Turned to Stone Read online

  “What’s the deal with you, anyway?” Jaime asked. “Has your life always been dedicated to bothering people while they’re on vacation or have you had other jobs before this? As a plumber, perhaps?”

  When Amatriaín smiled, the scars on his cheeks grew even deeper. “I’ve done a bit of everything. A few years ago I was an adviser for the Historical Heritage Group. For a long time my job was to hunt for missing works of art, but a little accident forced me to give that work up. Don’t you think the music is a bit loud?”

  “No. Go on, please. What was this little accident you mentioned?”

  “I was discovered while searching a suspect’s warehouse. There was a firefight, and a bullet burst a container of sulfuric acid.” Jaime gave no sign of understanding, so Amatriaín continued. “It was a chemistry lab. Its owner was involved in trafficking drugs, diamonds, and works of art. I suffered burns to my hands, chest, and part of my face.”

  Jaime nodded. That explained a few things.

  “Wearing gloves all day is uncomfortable, but you get used to it,” Amatriaín told him. “They moved me to Archives, and I still dabbled in other routine work and the occasional investigation. When the EHU was formed, Europol asked all the security and investigative forces in the EU for their cooperation. I was chosen to coordinate operations in Spain and Italy.”

  “Given all the artwork that’s disappeared, why are they mounting an operation of this scale to find this one wretched Medusa’s head?”

  “As I said, the EHU hasn’t been active for long, and until now we haven’t had the help of true specialists. Our goal is to recover every piece of stolen artwork, but the Medusa was taken most recently, so the trail is fresher. We should be able to locate it more easily.”

  Jaime finished his coffee and stared at the bottom of the cup. Finally he put it down on the table, and without lifting his gaze said, “Fine. I’m all yours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. We can’t let the mess you and your team made in Amsterdam tarnish the reputation of the EHU. It needs some polishing pretty badly, and I can help you do it.”

  Amatriaín screwed up his mouth.

  “I can’t say I agree with all of that, but thank you. Now we can get to the real reason I came to see you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s news about the Medusa. There’s a good chance we’ve located it.”

  “Now you tell me?”

  “I had to be sure you’d agree to work for us first.”

  “How could I refuse after all you’ve done for me and my bathroom?”

  “According to our contacts on the Italian coast, yesterday a collection of artifacts was loaded onto a cargo ship named the Artemis. It’s scheduled to sail tomorrow from Istanbul to New York, stopping at Piraeus to collect more freight. There’s a distinct possibility the Medusa is among those works of art.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Our agent recognized a crucifix that was stolen from a church in Ravenna a few weeks ago. It’s possible that the rest of the pieces are stolen, too, so it stands to reason that the Medusa could be among them. In order not to tip off the ship’s owners, we’ve decided to inspect the goods in secret.”

  “Stolen artwork on a ship? Don’t you need warrants and all that?”

  “All the pieces are required to have export certificates that prove they’ve been acquired legitimately,” Amatriaín explained. “We suspect these certificates are excellent forgeries. Our sources tell me that there’s also a very good chance that a port official is involved.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Do we know who put the artwork on the ship?”

  “A dealer named Vittorio Rosselli who intends to exhibit them at an antique fair in New York next month. He has no previous convictions, but my superiors insist we need to dig deeper. Unfortunately, there’s not enough time for a thorough investigation before the ship sets sail, so we’ll have to intervene at some later point.”

  “When did you say it leaves?”

  “It sails from Istanbul first thing tomorrow. That gives us just enough time to get to Piraeus and inspect it there before it casts off again. Mind you, we can’t stick around.”

  “Couldn’t the authorities hold up the ship for a few days? That’d give you more wiggle room.”

  “Possibly, though currently there’s little proof that the ship’s transporting stolen goods.” Amatriaín gave a vulpine smile. “However, we could arrange for it to be stuck in port an extra night thanks to some problem with the vessel and a spare part that could be difficult to obtain. Inspector Juliun Kraniotis of the Greek police is going to lay the groundwork for us. Tomorrow morning my team will head out there with an extensive list of the artifacts stolen in recent months and try to identify the goods that are on board. If we find anything from the list, we’ll seize the items and arrest Rosselli.”

  “Can this Kraniotis be trusted?”

  “Completely. He’s carried out other operations for us and his service record is impeccable.”

  “What’s the source of the inventory you mentioned?”

  “It’s from a database Interpol compiled and sent to every investigative agency in the world. Over five thousand pieces appear in the catalogue. Of course, the list includes only those pieces for which we have a photograph; these are the ones that can be identified if they happen to surface. Our job is to find out whether any of the pieces in the Artemis’s hold are a match.”

  “Let me get this straight: Have you come to recruit me? You want me to go with you?”

  “That was the idea, yes.”

  “Just you and me, loading and unloading boxes and checking a database of more than five thousand pieces of art?”

  “I never said it’d be just you and me. A team of researchers from the CHR is at my disposal. Once we’re in Piraeus we’ll have the support of the Greek and Italian police. The team includes Professor Mercedes San Román, Professor Lucas Andrade, and Señorita Sonia Durán.”

  “Sonia Durán?” Jaime raised an eyebrow. Requena had forbidden him from going near the attractive blonde he’d crossed paths with outside the CHR lecture hall. But what if they were thrown together in a professional capacity?

  Amatriaín was looking at him expectantly. “What do you say? Any questions?”

  “Just one,” said Jaime. “What’s the weather like in Athens at this time of year?”

  15

  “Hey, what are you doing later?” Amanda asked Paloma, who was sitting in front of her computer on the other side of the room. She was writing up a report on a damaged still life by Spanish artist Luis Meléndez. The two-hundred-year-old painting was one of the works affected when the Prado developed a leak the previous year. The Technical Documentation Office had to evaluate the damage before they could proceed with their restoration.

  When she got no response, Amanda raised her voice. “Paloma!”

  “Huh?”

  “What is going on with you? You’ve been ignoring me all day.”

  Paloma lifted her hands off the keyboard and rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I’m . . . concentrating on this.”

  “Are you all right, honey? You seem tense.”

  “Yeah. It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well. It must be the new pillow I bought.”

  “I was asking you what you’re doing tonight.”

  Paloma glanced nervously at her watch. It had been a long day, but it was almost over, and she was looking forward to going home. Ever since the break-in at her apartment, she’d felt a deep sense of unease whenever she had to be out for more than an hour. She had lashed out at Preston over what happened, but he denied all knowledge of it and his innocence had seemed sincere. “I’ll probably just grab a shower and try to sleep,” she said, keeping her eyes on the computer screen.

  “How about we grab a drink? Whatever’s bothering you, you
can tell me all about it over a few beers.”

  “I can’t, Amanda, but thanks. Maybe some other day.”

  “Why? Are you sick?”

  “No, just tired. Anyway, don’t you have to get home to make Hugo’s dinner?”

  “The neighbor who picks him up can do it this once. I think he can get by without me for one night. Even moms need a break now and then.”

  Paloma couldn’t help giving her friend a look of reproach. At thirty-three, she still wasn’t a mother, and, although it wasn’t something she had wanted, her body had recently begun sending her signals. You don’t have long left, she would suddenly find herself thinking. But she always found reasons to ignore the message and focus on work. Plus, if Amanda’s life was anything to go by, parenthood appeared to be something one should enter into very carefully.

  “Honestly, I can’t. Another time.”

  “Is this about that idiot?” Amanda whispered. She nodded in the direction of Oscar Preston, who was sitting on the other side of the room reviewing some reports while listening to music on a pair of giant headphones.

  “Only partly. Sorry, I have to finish this before I go home.”

  Amanda shrugged and went back to her workstation. She was working on a small eighteenth-century landscape painted by an English artist that had also been damaged by the leak. The piece depicted a biblical scene of the Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, and the baby Jesus resting during their flight into Egypt. The water had affected the outer layers of paint, which had bubbled up at certain points and changed color in others, but the preparation and medium remained intact. The stereomicroscopic analysis had been completed, and now Amanda faced the task of cleaning it and repainting the affected areas.

  At seven in the evening she stopped, stretched her muscles, and put her utensils away in a small black case. “I’m off,” she told Paloma. “If you come to your senses, call me.”

  Paloma was gathering up her things, too, but hurriedly and in no particular order. When she’d finished, she stood and grabbed her jacket from the hook. Before she walked out the door, she came up behind her friend and whispered in her ear, “See you tomorrow—and sorry.”

  Amanda shook her head, wondering what on earth was going on with Paloma. She gave one last glance to Oscar Preston, who was still engrossed in his work and his music, and left without saying good-bye.

  The night was misty and the streetlamps and car headlights glowed through a thick layer of gray paint. At least that’s how it seemed to Amanda, who was used to spending her days surrounded by artwork and was developing the habit of viewing real life as if it, too, were a painting. The air was cool and pleasant, and the idea of walking home was appealing.

  As she strolled, she tried to call Señora Julia, the neighbor who picked up Hugo from school whenever Amanda had to work late, which was almost every day. It seemed strange that the Señora wasn’t picking up the phone—it was the third time Amanda had called that evening. The poor woman must be going deaf.

  As she strolled past the Parque del Retiro, Amanda thought about how quickly Paloma appeared to be unraveling. Over the last week she’d been particularly sensitive and overanxious, looking at everyone with suspicion, and was generally keeping to herself, speaking as little as possible even to Amanda. She speculated whether the change had something to do with the man who had surprised them at the restaurant a few days earlier.

  Jaime Azcárate.

  Amanda wondered who he was and where he’d come from. It worried her that Paloma had never mentioned him, and it pained her that her friend didn’t confide in her as much as she’d thought she did.

  So lost was Amanda in her thoughts, she barely noticed that she’d arrived at her home on Calle Jorge Juan. As she took the elevator up to the second floor, she toyed with the idea of sinking into a bubble bath after cooking Hugo his dinner; her body and mind both needed the tension relief. Before taking her key from her handbag, she rang the bell to Señora Julia’s apartment. No one answered.

  That was odd. The Señora rarely went out, especially on days when she had to look after Hugo. She began to worry. Had someone fallen ill? Why hadn’t anyone called her?

  Amanda opened her own door and went in, but the place was empty. She took a set of her neighbor’s keys from the sideboard and let herself into the adjoining apartment. The lights were off and no sound could be heard. She took out her cell phone and called Señora Julia. Somewhere in the apartment a ringtone went off.

  Amanda felt her heart pound. “Señora Julia?”

  She walked down the corridor to the bedroom, and then she heard it: a hollow banging sound, coming from the wardrobe. Amanda turned the little ornamental brass key and the wardrobe door opened. A bundled-up form fell to the floor and Amanda screamed. “Señora Julia!”

  Her sixty-nine-year-old neighbor was bound and gagged. Amanda removed the tape covering her lips and the woman gasped for breath.

  “Wait here. I’ll . . .” Amanda ran to the kitchen and returned with a serrated knife, which she used to free her neighbor. “What happened? Where’s Hugo?”

  “Oh my dear. Oh good God . . .”

  “Señora Julia, where’s my son?”

  “A man. He said he was here to read the water meter. They’d left a note this morning saying they’d come. I—I believed him. God, what an idiot I am!”

  “What did the man look like? Did you know him?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see him clearly through the peephole, and when I opened the door he was wearing a mask. How could I have been so stupid? You know I never open the door to anyone. We have to call the police!”

  Amanda took out her cell phone and when she looked at the screen saw that she had a text message waiting. Ignoring it, she began to dial the emergency number with trembling fingers, but then the handset started to ring. The screen showed an unknown number.

  Not knowing what else to do, she answered the call.

  “Hello, I can’t—”

  “Amanda?” The male voice was nasal, with a strange accent.

  “Who is it?” The voice seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to it. Then it clicked. “Oscar Preston?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oscar, I can’t talk right now. Someone has—”

  “I know. Someone broke into your neighbor’s house and took your son.”

  Amanda felt dizzy. She sat on the bed.

  “How do you—?”

  “I sent you a text. Have you called the police?”

  “I was just about to. But how—”

  “Listen to me, Amanda. It’s very important that you don’t tell the police. If you do that, you’ll never see your son again.”

  “You son of a bitch—What are you talking about? What’ve you done with Hugo?”

  “I don’t have him, I swear. But the man who did this is desperate. You can’t mess with him.”

  Amanda looked at Señora Julia, who was digging her fingernails into the younger woman’s arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered. Amanda shook her head.

  “I don’t understand, Oscar. Where’s Hugo? And what’s your part in all this?”

  “They’re using me. I’m supposed to tell you to get something from Paloma. Something she’s working on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That secret document of hers. She must have told you something.”

  “I’ve never heard anything about Paloma having a secret document.”

  “You’re lying. You’re her best friend. You must know about it.”

  “I swear I don’t. I know Ricardo has asked you both for a research piece. Is that what you mean?”

  “Possibly, yes. Amanda, you have to get it. This man isn’t screwing around and we only have a few days. If I don’t get that document for him by Wednesday, God knows what’ll happen to your son.”

 
Amanda took a deep breath. Everything in her wanted to scream and insult that bastard Preston, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Look, Oscar, I don’t know what despicable mess you’ve got yourself into, but if you so much as lay a finger on Hugo—”

  “I’m not going to touch him; I don’t even know where he is. I’m as much a victim in all this as you are. Remember, next Wednesday.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “I’m sorry, Amanda.”

  The line went dead. Amanda collapsed onto her neighbor’s bed.

  “What’s going on?” Señora Julia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said in the voice of someone whose soul has been torn from her. “I honestly don’t know . . .”

  16

  Athens

  Just before midday, the Alitalia Boeing 777 transporting Vicente Amatriaín’s team landed at the Eleftherios Venizelos airport in Athens.

  Jaime had spent the nearly four-hour flight chatting with the three CHR researchers the EHU officer had recruited for the mission. There was Mercedes San Román, an expert in religious imagery; Lucas Andrade, an all-around historian who drove the CHR’s Modern History Department crazy with his audacious theories about the treasure that disappeared from France during the Franco-Prussian War; and, of course, Sonia Durán, the specialist in heritage management.

  Jaime’s new colleagues left a wide range of first impressions on him. Professor San Román had striking chestnut hair that she wore in a spiral knot. She wore red-rimmed glasses, and, even though she’d just met him, she nearly talked Jaime’s ear off. Andrade was short and reserved, with a monotonous, husky voice that had the unfortunate effect of driving people away. Sonia Durán, a Nordic-looking beauty with white skin and turquoise eyes, proved to be both intelligent and amiable, though, to Jaime’s regret, she was also rather guarded and not at all open to workplace flirtation.

  To Jaime, all three seemed encouraged by the faith the EHU had in them, but they remained apprehensive about the responsibility laid at their feet. These were people who spent their days conducting research in museums, libraries, and archives, and each one’s expertise in his or her field was unrivaled. But the task ahead was different from anything they had done before. They couldn’t help but worry when they considered that the objects they were to find and examine might be loot a dangerous criminal gang had collected over many years of robberies.