Chapter 4: Confessional
Florence, Italy. Tuesday, December 27, 2005.
"I haven't been to Florence since I was in college," El said, keeping her eyes fixed on the view through the car window as their taxi wound through narrow medieval streets on the way to the hotel. "Thank you, Neal and Mozzie!"
Peter was equally appreciative. This was his first trip to Italy. Before this year, he'd never been to Europe. Over the past several months, his work had entailed trips to England, France, Germany, and Hungary. Traveling overseas on business was beginning to feel routine. Perhaps even more surprisingly, the rate Neal had been able to negotiate for them at the same hotel where he was staying fell within the FBI guidelines.
When they entered the lobby and found Neal and Sara waiting for them, it was the best gift of all. Peter had to keep reminding himself not to jump the gun. They'd only been dating for a few months. Sara was living in London. Once everyone knew they were dating, they might miss the excitement of a secret romance. One of them could grow bored. Incompatibilities might surface. This wasn't the end but only the beginning. But as he and El greeted the happy couple, he had a good feeling that it would work out for them.
Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, Neal had managed to secure them a room on the top floor with magnificent views of the city. Although today would be a workday for him and Neal, El and Sara would be free to shop and visit museums.
Claudia had scheduled a meeting at the Carabinieri branch office which was in the historic Palazzo Pitti, across the Arno River from the hotel. Neal told him on the walk over that it had been built by the Medici family in the sixteenth century as their chief residence. The palace was now a museum complex.
In some respects, the walk reminded Peter of when he and Neal had strolled along the Seine last August as they were preparing to set the U-boat con in motion, a sting which ultimately resulted in the capture of Vincent Adler and the Mansfeld brothers. And just like then, Rolf and Klaus were on Peter's mind.
"Diana received a comment to her latest Arkham Files story," he told Neal.
"For Sands of Abydos?" Neal smiled. "Was it from Henry? Some snarky comment that he hoped I'd enjoy my time in Cairo with Alex? El told me about his suspicions."
"I wish it was something that lighthearted. But who knows? Perhaps it is."
Neal's expression grew serious as he stopped in his tracks. "You better tell me about it."
They were on a street bordering the Arno River. A medieval stone bridge surmounted by a row of shops was in front of them. As good a place as any for the warning. "Diana received it on Christmas Eve. The comment was in code."
Neal's eyes narrowed. "Rolf sent a coded message last spring."
"It's the same code. Travis was able to decrypt it immediately. The message this time was 'Miss me?' It was posted by a guest with no user name attached."
"I thought Rolf didn't have access to a computer."
"He doesn't. I double-checked with the Hungarians. But he is allowed visitors, and, of course, he's permitted to talk with his lawyer."
"Have the authorities sorted out where Rolf will be tried first?"
Peter nodded. "He'll be flown to New York in a few days where he'll be prosecuted for kidnapping."
"Then the message may refer to the transfer," Neal said. "He could simply be trying to mess with our heads."
"That has the highest probability," Peter confirmed, "but we can't overlook the other possibilities."
"One being that he has an accomplice. If that's true . . . " Neal paused a moment and took a breath. "You're using his handle on the dark web."
"There's no need to overwork the issue," Peter said, not wanting to wreck the holiday mood. "The message was short. Rolf could have passed it on to anyone to transmit. They wouldn't need to understand the code."
Neal nodded absently, his eyes scanning the river. "You remember last Christmas Rolf left an origami on the Christmas tree at the Natural History Museum. This could be something similar—his way of grabbing a sliver of attention."
"I hope that's all it means. I haven't told El yet but I intend to. You may wish to tell Sara. Mozzie and Henry should be informed as well."
"Richard and Aidan, too. Anyone who was involved with the con could be a target." Neal took a slow breath. "When Rolf manipulated us last year, his aim wasn't revenge, although for a long while we worried that was the case. Now there are plenty of reasons he could have us in his crosshairs."
"That's Tricia's concern as well. She's kept herself listed as Rolf's profiler and has already been contacted. Rolf undoubtedly holds us responsible for his capture."
"And perhaps for souring his relationship with his brother."
"I assume you haven't noticed anything suspicious?"
A shadow of a smile flitting across Neal's lips, but it didn't extend to his eyes. "Messages from Klaus? No. And I haven't received a leopard origami. If anything happens, I'll let you know immediately." He resumed walking. "I'm glad Diana didn't stop writing the stories. Rolf couldn't resist responding. I don't imagine that's changed."
Peter nodded in agreement. "He feeds off manipulating others. The stories are a lure that we may be able to use again." The mysteries surrounding Rolf would continue. Did he have a secret partner as Tricia believed? What was his motivation for his crimes? His bank accounts hadn't been found. They didn't know how he used his profits.
Peter switched the subject to the upcoming sting, but he knew both of them would keep pondering the message's significance in the back of their minds.
In comparison, the present case was much more straightforward. The plan was a simple one. Their buyer, who was using the handle of Alighieri, requested they go to a church in a village northeast of Florence. Peter and Neal would both go. Peter would discuss the sale with someone—surely not a priest—in a confessional while Neal would present his Da Vinci forgery to authenticators who would likely be assembled in a church office. Assuming the work was accepted, payment would be wired directly to Peter's account. Once the painting was exchanged, Claudia's tech team would trace its route. By the end of the day, they could either have secured a major haul or be wiping egg off their faces.
Mozzie had been ecstatic about the alias of the buyer since it was Dante's surname. He was convinced it proved the buyer's interest in the medieval poet. Claudia was maintaining a healthy skepticism, pointing out it could instead indicate nationalistic pride on the buyer's part. The two theories weren't mutually exclusive. They should soon know if either or both were right.
#
Neal waited patiently in the church nave while the buyer's experts scrutinized his painting. They'd set up their equipment in a side room and left the door open, not seeming to mind that he could view the proceedings. Neal had introduced himself as Nick Halden. The alias was known to the Mansfelds. If Rolf had mentioned him to the buyer, they'd be familiar with his real name, but he didn't want to appear aware of it. The men were thorough. They'd brought a portable lab and spectroscope to perform an analysis. These days, one couldn't be too careful. Forgeries were rampant, or so he'd been told.
While Neal cooled his heels, he studied the exquisite curved arches of the Romanesque church. The rustic simplicity of the walls accentuated the monumental vaulting.
Peter was still inside the confessional. He was wearing his Steinar Wolff disguise, consisting of a wig and short beard. It was midmorning. Aside from their group, there were only a few elderly women in black dresses in the nave. Neal wondered how the buyer had made the arrangements. Was the priest given a large sum for church renovations in exchange for the use of the facility? Nardone's villa was in the church parish. He could be a major benefactor.
The authenticators murmured in low tones as they examined Neal's work, delicately passing probes over its surface. He was proud of that painting. He'd created it under duress while being held a prisoner, but Klaus had provided him with the finest grade of authentic materials. Peter was worried that they might simply take the painting and run but Neal wasn't. Nardone was a collector. He likely hoped this was the first of many lucrative transactions with Steinar Wolff.
"Bene," the chief authenticator said and motioned for Neal to approach. "We are satisfied," he added in heavily accented English. He placed the painting back in its protective case. The original could likely be sold at auction for $200 million. Even at the black market rate of 5 percent, that wasn't chump change. But Neal believed Nardone had no intention of selling it.
Mozzie would probably be the only one to receive any cash. His finder's fee if they recovered a manuscript or any genuine paintings would be substantial. He told Neal he planned to give most of the proceeds to Luchino as an anonymous donation to the Vatican library. He probably also thought it would provide an additional incentive for Luchino to notify him of any other rare treasures which needed rescuing.
Once their transaction was concluded and the proceeds wired to Steinar's bank account, Neal and Peter regrouped at the local police station which the Carabinieri were using for their command center.
Claudia delegated an officer to go to a nearby café to bring in sandwiches while Peter removed his disguise. For the search at the villa, Neal would wear his blond wig. Although Matthew St. John would soon no longer be Alicia's boyfriend, Neal wouldn't need to retire the alias.
"The painting's arrived at the villa," an officer informed them. He'd been monitoring the GPS signal ever since Neal took it to the church. Neal translated the good news for Peter.
"The villa is twenty minutes away," Claudia added, speaking in English for Peter's benefit. "We should give them time to conceal the painting, hopefully in the same location where other paintings are stored. Multiple stolen works will make it more difficult for Nardone to pretend to be an innocent buyer."
Neal didn't believe in jinxes but no sooner had the officer returned with lunch than the Italians' version of Travis cursed at his computer. Never a good sign.
"The signal's disappeared!" the officer exclaimed in Italian, adding a hand gesture which Peter would be able to translate without any assistance.
Claudia frowned. "I hope that doesn't mean the tracker was discovered. Perhaps it's a malfunction of some sort."
"The tracker passed the scrutiny of the authenticators," Peter said, "but they may have used a bug detector at the villa. Even then, they might not have realized it was broadcasting a signal since the transmission was designed to mimic that of a cell phone."
"The treasure room where Nardone keeps his paintings could be insulated," Neal suggested. "The construction may block a signal."
Claudia took a slow breath. "Whatever the reason, our ability to discover the hiding spot has become even more challenging." She turned to Neal. "You said your attempt to find a secret room in the building plans was unsuccessful."
"That's true, but there were no plans for the wine cellar," he said, voicing Mozzie's favorite theory. "A cubbyhole could be hidden there."
"Another possibility is that Nardone had a hiding spot constructed without notifying the historical society," Peter noted. "A modern addition could have been more easily insulated from electronic signals."
"We'll need to search the entire villa," Claudia said. "Our agents are quite familiar with hidden treasure rooms. The town hall in Florence has several famous secret areas. If there's one in Nardone's villa, we'll find it. We'll also have electronic detectors. The signal could be too weak to be picked up in Florence, but once we're on-site, our chance of success will improve."
It better. Neal wasn't going home without his painting.
Only one road led to the villa, and it was already being monitored. So far no one had left the estate. Snow carpeted the fields and vineyards. The Carmignano wines which Nardone's estate produced had an ancient heritage, going back at least to the fourteenth century. But Nardone was particularly respected for his grappa. One of the world's most potent brandies, Grappa was produced as a by-product of wine production. Many grappas had a higher alcohol content than cognac. Neal had learned under Klaus's tutelage to treat it with respect.
When they arrived at the estate in their black Carabinieri cars, Neal and Peter stood back, letting Claudia take the lead. This was Neal's first chance to see Nardone face-to-face. He was wearing a camel cashmere sweater with wool trousers. His hair was salted with gray. He appeared to be very much at ease with their unexpected appearance. His reaction to Claudia's explanation that they had evidence of a stolen painting was muted.
"I know nothing about a stolen painting, but as a lover of fine art, I'm appalled at your belief that one of my staff might be involved."
The man was no fool. Instead of feigning complete innocence, Nardone was already laying the groundwork to assign blame.
"Please, conduct your search," Nardone added, extending his arms with the palms up as if to signal he had nothing to hide. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to assist."
Neal murmured the translation to Peter as they stood to one side. Claudia had already divided the group into teams. Peter had requested that he and Neal be in the group to search the wine cellar.
A narrow flight of stone steps descended into the basement. Neal and Peter were accompanied by a female agent, Lidia Ricci, who spoke excellent English. Neal hoped the member of the household who accompanied them was not as fluent.
The cellar was for the villa's private use, but even so, its size was impressive. The walls appeared to be carved out the bedrock under the villa. The air was rich with the smell of tannin and grapes. Under a low ceiling, lines of wine racks extended both along the walls and in the center of the room. The room was dimly lit with only one overhead light, but they'd all come equipped with flashlights.
Lidia ordered the staff member to wait on the steps during the search.
"Is there anything in particular we should look for?" she asked Peter in an undertone.
"With snow on the ground, it's possible damp footprints were left. Check with your flashlight before walking into the cellar."
Peter's hunch paid off as faint traces were evident leading from the stairs to one wall. There were enough scattered impressions to detect a round-trip had been made. Lidia called Claudia on her cell phone then photographed the evidence.
Neal was keeping a careful eye on the servant and detected a slight unease in his expression. His heart began to race at the thought they were so close.
When Claudia arrived, Neal trained a flashlight on the wall but didn't find any cracks. He wasn't discouraged. The bottles extended several feet up the wall. They could easily conceal an opening.
Claudia held up a portable electronic device and scanned the area. "I'm not getting any readings."
"The switch may be hidden behind a bottle," Neal said. "The bottles are all coated with a layer of dust. Look for any which show smudges or other evidence of being touched." There were over a hundred bottles in that one area. If necessary, they'd remove each one, but hawk-eyed Peter spared them the trouble.
"Check this one," he said, not touching the bottle. A faint smudge was visible where the foil capsule met the glass, perhaps indicative of someone having moved it.
"Let's see what's behind it," Claudia said, a smile breaking out. She pulled the bottle out from the rack to reveal a small wall switch. When she flicked it, an entire section of the wine rack slid sideways along a track to reveal a four-foot-high entrance into a secret room. Neal longed for Mozzie to be present. His hunch had paid off.
#
Peter and Neal spent the rest of the day with Claudia's agents. Peter found himself unable to stop smiling. What a Christmas present! The major treasure was the Caravaggio painting Neal had hoped to find. The painting of a nativity scene had been stolen from a church, leading Neal to quip higher powers may have helped in its recovery. The Lorenzo Lippi painting Neal had heard about was also present as well as several other works by Italian masters.
And there was a Dante manuscript. Was it an original? Neal made no predictions, but it was lavishly illustrated with drawings and appeared ancient. All in all, a haul well worth the trip to Florence.
Claudia and her team were ecstatic over what would surely be a major coup for them. Neal and Peter's names would be kept out of the press reports. The value of Steinar and Neal's partnership had been dramatically validated. When the news reached White Collar, the team would likely initiate a search for other opportunities.
Peter took a break to call John Hobhouse, the head of the Interpol art crimes task force, to report their results. He also told Neal to pick a suitably festive restaurant to celebrate their victory with El and Sara that evening.
It was dark by the time they left the Carabinieri office in the Palazzo Pitti.
"Let's walk back," Neal suggested. "How often do we have the opportunity to stroll the streets of Florence together?"
"If Claudia has her way, this is just the beginning." It was a sign of his elation that the thought of a return trip seemed remarkably palatable. Yes, Steinar and Neal were on a roll.
The streets were filled with a holiday crowd. As they approached the Arno, Peter paused to take in the view. "Hey, Neal, what's that building straight across from us?"
When Neal didn't answer, he turned around.
"Not a sound if you want to see your friend alive," someone whispered in heavily accented English while jabbing a gun in his back. Peter found himself quickly surrounded by three men.
A Fiat white cargo van was parked on the street. Peter was hustled inside the open side door. Dinner would be late.
#
Neal frowned when Peter narrowed his eyes at him. What was that supposed to mean? They were both gagged and sitting on the floor of a van rumbling through the Tuscany countryside with four guards watching over them, not to mention the driver in the front. Did Peter think Neal was going to cause a commotion? Not with all the firearms pointed at them.
One of the thugs he recognized from Nardone's estate. This must be payback, Mafia-style. The guards didn't bother wearing hoods. Not a good sign. They weren't planning that Neal and Peter would be in any condition to identify them.
Neal's hands were tied in front of him. Sure, he could get out of his zip ties, but then what? He wasn't suicidal. His only option was a waiting game till they had an opportunity.
And that moment came after they'd been driving for over an hour. They pulled off on the side of a country road, somewhere on a steep hillside. They'd been driving with the lights on in the interior. The driver ordered the guards to get out the bottles. Neal watched uneasily as one of the men opened a box of . . . grappa. Were they stopping for happy hour? Decidedly the wrong ambiance.
One of the guards approached Neal and ripped off his cloth gag. Neal restrained himself from any smartass remarks till he understood what they were up to.
"Drink," the thug ordered while another rammed the bottle into Neal's mouth.
"No thanks," he said in Italian, jerking his mouth free.
"Then we shoot your friend now," the guy said calmly. "Are you sure you don't want a drink?" He jammed the bottle once more into Neal's mouth.
Neal took as much as he could then spat the liquid in the guy's face. The guns were a threat that they wouldn't use. They wanted them to appear drunk not murdered. But why? Were they planning to stage an accident?
The thug rammed the bottle back into his mouth while holding his jaw in place. Peter was getting the same treatment. It was impossible not to swallow, but Neal tried to let the liquid dribble out of the sides of his mouth. He continued to spit out as much he could. The ordeal didn't end till a sharp rap on the back of his head made everything go black.
"Neal, dammit, wake up!"
Before he could open his eyes, he was given a hard shove that sent him careening down a snow-covered hill. A tree loomed in front of him. Neal grabbed onto the trunk to brake his descent. He heard the sounds of a car engine, loud cracks of tree branches, and screeches of metal. The noises slowly receded as Neal clung numbly to the tree. This probably wasn't the best place to go to sleep, but the world was spinning so fast, he didn't want to do anything else.
"You okay?" Peter demanded, his face popping into view next to the tree trunk.
"More or less." Neal squinted as Peter's face dissolved into multiple images. His head ached abominably, and he closed his eyes to keep the nausea at bay.
"What was that stuff they poured down us?" Peter slurred.
"Grappa," Neal said with a groan as he began remembering. He propped his back against his new best friend forever, Signor Tree. Why wasn't Peter praising him for that major accomplishment?
Peter sprawled next to him, breathing heavily.
"Any injuries?" Neal asked.
"Nope. I man'ged to jerk away. Faked bein' asleep."
Neal gingerly felt the back of his head. A goose egg was already forming.
"Are you bleeding?" Peter demanded.
"Nah, I'm too hardheaded."
"Lemme see."
Neal obediently turned his head even though that slight movement caused the trees to resume their dance around him. There was a full moon which provided a little light. He hissed as Peter prodded his scalp.
"The skin's not broken," Peter reported. Neal watched as he removed his necktie and placed a handful of snow on it. "This will help," he said, tying it over the lump.
"I could just lie on the snow," Neal offered. He should be cold but he wasn't. The grappa must still be heating him up. Score one for grappa.
"What happened after I passed out?" Neal asked after a few moments, resting the side of his head against the tree trunk.
"There was . . . a sedan parked next to us. They wanted to fake an 'cident. They put us in the car then rolled us off the side."
"You saved us."
"Someone had to. You were still knocked out. I kicked the door open and shoved you out."
Neal laid his head on Peter's shoulder. "My hero. Thank you. Can I go back to sleep now?"
"Sure thing. I will too."
Neal's eyes popped open. "Sara, El!"
Peter grunted.
"They'll be worried about us."
"We should let someone know."
"I think I have a phone." Neal's hands weren't working right. They never liked the cold. He didn't like the cold. Peter the polar bear was probably loving it, but Neal wasn't a penguin. No one had nicknamed him Baby Penguin as a kid. There was a reason for that. Why couldn't they have rolled him off a cliff in the summer?
"They took my phone," Peter said, fumbling in his jacket pockets. "Probably yours, as well."
Neal fished some more inside his jacket. "Nope. You really should let Mozzie customize your clothing."
Peter eyed the phone admiringly. "You knew to hide it?"
Neal started to shrug and quickly changed his mind. "It's second nature for undercover work." Luckily Sara was on speed dial. Marv'lous invention, speed dial.
"Neal! Where are you?" she asked. She sounded excited to hear from him.
"On a hill next to a tree." Not the best description, he realized, but his head was throbbing despite the ice. "We were 'ducted. Forced to drink way too much grappa." He could hear El's voice in the background. "Don't worry, I won't let Peter drive. He's okay, though. We both are."
"Don't ring off," Sara ordered. "El's calling Claudia."
"Okay." Neal relaxed against the tree. The women would take care of everything. GPS was a wond'rful thing.
