The Geneva Deception. James Twining
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one yellow sheet, because the coloured strips stood out from everything else. It was mainly covered in doodles and practice runs of his signature; the sort of thing you do when you’re on the phone to someone. But in one corner he’d written the words Delian League and then sketched out a sort of symbol underneath. Two snakes wrapped around a clenched fist.’
‘Means nothing to me,’ Tom shook his head.
‘Well, it means something to him because he’s clammed up since we showed it to him. Won’t even talk to his attorney. But we found his bank records too and I think that the Delian League is -’
She broke off as Stokes ended his call and shuffled back down towards them.
‘The money’s ready and Metro are playing ball. Looks like we’re all set.’
They turned on to Las Vegas Boulevard, a grinning cowboy on an overhead billboard welcoming them to the home of the seven-day weekend, the streets teeming with nocturnal creatures who, like vampires it seemed, were only now venturing outside to feed.
It was Jennifer’s first time in Las Vegas, and even as they’d circled prior to landing she’d found herself struck by the almost unnatural way that this concrete oasis seemed to have been cut out of the desert’s soft belly, its neon heartbeat pulsing hungrily, its wailing lungs breathing expensively chilled air.
The view from the ground wasn’t much better, the different hotel resorts galloping past in a single garish streak of light, like an overexposed photograph of a merry-go-round. The Pyramids, Arthurian England, New York, Paris, Lake Como, Venice - she had the sudden, disorientating sensation of travelling without moving, of time and space having been folded in on itself so as to meet at this one point in the universe.
The strange thing was that while there was something undeniably intoxicating, perhaps even gorgeous, about the multi-million-dollar light shows, the balletic fountain displays and the smell of sulphur from the half-hourly volcanic eruptions, she had the strong sense that if she were to reach out and try to grasp anything, it would dissolve under her touch. She realised then that this was a city of hyper-reality, of carbon-fibre monuments, plastic trees and contrived experiences. A copy of everywhere and yet nowhere all at once, the desperate striving for authenticity only serving to reveal its essential falsehood. A non place. She hoped they wouldn’t have to stay here long.
‘We’re here,’ Stokes called as the limo turned in under a monumental arch topped by two rearing lions.
Despite its name, the Amalfi seemed to have been inspired by Florentine rather than Neapolitan architecture, although rendered on such a scale as to make the Duomo look like a concession stand. It was the Palazzo Strozzi on steroids, a massive, fortress-like structure made from Indiana limestone and Ohio sandstone, the soaring arched windows covered with portcullis-like iron grilles that only added to its impregnable appearance.
Rather than pull round to the covered main entrance, their car headed to the left and then dipped into an underground car park.
‘The high-rollers’ entrance,’ Stokes explained. ‘Some of these guys don’t want to risk getting jumped between the car and hotel.’
Tom laughed.
‘They’re more likely to be robbed inside than out there.’
The Pantheon, Rome
18th March - 6.58 a.m.
Different day. Different place. And yet it seemed to Allegra that there was something strangely familiar about the way things were playing out - the unexpected, and unwelcome, phone call. The barked summons. The police barricades across the streets. The swelling crowd. The fevered wailing of the sirens. The helicopter wheeling overhead. The TV crews prowling like hyenas around a kill. Her being late.
Even so, there was a subtle difference from the previous evening’s events too. For if yesterday she had seen shock and curiosity on her way to the Area Sacra, today she had sensed outrage from the officers manning the barriers and mounting anger from the swelling crowd.
Returning her ID to her bag, she crossed the Piazza della Minerva and made her way on to the Piazza della Rotunda. Compared to the zoo she had just walked through, the square seemed eerily peaceful to her - the gentle chime of the fountain echoing off the massed walls, the hushed conversations of the officers and the muted fizz of their radios generating a faint hum that sounded like electricity on a power line on a wet day.
There was also a sense of dignified order here, perhaps even respect. For rather than being casually abandoned on the cobbles as appeared to have happened last night, the assembled police and other emergency service vehicles had been neatly parked next to each other along one side of the square.
As she walked it started to spit with rain, the sky huddling beneath a thick blanket of grey clouds, as if it didn’t want to be woken. The Pantheon loomed ahead of her, the classical elegance of the three rows of monolithic granite columns which supported its front portico compromised by the hulking, barrel-shaped building behind it. Squat and solid, it appeared to sit in a small crater of its own invention, the streets encircling it as if it had fallen, meteor-like, from the sky, and buried itself between the neighbouring buildings.
Allegra walked up to the portico, stooping under the police tape that had been strung between the columns, and made her way inside the rotunda, her shoes squeaking on the ancient marble. Almost immediately she paused, her eyes drawn to the pale beam formed by the searchlight of the helicopter hovering overhead as it was funnelled through the circular opening at the apex of the coffered dome. A slanting column of light had formed between the ceiling and the altar, sparks of rain fluttering around it like fireflies trapped in a glass jar. It was a beautiful and unexpected sight.
‘Are you coming in, or just going to stand there like a retard?’ Salvatore crossed through the beam of light, sounding even more put upon than he had yesterday.
‘“Hello” would be nice.’
‘You’re late.’
‘Believe me, it takes years of practice to be this unreliable.’
‘Gallo’s not happy.’
‘He doesn’t exactly strike me as the happy type.’
He eyed her unblinkingly, looking both appalled and yet also slightly envious of her brazen tone. He gave a resigned shrug.
‘Suit yourself.’
There were about fifteen, maybe even twenty people inside, some in uniform interrogating the security guards who’d been covering the night shift, others in hooded white evidence suits taking photographs or examining the floor around the altar, which itself was obscured by some makeshift screens. Gallo, in a suit this time, was waiting for her next to Raphael’s tomb, his hands folded behind his back like a teacher readying himself to hand out a punishment. As Salvatore had warned her, he was in a dark mood, and she found herself wondering if the angry atmosphere she’d noticed on the other side of the barricades was in some strange way linked to his own emotional barometer.
‘Nice of you to show up.’
‘Nice of you to ask me.’
Gallo paused, lips pursed, as if he couldn’t quite decide if he found her insolent or amusing.
‘Where did you say you were from?’ he asked, taking his glasses off and polishing them on his tie.
‘I didn’t. But it’s Naples,’ she stuttered, his question taking her by surprise.
‘An only child?’ It was a simple question, but she could tell from his tone that it was loaded with meaning - difficult, spoilt, selfish, stubborn. Pick your stereotype.
‘That’s none of your business.’
He paused again, then gave an apologetic