Tuscan Hoax: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 4), page 10
“Anyway, assert the ACA’s mission. Introduce a few of the new interns and their home countries, whose heritage you are protecting. Perhaps make a donation—not too extravagant. You want to show your good works, not throw money around to deflect a problem. What do you think?” Astrid asked, warming her hands on the mug.
Eyrún looked at Darwin, who shrugged. “That could work. I don’t know what else we would do,” she said, turning back to Astrid.
“Also, highlighting your work shows you are not tomb raiders but reputable archaeologists working to preserve French heritage.”
“I like it,” said Darwin.
Everyone agreed, and Astrid offered to connect them to a trusted marketing communications agency to take the story to social media. As they wrote ideas on the whiteboard, Hervé knocked and delivered an envelope addressed to Darwin.
“Who’s it from?” asked Darwin, turning over the plain manila paper with only his name printed on its front.
“Je ne sais pas,” said Hervé. “An intern found it on the lobby floor.”
Darwin slit the envelope roughly with a pen and withdrew a single printed page. Eyrún leaned over his shoulder to read it.
“What is it?” asked Astrid.
“Putain!” said Darwin as he slumped in his chair.
“The bastards. It’s extortion!” Eyrún shoved her notepad across the table.
Astrid jumped from her chair and stood behind Darwin as they all read the note again.
Darwin,
We apologize for the ACA’s unfortunate incident with the authorities. We can make the misunderstanding go away in exchange for a favor. Send this item out for restoration: 1897.017.127b
When you comply, provenance documents for the vases will be made available to the OCBC.
Details to follow.
30
Back at their mountain house gym, Eyrún yanked the handle to lift the weights on the cable machine and then let the iron stacks slam back down. Ninety minutes ago, after Astrid’s departure, she had told Hervé to cancel her schedule for the day. Now she imagined Nahla’s head beneath the clanging plates.
She had run for half an hour on the treadmill before moving to the weights. Sweat poured down her face, and a glance in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors showed her pale Nordic skin was flushed red. She yanked away strands of dark hair stuck to her perspiring neck and started a new set.
Everything’s screwed! The ACA! My reputation!
Twenty kilograms banged down, shuddering the cable machine. Her arms thrust the handles down, sending the weight stack up.
I want that bitch exposed for what she is!
Bang—she finished the set. Her pulse pounded, and she was breathing heavily as she sat on a wooden plyo box. Darwin walked in and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t!” She shrugged it off, and he turned to go about his own workout.
Eyrún did another two sets, but, this time, she kept the weights under control, watching herself in the mirror. The self-disciplined movement checked her emotions—a technique that had served her well since her father’s death in an explosion while investigating a steam vent under a glacier. She had been seventeen, and, when her mother had fallen apart, she had had to act as head of the family.
She glanced at Darwin’s reflection as he warmed up across the room. When they had first met three years ago, she had thought him weak, too scattered, and even dangerous as they had undertaken a lengthy expedition in a lava tube. She had insisted on bringing more experienced guides to compensate, but it was Darwin who had kept the team together and reached her emotionally.
She continued watching him as she worked her core with a medicine ball. Her anger at his running off to LA fueled her twisting side to side. His stupid adventures. The way he leaps into situations. He… No. She caught herself and set the ball down, panting. Going to America had nothing to do with what happened.
Her rest timer went off, and she grabbed the medicine ball again. As she finished the set, Eyrún recalled a conversation with Stevie where she had complained about Darwin’s impulsiveness. Stevie’s reply echoed in Eyrún’s mind: But you love the excitement. She looked across the room at Darwin, and the corners of her mouth turned up. Dammit. She's right.
Eyrún attacked the ball as Stevie’s other comment played in her head: You two make a wonderful team. He’s the Great Finder, and you're the Fixer. Halfway through the set, she grunted, “We need to get them back.”
“What?” asked Darwin, pulling out an earbud.
She repeated herself.
“I was thinking about that.”
“And?”
“We give them what they want.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said, rolling the heavy ball away.
Darwin sat on the edge of the padded gym bench and massaged his shoulder. “I am. There’s got to be a way to do it. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but the spreadsheet shows regular questionable restoration.”
“But we’re talking about a priceless Vatican treasure.” She stood and leaned against the wall with her arms crossed as she tried to process her husband’s latest crazy idea. “How...? No. No. Not how, why? It’s a ridiculous idea.”
“I excel at ridiculous.” He grinned, and Eyrún responded by knitting her eyebrows. “Okay, it’s total lunacy, but hear me out.”
Here we go again! She huffed and crossed the room to open the sliding glass door. A cool breeze splashed her sweaty body. “Fine,” she said, turning to face him. “Let’s have it.”
Darwin swiveled on the bench, tracking her movement. “I’ve been thinking about this for two weeks. Something’s been going on inside the Vatican Museums. Who knows? Given what Jasmin told us, it’s gotta be happening at other museums.”
He described a plan to let the piece out for restoration and track its movement. This would allow them to figure out who was involved and stop the wider forgery.
“You really think that’s going to work? Look at what these people have done. These are sophisticated thieves who’ve been at it for decades. You’re just gonna show up and bust their forgery ring?”
“Well, obviously, my plan needs more work, but yes.”
She sighed and tipped her head back.
“What do you propose we do? Let them destroy everything we’ve worked for?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that!” she yelled. “Dammit, Darwin. You go at everything with half a plan. You nearly got us killed in Siwa.”
“It’s still just an idea. Of course we plan it out. I’m not stupid.” He walked out of the room.
Eyrún winced at the door slam and listened to him thud up the steps. Then she walked outside, picked up a rock near the firepit, and hurled it into the canyon.
For the next three minutes, she watched the sun sinking on the horizon. Finally, feeling chilled from the air sweeping up the gorge, she went back inside for a glass of water.
Darwin was gone.
31
“Darwin?” Eyrún called out as she walked to the front entry. The door was ajar. “Darwin? Are you inside?”
She turned, listening for the shower, but heard nothing. Shit! Where’d he go? She looked at the entry closet where they stored the hunting rifles. Stop it, she told herself. Corsica’s safe. Still, she moved cautiously.
She stepped onto the porch—and heard the crunch of gravel. She jumped behind the Macan, took a defensive stance, and then blew out relieved when she saw Darwin standing near one of the large pines that isolated their property from the mountain road. He jumped up to grab a thick rope hanging from a branch and climbed it hand over hand. Seconds later, he tapped a marker of red tape at the top and reversed course.
“You left the door open,” she said when he hit the gravel after letting go from two meters up.
“Sorry, love,” he panted with hands on his knees. “Thought I closed it.”
She grasped the rope and pulled herself up five times before dropping to the ground. “Oomph.” She massaged her upper arms. “Guess I shouldn’t try that after lifting.”
“Yeah, it’s a killer. That was my last set.” He brushed off his hands and flexed his fingers.
They stretched for a few minutes while the sun sank behind the far ridge, deepening the twilight and taking the temperature with it. “I’m chilly. Let’s go back inside.” Eyrún moved toward the house. The exterior lights highlighted its stone facing and stout wooden door.
Darwin followed, and their footfalls were the only sounds beneath the vast western slope of Mt. D’Oro. She paused for him to catch up and then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest your ideas were stupid. I’m mad at Nahla.”
“I know, love.” He put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him as they reached the porch together. “It’s risky, but we have to sort this out.”
“Maybe Jasmin can help,” she said, opening the door. “I mean, right now, Nahla’s got the upper hand, and Jasmin’s the only person we know who seems to know how this works.”
“Sure. I’ll explain what I’m thinking over dinner. After I shower.”
“Soap my back?” She ran ahead to the master suite. He kicked the door closed and hurried after her.
An hour and a half later, Darwin popped a slice of Sartenais cheese in his mouth, enjoying its smoky taste. He tipped back the last of the Muscat from Cap Corse, the northern peninsula. Their simple salad and sauteed trout with foraged mushrooms had been the right refreshing combination after their workout and weekend of rich eating.
Sylvie’s and Anne’s small market and restaurant in Bocagnano had become a hit with the locals and a godsend for Darwin and Eyrún, who were still getting used to thinking ahead about meals. They loved life on the mountain, but the local shops were no longer steps from their front door like in Paris or Reykjavík.
Eyrún sighed and leaned back, propping her feet on an adjacent chair. “I feel better. More relaxed, anyway. Now, tell me what you’re thinking.” Earlier, while cooking, she had asked him to wait until she could give him her full attention.
“It’ll be complicated and not without risk, but it will allow us to nail Nahla once and for all.”
“Cheers to that.” She tipped back the last of her wine.
“I looked up the piece they want. It’s got plenty of gaps and spaces to hide a GPS tracker inside it.”
“But is it going to Nahla or someplace else?”
Darwin paused before answering. “That’s the complicated part, as I don't know what they want to do with it. The note just asked for it to be sent out for restoration.”
“What if this backfires on us?”
“How do you mean?”
“They keep asking us to do more. How do we know they’ll live up to their end of the bargain.” She chewed a slice of cheese while mentally running through the scenarios. Like most of Darwin’s plans, this one morphed in real time. “Push back. Tell them it’s too risky getting the piece out of the Vatican.”
“But—”
“Think about it. They pulled this stunt to show we have looted goods. So what? I’ve been reading. A high percentage of the vases in most museums have been looted. I say we do what Astrid suggested: give the donated pieces back to cities they came from, along with sizable contributions. We continue our mission, and, a few years out, no one will remember.”
Darwin narrowed his eyes. “But what makes you believe Nahla will stop at this? I think she wants to destroy us. I say we attack.”
Eyrún pursed her lips as she considered their nemesis.
“She’s not going to quit, love,” he said. “She lost millions not getting the Alexandria Library scroll. Hit her business hard. We won that round. But she’s now launched a vendetta against the ACA.”
Eyrún’s eyes widened. “And the pope got back Alexander’s treasure scroll. You’re right. She’s out to get us.”
32
Darwin used the short flight to Rome and drive into Vatican City to rehearse his upcoming conversation with Richard, who was similarly unconventional. During their first encounter, Richard had all but encouraged Darwin to break into a crypt after the Church had refused them both permission to explore.
But Darwin knew that his typical method—asking for forgiveness after a questionable operation—would not play well in Vatican City. Richard had now risen to a prominent position as assistant to a cardinal considered a papal contender. Asking to send out a priceless treasure to fulfill a ransom request seemed, at moments, ludicrous even to Darwin.
As Saint Peter’s dome loomed larger, he ran through the video call with Gavin last night. “It’s an insane proposal,” Gavin had said.
“But will you support it?” Darwin had pressed after floating the question a couple of times.
“Provisionally. The tracking device must be rock solid, and be careful to conceal your actions. Don’t trust any of the curators.”
Darwin’s heart thrummed as they reached the security checkpoint. He showed his credentials to the Swiss Guards, and, a minute later, the driver let him off inside the Belvedere Courtyard. He walked to his office in the library, where he busied himself with email, but he could not focus.
Merde. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time since arriving—two more hours until lunch with Richard. He hated waiting, so he walked about the office, introducing himself to colleagues he had not met. When his admin reminded him it was time for a weekly staff meeting, he excused himself from the woman working with the high-resolution scanner and went to the conference room, glad to have something to do.
The team cataloging the items in the pope’s secret vault had gathered in there, and conversation had begun about summer holiday plans. Eventually they moved on to business. One by one, the team members summarized documents that no longer held historical urgency or whose damming information applied only to the long deceased.
While the team members debated the relevance of one document’s centuries-old conspiracy between obsolete ruling families, Darwin paged through a printout. Its Carolingian script in old Latin with no spacing tested his skills, but he quickly reached the opinion that the document was fodder for historians. He concurred with the team, who agreed to release it into the main Vatican archives. And so it went. While much of the discussion bordered on tedium, it passed the time until his lunch with Richard.
At twelve thirty, Darwin met Richard behind St. Peter’s. They went around its south side, through a maze of buildings, and exited Vatican City into Rome. When time permitted, they preferred to lunch in a tiny cafe on Via Nicolò III, less than a five-minute walk from the bustling capital of Catholicism.
Richard queried Darwin on the arrest and proceedings at the ACA, and he agreed that the coincidental timing sounded suspect. “How is Eyrún taking it?”
Darwin sighed, and shoulders slumped, “She’s angry, and it’s piling onto the stress of starting up the ACA.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. She doesn’t deserve this treatment. But Eyrún’s tough.”
They walked half a block in silence before Richard continued. “Do you really think it’s that Egyptian woman Nahla?”
“So far, we can’t think of anyone else.”
Richard asked about the lawyer's strategy.
“They plan to tie it up in court while we investigate,” said Darwin.
“That’ll cost you two a fortune,” Richard said as they turned into the restaurant.
They took a table in front. Darwin’s stomach growled at the herbed aroma wafting from the kitchen that melded with the fragrant spring air.
“Bonjourno, Richard,” said the owner, a man with a gray mustache the size of a small broom. “And Darwin, too. Heaven only knows what Vatican conspiracy you’re debating today.”
“Bonjourno, Fabrizio,” they said together, and the three of them gossiped about the goings-on in the nation-state down the street. Richard gave Darwin a look that said, “Caution.”
A year ago, Fabrizio had grabbed a chair and regaled them with tales of tunnels beneath Rome. He had come across a blog about a Knight’s Templar discovery in France. Darwin had shared unseen photos and let him handle one of the Aquila coins the Romans had minted. The old man, his mustache twitching, had turned the coin in his fingers. After a time, he had reluctantly handed it back and said, “You should look under Rome sometime. Lots of Roman tunnels. Maybe you can find a treasure here, no?”
They had been treated like family since that day. Now, each time they dined here, Darwin flashed back on the tunnel beneath a wine shop less than a kilometer away and wondered if Nero’s gold was still there. I really should look.
An hour later, their lunch plates were cleared, and Richard steered the conversation to business. “Tell me about this idea that you say I won’t like. I can only imagine it’s something like digging up St. Peter’s floor because you found another parchment with an obscure text.” His booming laugh reverberated in the small restaurant.
“How did you know about that?” asked Darwin.
Richard sputtered powdered sugar as his eyes grew as wide as saucers.
Darwin grinned. Gotcha.
“Good one.” Richard wagged a large finger and wiped his mouth. “Your sense of humor’s improving.”
When Darwin explained what he really wanted to do, Richard sat straighter and said, “You’ve got to be kidding. No. Wait. I know you are not, so slow down and take me through that again.”
Darwin removed three folded sheets of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and smoothed them out in front of Richard.
“These are the major objects restored in the last hundred years. The list doesn’t count the smaller, in-house work. The highlighted pieces have all been sent outside to the same workshop. Some of them have gone out multiple times.
“Now, I’ve consulted with experts and found it’s rare that pieces would undergo a restoration more than once, unless there is a significant improvement in technique. Notice how these three pieces were sent out a second time, but”—he tapped on the paper—“only after new curators took over the individual departments. The common denominator in these recent restorations is Giuseppe Tonto.” He paused to let the story sink in.
