The Babylon Idol Read online

  And that was exactly what the Lord did.

  Usberti’s heart nearly stopped beating when he saw Gennaro Tucci walk into the coolness of the empty church. Then, of course, he didn’t know the man’s name or anything about him – except that this complete stranger could have been cloned from Usberti’s own flesh and blood. The resemblance was uncanny, quite stunning, although Usberti was the only one who seemed to spot it as the man barely glanced at him with a quick smile.

  That was when the idea had come to him, in a flash. It was so simple, so blindingly obvious; and Usberti realised that God, in those mysterious ways of His, had provided His loyal servant with the perfect means to take his long-sought revenge.

  The decision that followed was an easy one to make. Gennaro Tucci lived alone, a poor man with a simple life and few friends. That much had been easy to find out, and it was all Usberti needed to know.

  Two days later, his men Casini, Zenatello and Scorceletti seized their victim at his home and brought him back to the Lake Como estate. There Gennaro was kept locked in a disused wine cellar for a week, while Usberti quickly and secretly, through a defunct company name, allocated a substantial part of his remaining fortune to the purchase of a small island off the Sicilian coast. The moment the sale went through, it was time to move briskly to the next phase. They brought the hapless prisoner up from the cellar, forced cognac down his throat until he was half unconscious, dressed him up in some of Usberti’s own clothes, then dragged him to the boathouse where the motor yacht was launched for the first time in years.

  The rest was history. When the disfigured body was dragged from the water later that day, it was an open and shut case: death by misadventure. Nobody would lament the passing of the disgraced former archbishop, just as little was made of the disappearance of a retired, penniless carpenter from Umbria. Even if it had, nobody would ever connect the two.

  And now Usberti, whisked off in the night to live in hiding on his island off the coast of Sicily, was ready to strike back at his enemies from a position of absolute safety, where nobody would suspect him, let alone come looking for him. Vengeance would be his, and it would be carried out from beyond the grave.

  He couldn’t wait.

  But what Massimiliano Usberti couldn’t possibly have known back then, six months ago, was that his revenge quest would lead him to a greater reward by far. A treasure he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams of wealth and power.

  Usberti was soon to make the discovery of his life.

  Chapter 15

  As Ben drove away from Saint-Jean, he considered his priorities. The first of which was to understand who was doing this. Was someone else carrying out these attacks on Usberti’s behalf, or was Usberti alive? If he was alive, where was he?

  If the situation had been different, Ben could have picked up the phone and talked to Luc Simon. Now that the one cop he trusted in the world was gone, he might have been thinking about driving east, over the Italian Alps, to pay an unscheduled visit to Usberti’s home estate. But that wasn’t his only or even his main priority, because there still remained one name on the hit-list to be ticked off. Ben had to find Anna Manzini and make sure she was safe.

  He checked his email – still no reply to the message he’d posted via her author website. Looking again at the site, he noticed the name and number of Anna’s literary agent in Florence on the ‘contacts’ page. It was worth a try.

  ‘Agenzia letteraria Carlo Scanzi,’ said a gravelly voice.

  Ben hadn’t spoken Italian in a while. He politely introduced himself, explained that he was a friend of Signor Scanzi’s client Anna Manzini, said he urgently needed to contact her and asked if he could have a number or address, preferably both.

  The agent responded with a snort. ‘Sure. If you’re such a close friend of my client’s, why are you calling me? You people will do anything to get your little feet in the door, won’t you?’

  It wasn’t a good start. Ben asked, ‘What people?’

  ‘You’re the second one today. What’s it this time, trawling for a free signed copy? A referral to a publisher? Help with some crappy project you think’s gonna make you rich? Dream on. Wait, I know who you are. You’re not Italian. You’re that freaky Dutchman who tried to shove your manuscript on Signora Manzini at the Turin book fair and chased her into the ladies’ bathroom. I’m onto you, pal. You breach that restraining order and I’ll have the carabinieri down on you so fast it’ll make your head spin.’

  ‘I told you who I am,’ Ben said coolly. ‘And when I said this was important, I meant it. Anna knows me. Call her, tell her I’m trying to get in touch with her and that it’s urgent. Give her this number.’

  ‘Stick it.’ Scanzi hung up.

  In truth, Ben couldn’t blame the guy for protecting his client. What troubled him the most was that he hadn’t been the first one to call that day, trying to find out Anna’s details. It appeared that he had competition, and perhaps from more than just an overzealous book fan.

  Which meant two things: first, if he couldn’t get in touch with Anna by phone or email, he was going to have to travel the 750 kilometres to Florence and reach her in person; and second, he was going to have to get there before someone else did.

  The quickest flight he could find online from Montpellier Méditerranée to Peretola Florence was a one-stop with Alitalia that was going to take over eight hours all told, with a long connection in the middle, on top of which would be the extra time-wasting hassle of hiring a car at the other end. He reckoned he could drive there in a little over six hours, if he kept his foot down and avoided police entanglements.

  But he couldn’t do it without getting some rest first, or he risked falling asleep at the wheel. Kipping in the car in a cold December was inviting hypothermia, so he hammered up the coastal A9 motorway as far as Montpellier, located a little hotel called the Ibis in a pine forest off exit 32 and crashed fully dressed into bed, where he tossed and turned for a couple of hours. He awoke feeling as refreshed as he was ever going to, whether he slept two hours or twelve. After a fast shower and a change of clothes he checked his email once more: still no reply. Committed now, he jumped back into the Alpina munching on a brioche and raced eastwards, stopping only for fuel and coffee. The French and Italian Rivieras flashed by unnoticed. Marseille, Cannes, Monaco, Genoa. By eight that evening, he was arriving in a wintry-looking Florence.

  Carlo Scanzi’s office was on the top floor of a handsome old apartment building off Via dell’Agnolo, near to the historic centre’s limited traffic area. Ben drove slowly past the building to check that the upper windows were in darkness, then parked two blocks away, grabbed his bag and walked back. The temperature had dropped below zero and a freezing mist cloyed the narrow streets, but the cold night air wasn’t Ben’s sole reason for having slipped on the pair of Blackhawk light assault gloves that he kept in the car.

  Ben waited in a shadowy doorway across the street from the apartment building, watching the windows and the entrance until a young couple came out and hurried off, arm in arm, braving the chill. Before the door had swung shut, Ben was across the street and inside.

  Nobody was about. He padded silently up the spiral stairs to the darkness of the top floor. From his bag he fished out the mini-Maglite and turned it on. He shielded its bright, thin beam with his gloved hand as he hunted for the agency office’s door and quickly found it, marked by a brass plaque. Ben reached back into his bag and took out the small pouch that contained his lock picks. If Scanzi didn’t want to talk to him, then he’d have to access the agent’s client files by other means.

  But when Ben went to pick the lock, to his surprise he found the door was already open. He put away the picks and stepped quietly inside, pausing to listen and let his eyes adjust to the dark. He was in a short hallway with a door at its far end. He moved towards it in absolute silence, gently turned the door handle and slipped through.

  Scanzi’s office was in pitch blackness and utterly still. The
torch beam swept back and forth like a laser, picking out glass-fronted bookcases, artwork and tasteful furniture until it landed on what Ben was looking for, the antique desk cluttered with papers, piled-up books and a shiny Dell laptop. On the wall behind Scanzi’s desk chair hung a framed blow-up taken at some book event, where a small balding man in his sixties, wearing a rumpled suit and with skin the colour of tea stains, was shaking hands with a tall, immaculately dressed younger man baring perfect teeth at the camera. Ben was no authority on Italian authors past or present, but he figured the glamorous one was some famous writer and the small rumpled unhealthy-looking one must be Scanzi.

  As he approached the desk, Ben’s torch beam picked out something else that made him stop in his tracks.

  He said, ‘Hm.’

  It seemed that Carlo Scanzi hadn’t gone home after work that day. Because he was lying twisted on the rug in front of his desk. And he looked even less healthy than he did in his photo. In the photo, he hadn’t had his throat cut and his chest and belly perforated by at least a dozen knife wounds that had turned his white shirt black with blood. Scanzi’s glassy stare seemed to be aimed right at Ben. His face was contorted with terror and agony. He hadn’t died pleasantly, but there didn’t seem to have been much of a struggle. His murderer was evidently a much larger, more powerful man. Whoever he was, he was long gone. Ben didn’t feel the need to draw his pistol.

  Ben crouched by the corpse, cautious not to step in the blood that had saturated the rug and was still drying, telling him that Scanzi hadn’t been dead for too long. That impression was confirmed by the rigor mortis that had frozen his face in a mask of horror but not yet fully spread to his limb muscles, which could take five or six hours. Scanzi had probably died sometime that afternoon. Stepping over the body and exploring further with his torch beam, Ben could see none of the pictures of wife, kids and grandkids that a man of Scanzi’s age might have added to the clutter on his desktop. The agent wore no wedding ring, either: not a family man, then. Which could account for why nobody had come looking for him when he hadn’t returned home that day. If nothing else, Ben could at least rest easy in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be disturbed in the next few minutes while he searched for what he needed.

  The Dell laptop had gone to sleep, and flashed into life when Ben touched the power button. What came up on-screen was the most recently opened file. It was an agency agreement, a kind of document Ben had never seen before but which he guessed must be a standard boilerplate contract between authors and literary agents. It was dated two years earlier. The bold print header read AGENZIA LETTERARIA CARLO SCANZI. On the line below was the name and address of the client who had signed up to be represented by him.

  Anna Manzini.

  With a sick feeling, Ben realised he’d been right. Someone else had been following up the same line of inquiry as him. Someone who was now a critical step ahead of him and knew where to find her. Someone with a knife that had already been bloodied once that day.

  Ben left the apartment and raced back down to the street. He wanted to sprint the two blocks back to his car, but kept to a brisk walk in case a report of a man running from a murder scene later attracted suspicion. Anna’s address was scrawled on the notepad in his pocket. He punched her postal code into his sat nav. Moments later he was screeching through the streets of Florence, heading south.

  The sat nav led him eight kilometres outside the city, into rolling countryside dusted with frost. Judging by the place she’d rented in the Languedoc when he’d known her, she had a taste for elegant and secluded homes; as he turned through the gates and found himself winding up a long, private tree-lined driveway, it was clear that her new residence was no exception.

  As the villa came into view, Ben’s already rapidly beating heart stepped up a notch. The blue lights of emergency vehicles swirled through the mist up ahead. The property was swarming with cops. Paramedics were carrying a body on a gurney from the house towards a waiting ambulance.

  Once again, he’d got there too late.

  Chapter 16

  The villa was fronted by a grand paved circular courtyard with an ornate baroque-style fountain as its centrepiece, all illuminated in the hard glare of the swirling blue lights and the softer glow from the house’s many windows, all of them lit up. Ben hurriedly parked the BMW away from the cluster of police cars, got out and ran towards the boil of activity, taking in the scene. There was only the single ambulance, accompanied by five blue Florence police Alfa Romeos and a Lamborghini fast pursuit car belonging to a pair of swaggering plain-clothes guys who had taken charge of the dozen or so uniformed cops present.

  The paramedics had nearly reached the ambulance. Pushing his way closer, Ben saw that the body on the gurney was covered in a bloody sheet. His stomach twisted up at the sight. Anna.

  But as he pressed onwards through the police cordon he saw that the sheet wasn’t pulled up right over the victim’s face the way they did with dead bodies – and that the face, wearing an expression of agonised pain, wasn’t Anna Manzini’s. It was a male, youngish, dark-haired, thirty or less. He didn’t look fatally injured, but he’d been pretty badly cut up.

  Ben felt a presence and turned to see one of the plain-clothes men approaching. He was thirty-something, dressed in an immaculate Burberry trench coat, and looked like he spent more time in the gym and at the hairdresser’s than chasing bad guys. Eyeballing Ben suspiciously he took an ID badge from the right hip pocket of his coat and flashed it. ‘Detective Tito Bellomo. Who’re you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Anna Manzini, the owner,’ Ben said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘This is a police crime scene,’ he said. ‘You’ve no business here, so move on, please.’

  ‘Is she here?’ Ben insisted. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I said move on,’ Bellomo said, giving Ben a scowl that he probably practised in the mirror every day. ‘Or I’ll arrest you for loitering.’ He tucked his ID badge back in his coat pocket.

  Ben held up his hands. ‘No problem, officer. Hey—’ He pointed at the sleek blue-and-white police Lamborghini that was gleaming in the villa’s lights. ‘Is that your car? Wow, that’s really something, isn’t it?’

  Bellomo couldn’t resist looking round to admire it himself for a moment, before he turned back to Ben with the scowl. ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘On my way, Detective. Sorry I troubled you.’

  Ben made as if to head back to his car, but the moment he saw Bellomo walk off, he slipped into the shadows and watched the scene unfolding. From here he could see through the tall front doors of the villa and into the entrance hall, twice the size of Le Val’s living room and gleaming with marble, a broad sweeping staircase in the background.

  Observing the crowd of people in the hall, Ben couldn’t see Anna among them and wondered where she could be. There were two young women dressed as though for a night out, bare-armed in flimsy dresses and shivering and hugging themselves in the cold from the wide-open door. Both were crying and being gamely consoled by the pair of men they were with, who looked about the same age as the victim being loaded aboard the ambulance and just as traumatised as their female companions. The four of them were being questioned by Bellomo’s plain-clothes partner and a team of patrol officers.

  If they were witnesses to whatever had happened here tonight Ben wanted to speak to them, but there was no way he could get close.

  Then he noticed a third young guy, dressed similarly smart-casual as the first two and about the same age, who had wandered outside to sit on the low wall surrounding a little patio or barbecue area off to one side of the house, half-lit by the swirling blue lights. The cops either hadn’t noticed him, or for some reason they were less interested in speaking to him than to his friends. He didn’t seem particularly upset by the evening’s drama, more concerned with the cigarette he was trying to ignite from a lighter that was sparking but wouldn’t produce a flame.

  Ben walked over, sat next to him on the wall and offere
d his Zippo. ‘Try mine,’ he said in Italian.

  The young guy puffed ferociously on the lit cigarette, passed Ben back his Zippo and muttered, ‘Thanks, man.’ He was in his mid-twenties or thereabouts, with a scrappy beard and long black hair that kept flopping into his eyes. He paused for a moment to glance Ben up and down, then pointed at the villa. ‘Look, I already told Detective Franciosa in there all I could. I was barely involved in this whole thing, you know?’

  Ben nodded sagely, took out the ID card he’d just lifted from Bellomo’s trench-coat pocket after distracting him and let the young guy have a quick glance at it, keeping his thumb over the mugshot photo. ‘Detective Bellomo, Florence CID. Just a minute of your time, Signor—?’

  ‘Morante, Luciano Morante. Where you from, Detective? If you don’t mind my saying, your accent’s kind of weird.’

  ‘I worked abroad a long time,’ Ben said, taking out his notepad and jotting down Luciano’s name, just like a real detective would.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to do, you know, see the world. Hey, man, that police Lambo is the coolest car. What’s it like, being in your job? You get to shoot a lot of people?’

  Ben looked at him. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  Luciano’s eyes twinkled. ‘You got a gun? Can I see it?’

  Ben hesitated. ‘If I show it to you, will you answer my questions?’ He was wondering if it would be quicker just to put the gun to this twerp’s head and give him three seconds to spill what he knew, but maybe even Italian detectives didn’t behave that way towards members of the public.