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45
Firenze
General Ferrari arrived at Villa dei Fiori at two the following afternoon. He was accompanied by four tactical officers and two technicians. The tactical officers conducted a site survey of the villa and the grounds while the techs turned the dining room into an op center. The general, in a business suit and open-necked dress shirt, sat in the great room with Gabriel and watched him paint.
“Your girl arrived in Florence shortly before noon.”
“How did she manage that?”
“A chartered Dassault Falcon from London City Airport. The Four Seasons sent a car for her. She’s there now.”
“Doing what?”
“Our surveillance capabilities inside the hotel are limited. But we’ll keep an eye on her if she decides to do a bit of sightseeing. And we’ll definitely have a couple of teams in the Piazza della Repubblica at nine o’clock.”
“If she spots them, we’re dead.”
“This might come as a surprise to you, my friend, but the Arma dei Carabinieri has done this a time or two. Without your help,” the general added. “The minute she purchases that painting, we’ll have the grounds to arrest her on numerous art fraud and conspiracy charges. She will be staring down the barrel of a very long sentence in an Italian prison for women. Not a pleasant prospect for a frequent guest of the Lanesborough Hotel in London.”
“I don’t want her in a prison cell,” said Gabriel. “I want her on the opposite side of an interrogation table, telling us everything she knows.”
“As do I. But I am obligated under Italian law to provide her with an attorney if she desires one. If I do not, anything she says will be inadmissible at trial.”
“What does Italian law say about art restorers taking part in interrogations?”
“Not surprisingly, Italian law is silent on that question. If, however, she were to consent to the restorer’s presence, it might be permissible.”
Gabriel stepped away from the canvas and appraised his work. “Perhaps the portrait will influence her thinking.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. In fact, it might be a good idea to put her in handcuffs before you let her see it.”
“Please don’t,” said Gabriel as he loaded his brush. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
She spent the afternoon at the pool and at 6:00 p.m. headed upstairs to her suite to shower and dress. She chose her clothing with care. Pale blue stretch jeans. A loose-fitting white blouse. Flat-soled suede moccasins. Her face was aglow from the Tuscan sun and required little makeup. Her raven hair she wound into a bun, with a few stray tendrils along her neck. Attractive, she thought as she evaluated her appearance in the mirror, but serious. There would be no flirtationtonight. No fun and games of the sort she had played with the art dealer in London. The man she was meeting in the Piazza della Repubblica could not be seduced or tricked into doing her bidding. She had seen a video of his visit to Galerie Hassler in Berlin. He was young, good-looking, athletically built. A dangerous man, she reckoned. A professional.
Downstairs, she crossed the lobby and stepped through the hotel’s unassuming entrance into the Borgo Pinti. The midday crowds had retreated from the city, as had the heat. She stopped for a coffee at Caffè Michelangelo, then walked through the cool twilight to the Piazza della Repubblica. Its dominant architectural feature was the towering triumphal arch on the western flank. She arrived there, as instructed, at nine o’clock exactly. The Piaggio motor scooter drew alongside her a minute later.
She recognized the man at the helm.
Young, good-looking, athletically built.
Wordlessly he moved to the back of the saddle. Magdalena mounted the bike and asked for a destination.
“The Lungarno Torrigiani. It’s on the—”
“I know where it is,” she said, and executed a flawless U-turn in the narrow street. As she sped toward the river, his strong hands moved over the small of her back, her hips, her crotch, the inside of her thighs, her breasts. There was nothing sexual in his touch. He was merely searching her for a concealed weapon.
He was a professional, she thought. Fortunately, she was a professional, too.
The call arrived at Villa dei Fiori at 9:03 p.m. It was from one of the Carabinieri surveillance artists in the Piazza della Repubblica. The woman had appeared at the rendezvous point as instructed. She and Rossetti were now bound for the apartment. General Ferrari quicklyrelayed the information to Gabriel, who was still at his easel. He carefully wiped the paint from his brush and headed to the makeshift op center to watch the next act. The Oliver Dimbleby show had been a smashing success. Now it was Alessandro Calvi’s turn in the spotlight. One mistake, thought Gabriel, and they were dead.
