Did he really do all that?”

“Believe it or not, Angelo, he did. When it comes to revenge, this guy makes the Count of Montecristo look like an amateur. After all this, the fake Amatriaín reappeared: ready to lead the mission despite his gloved hands and a face covered in scars as a result of an accident with acid. But the truth is, he wasn’t interested in finding the sculpture. He wanted the man he suspected of stealing it: the despised Angelo Carrera. The only thing I don’t understand is why you came to me. Why did you need me to help you?”

“I believe you’ve answered your own question.” Nascimbene’s voice betrayed hints of both fury and admiration. “Your sharpness, audacity, and recklessness suited my purposes perfectly—though it was my superiors who wanted you to write the report. I came here today to recover the Medusa and arrest these thugs so you’d make me out to be a hero. Instead, your big mouth has just ensured that you’ll have to share the same fate as this son of a bitch in the wheelchair.”

“That’s why you saved my life on the
Artemis
. You’re the one who hired those second-rate mercenaries to steal the artifacts and blow the ship.”

“My son Leonardo.” Carrera groaned again. “He betrayed me to help a miserable rat like you.”

“The idiot took the bait.” Nascimbene couldn’t resist bragging. “Not only did he do my dirty work for me, he also served up the perfect chance to eliminate another Carrera. You should’ve seen his body,” he said to the man in the chair. “He looked like a stuck pig.”

“You set up the whole thing,” Jaime to Alvino. “There wasn’t a single stolen work of art on the ship and you knew it. It was all a trap that you laid to eliminate almost the entire team—emphasis on the ‘almost.’ After our full day of work, you kindly took the team to dinner so that Leonardo’s men could hijack the ship and lay the explosives. When we returned, the show began, and that’s just what it was: a show fueled by smoke bombs that, for one thing, created an eerie atmosphere and tied the events to the Medusa and, for another, ensured there was virtually zero visibility on the ship.”

Nascimbene smiled. “That wasn’t too hard to guess. No one in their right mind would believe the story of the curse.”

“I never did. I assumed the attack had been organized by someone on the outside until I understood the meaning of the words spoken by the man in the handkerchief: when he arrived at death’s door, he said the name of his murderer. He understood he’d been tricked, and knew the person who’d done it could only be Alvino Nascimbene. You killed him, just like you killed the ship’s crew, and the EHU team, and Kraniotis. And for what? So they wouldn’t get in the way while you conducted your own search for the Medusa. The only reason you saved me was so you could use me as a friendly witness, and so I’d write a report that would make you look good. You were just another dumbass who figured the key to everything was in my university essay and
Arcadia
article. That’s why you tried to stop me going down to help the poor people who were burning to death down below: you hoped I might lead you to the Medusa. I bet you’ve been keeping an eye on me ever since. That’s why you’re here today.”

“You’re right about almost everything.” Nascimbene aimed his weapon between Angelo Carrera’s eyes. “All right, old man. Let’s get to it. I couldn’t give a damn about the junk you’ve been gathering over the years. I just want to know one thing. Where’s the Medusa?”

“The Medusa’s not here.” Carrera managed to sound calm.

“Bullshit! You’re not going to trick me again. Tell me where the sculpture is or I’ll blow your head off.” Nascimbene’s eyes were burning and the hand in which he held the gun trembled. He was so determined to frighten an answer out of the man in the wheelchair, he didn’t even realize that he was about to lose control of the situation. His index finger applied slight pressure to the trigger, but he stopped halfway, before the gun fired.

“There.” Carrera gestured with the only hand he had left. “In that room.”

“Good. I’ll still kill you, but first I want you to see what I do with your precious statue.”

The words confirmed Jaime’s suspicions. Nascimbene’s search for the Medusa had nothing to do with its material, artistic, or historical value. This was a quest for vengeance, an elaborate exercise whose purpose was to cause his adversary as much pain as possible. These two men had lost control of themselves a long time ago, and all either of them desired was to see the other destroyed, to inflict the maximum amount of suffering.

Rage had blinded Nascimbene, so much that he didn’t notice a figure appear at the end of the hallway. “Open that door, old man,” he ordered Carrera. “Open it right now or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

Angelo Carrera was beginning to show signs of fear. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead and face and onto his pajamas.

That was when the first gunshot rang out, and the situation took an interesting turn.