‘Possibly. At any rate, someone at the museum.’
He interrupted her. ‘Did these people, the ones you call cadres, did any of them speak Italian?’
‘Yes, two or three of them.’
‘Two or three?’ he repeated. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Six,’ Brett answered. ‘The party takes care of its own.’
Flavia sniffed.
‘How well did they speak Italian? Do you remember?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well enough,’ was her terse reply. She paused and then admitted, ‘No, not well enough for that. I was the only one who was able to speak to the Italians. If it was done, it would have to have been done in English.’ Matsuko, Brunetti recalled, had taken her degree at Berkeley.
Exasperated, Flavia snapped out, ‘Brett, when are you going to stop being stupid about this and take a look at what happened? I don’t care about you and the Japanese girl, but you’ve got to look at this clearly. This is your life you’re playing with.’ As suddenly as she had started, she stopped, sipped at her coffee but, finding the cup empty, set it roughly down on the table in front of her.
No one spoke for a long time until Brunetti finally asked, ‘When would the switch have been done?’
‘After the closing of the exhibition,’ Brett answered in a shaky voice.
Brunetti shifted his glance to Flavia. She remained silent, glancing down at her hands, clasped loosely in her lap.
Brett sighed deeply and whispered, ‘All right. All right.’ She sat back in the sofa and watched the rain drive down against the glass of the skylights. Finally, she said, ‘She was here for the packing. She had to verify each object before the Italian customs police sealed the package and then sealed the crate that the boxes were put into.’
‘Would she have recognized a fake?’ Brunetti asked.
Brett’s answer was a long time coming. ‘Yes, she would have seen the difference.’ For a moment, he thought she was going to add something to that, but she didn’t. She watched the rain.
‘How long would it have taken them to pack everything?’
Brett considered for a moment and then answered, ‘Four days? Five?’
‘And then what? Where did the crates go from here?’
‘They were flown to Rome on Alitalia, but then they were held up there for more than a week by a strike at the airport. From there, they went to New York, and they were held up there by American customs. Finally, they were put on the Chinese airline and taken back to Beijing. The seals on the crates were checked every time they were put on or taken off a plane, and guards stayed with them while they were in the foreign airports.’
‘How long was it from the time they left Venice until they got to Beijing?’
‘More than a month.’
‘How long was it before you saw them?’
She shifted around on the sofa before she answered him, but she still didn’t look at him. ‘I told you, not until this winter.’
‘Where were you when they were being packed?’
‘I told you. In New York.’
Flavia interrupted. ‘With me. I was making my debut at the Met. Opening night was two days before the exhibition closed here. I asked Brett to go with me, and she did.’
Brett finally looked away from the rain and across at Flavia. ‘And I left Matsuko in charge of the shipment.’ She put her head back on the sofa and looked up at the skylights. ‘I went to New York for a week, and I stayed three. Then I went back to Beijing to wait for the shipment. When it didn’t arrive, I went back to New York and got it through US customs. But then,’ she continued, ‘I decided to stay in New York. I called Matsuko and told her I was delayed, and she offered to go to Beijing to check the collection when it finally got back to China.’
‘Was it her job to verify the objects in the shipment?’ Brunetti asked.
Brett nodded.
‘If you had been in China,’ Brunetti asked, ‘then you would have unpacked the collection yourself?’
‘I’ve just told you that,’ Brett snapped.
‘And you would have noticed the substitution then?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you see any of the pieces before this winter?’
‘No. When they first got back to China, they disappeared into some sort of bureaucratic limbo for six months, then they were put on display in a warehouse, and then they were finally sent back to the museums they had originally been borrowed from.’
‘And that’s when you saw that they had been changed?’
‘Yes, and that’s when I wrote to Semenzato. About three months ago.’ With no warning, she raised her hand and slammed it down on the arm of the sofa. ‘The bastards,’ she said, voice guttural with rage. ‘The filthy bastards.’
Flavia put a calming hand on her knee. ‘Brett, there’s nothing you can do about it.’
With no change in her voice, Brett turned to her. ‘It’s not your career that’s over, Flavia. People will come and hear you sing no matter what you do, but they’ve just destroyed the last ten years of my life.’ She stopped for a moment and then added, voice softer, ‘And all of Matsuko’s.’
When Flavia tried to object, she continued, ‘It’s over. Once the Chinese find out about this, they’ll never let me go back. I’m responsible for those pieces. Matsuko brought the papers back from Beijing with her, and I signed them when I got back to Xian. I verified that they were all there, in the same condition as when they left the country. I should have been there, should have checked them all, but I let her go instead because I was in New York with you, listening to you sing. And it’s cost me my career.’
Brunetti looked at Flavia, saw the flush that had come into her face at the sound of Brett’s growing anger. He saw the graceful line her shoulder and arm made as she sat turned towards Brett, studied the curve of her neck and jaw. Perhaps she was worth a career.
‘The Chinese don’t have to find out about it,’ he said.
‘What?’ both of them asked.
‘Did you tell your friends who did the tests what the samples were?’ he asked Brett.
‘No, I didn’t. Why?’
‘Then we seem to be the only people who know about it. Of course, unless you told anyone in China.’
She shook her head from side to side. ‘No, I told no one. Only Semenzato.’
Flavia interrupted here and said, ‘And I doubt we have to worry he told anyone, aside from the person he sold them to.’
‘But I have to tell them,’ Brett insisted.
Instead of looking at her, Flavia and Brunetti glanced across the table at each other, understanding instantly what could be done, and it was only with the exercise of great force of will that each of them resisted the impulse to mutter, ‘Americans.’
Flavia decided to explain things to her. ‘So long as the Chinese don’t know, then nothing has happened to your career.’
To Brett, it was as if Flavia hadn’t spoken. ‘They can’t keep those pieces on display. They’re fakes.’
‘Brett,’ Flavia asked, ‘how long have they been back in China?’
‘Almost three years.’
‘And no one has noticed they aren’t genuine?’
‘No,’ Brett conceded.
Brunetti picked it up here. ‘Then it’s not likely that anyone will. Besides, the substitution could have happened any time during the last four years, couldn’t it?’
‘But we know it didn’t,’ Brett insisted.
‘That’s just it, cara.’ Flavia decided to try to explain it to her again. ‘Aside from the people who stole the vases, we’re the only people who know about it.’
‘That doesn’t make any difference,’ Brett said, her voice once more rising towards anger. ‘Besides, sooner or later, someone is going to realize they’re fake.’
‘And the later it is,’ Flavia explained with a broad smile, ‘the less likely it is that anyone will link you to it.’ She paused to let this sink in, then added, ‘Unless, of course, you want to
toss away ten years’ work.’
For a long time, Brett didn’t say anything, just sat while the others watched her consider what had been said. Brunetti studied her face, feeling that he could read the play of emotion and idea. When she was about to speak, he suddenly said, ‘Of course, if we find out who killed Semenzato it’s likely that we’ll get the original vases back.’ He had no way of knowing if this was true, but he had seen Brett’s face and knew she had been about to refuse the idea of remaining silent.
‘But they’d still have to get back to China, and that’s impossible.’
‘Hardly,’ Flavia interrupted and laughed outright. Realizing that Brunetti would be more receptive, she turned to him to explain. ‘The master classes.’
Brett’s response was instant. ‘But you said no, you turned them down.’
‘That was last month. What’s the good of my being a prima donna if I can’t change my mind? You told me yourself that they’d give me royal treatment if I accepted. They’d hardly go through my bags when I got to the Beijing airport, not with the Minister of Culture there to meet me. I’m a diva, so they’ll be expecting me to travel with eleven suitcases. I’d hate to disappoint them.’
‘And what if they open your bags?’ Brett asked, but there was no fear in her voice.
Flavia’s response was immediate, ‘If memory serves, one of our cabinet ministers was caught with drugs at some airport in Africa, and nothing came of it. Certainly, in China, a diva ought to be far more important than a cabinet minister. Besides, it’s your reputation we’re worrying about, not mine.’
‘Be serious, Flavia,’ Brett said.
‘I am serious. There is absolutely no chance that they’d search my luggage, at least not when I’m going in. You’ve told me they’ve never searched yours, and you’ve been going in and out of China for years.’
‘There’s always the chance, Flavia,’ Brett said, but it was audible to Brunetti that she didn’t believe it.
‘There’s more of a chance, from what you’ve told me about their ideas of maintenance, that my plane will crash, but that’s no reason not to go. Besides, it might be interesting to go. It might give me some ideas about Turandot.’ Brunetti thought she was finished, but then she added, ‘But why are we wasting time talking about this?’ She looked at Brunetti, as if she held him responsible for the missing vases.
It surprised Brunetti to realize he had no idea if she was serious or not about trying to take the pieces back to China. He spoke to Brett. ‘In any case, you can’t say anything now. Whoever killed Semenzato doesn’t know what you told us, doesn’t even know if we’ve managed to come up with a reason for his murder. And I want to keep it that way.’
‘But you’ve been here, and you came to the hospital,’ Brett said.
‘Brett, you said they weren’t Venetian. I could be anyone: a friend, a relative. And I haven’t been followed.’ It was true. Only a native could successfully follow another person through the narrow streets of the city; only a native would know the sudden stops, the hidden turns, the dead ends.
‘So what should I do?’ Brett asked.
‘Nothing,’ he answered.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Just that. Nothing. In fact, it would be wise if you were to leave the city for a while.’
‘I’m not sure I want to take this face anywhere,’ she said, but she said it with humour, a good sign.
Turning to Brunetti, Flavia said, ‘I’ve tried to get her to come to Milan with me.’
A team player, Brunetti asked her, ‘When are you going?’
‘Monday. I’ve already told them I’ll sing Thursday night. They’ve scheduled a piano rehearsal for Tuesday afternoon.’
He turned back to Brett. ‘Are you going to go?’ When she didn’t answer, he added, ‘I think it’s a good idea.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ was as much as Brett would say, and he decided to leave it at that. If she was going to be convinced, it was Flavia who could do it, not he.
‘If you decide to go, please let me know.’
‘Do you think there’s any danger?’ Flavia asked.
Brett answered the question before he could. ‘There’s probably less danger if they think I’ve spoken to the police. Then they don’t have to stop me from doing so.’ Then, to Brunetti, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
He was not in the habit of lying, even to women. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. Once the Chinese are notified about the fakes, whoever killed Semenzato will no longer have a reason to try to silence you. They’ll know the warning failed to stop you.’ Or, he realized, they could try to silence her permanently, but he chose to say nothing of this.
‘Wonderful,’ Brett said. ‘I can tell the Chinese and save my neck, but I ruin my career. Or I keep quiet, save my career, and then all I have to worry about is my neck.’
Flavia leaned across the table and placed her hand on Brett’s knee. ‘That’s the first time you’ve sounded like yourself since this began.’
Brett smiled in response and said, ‘Nothing like the fear of death to wake a person up, is there?’
Flavia sat back in her chair again and asked Brunetti, ‘Do you think the Chinese are involved in this?’
Brunetti was no more inclined than any other Italian to believe in conspiracy theories, which meant he often saw them even in the most innocent of coincidences. ‘I don’t believe your friend’s death was accidental,’ he said to Brett. ‘That means they have someone in China.’
‘Whoever “they” are,’ Flavia interrupted with heavy emphasis.
‘Because I don’t know who they are doesn’t mean they don’t exist,’ Brunetti said, turning to her.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Flavia and smiled.
To Brett, he said, ‘That’s why I think it might be better if you were to leave the city for a while.’
She nodded vaguely, surely not in agreement. ‘If I do go, I’ll let you know.’ Hardly a pledge of good faith. She leaned back again and rested her head on the back of the sofa. From above them all, the sound of the rain pounded down.
He turned his attention to Flavia, who signalled towards the door with her eyes, then made a small gesture with her chin, telling him it was time to leave.
He realized that there was little more to say, so he got to his feet. Brett, seeing him, pulled her feet out from beneath her and started to rise.
‘No, don’t bother,’ Flavia said, standing and moving off towards the entrance hall. ‘I’ll see him out.’
He leaned down and shook Brett’s hand. Neither said anything.
At the door, Flavia took his hand and pressed it with real warmth. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said, and then she held the door while he passed in front of her and started down the steps. The closing door cut off the sound of the falling rain.
Chapter Eighteen
EVEN THOUGH he had assured Brett that he had not been followed, when he left her apartment, Brunetti paused before turning into Calle della Testa and looked both ways, searching for anyone he might remember having seen when he entered. No one looked familiar. He started to turn right, but then he recalled something he had been told when he came to the area some years ago, searching for Brett’s apartment.
He turned left and walked down to the first large cross street, Calle Giacinto Gallina, and there he found, just as he remembered from his first visit, the news stand that stood at the corner, in front of the grammar school, facing on to the street that was the main artery of this neighbourhood. And, as though she hadn’t moved from where he had seen her last, he found Signora Maria, seated on a high stool inside the newsstand, her upper body wrapped in a hand-knitted scarf that made at least three passes around her neck. Her face was red, either with cold or an early morning brandy, perhaps both, and her short hair seemed even whiter by the contrast.
‘Buon giorno, Signora Maria,’ he said, smiling up at her ensconced behind the papers and magazines.
‘Buon giorno, Commissario,’ she answered, as
casually as if he were an old customer.
‘Signora, since you know who I am, you probably know why I’m here.’
‘L’americana?’ she asked, but it really wasn’t a question.
He sensed motion behind him; suddenly a hand shot forward and took a newspaper from one of the stacks in front of Maria, extending a ten-thousand-lire note. ‘Tell your mother the plumber will come at four this afternoon,’ Maria said, handing back change.
‘Grazie, Maria,’ the young woman said and was gone.
‘How can I help you?’ Maria asked him.
‘You must see whoever passes this way, signora.’ She nodded. ‘If you see anyone lingering in the neighbourhood who shouldn’t be here, would you call the Questura?’
‘Of course, Commissario. I’ve been keeping an eye on things since she got home, but there’s been no one.’
Once again a hand, this one clearly male, shot in front of Brunetti and pulled down a copy of La Nuova. It disappeared for a moment, then returned with a thousand-lire note and some small change, which Maria took with a muttered ‘Grazie’.
‘Maria, have you seen Piero?’ the man asked.
‘He’s down at your sister’s house. He said he’d wait for you there.’
‘Grazie,’ the man said and was gone.
He had come to the right person. ‘If you call, just ask for me,’ he said, reaching for his wallet to give her one of his cards.
‘That’s all right, Dottor Brunetti,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the number. I’ll call if I see anything.’ She raised a hand in a friendly gesture, and he noticed that the tips of her woollen gloves were cut off, leaving her fingers free to handle change.
‘Can I offer you something, signora?’ he asked, nodding with his head to the bar that stood on the opposite corner.
‘A coffee would help against the cold,’ she answered. ‘Un caffè corretto,’ she suggested, and he nodded. If he spent the entire morning sitting motionless in this damp cold, he’d want a shot of grappa in his coffee, too. He thanked her again and went into the bar, where he paid for the caffè corretto and asked that it be taken out to Signora Maria. It was clear from the barman’s response that this was standard procedure in the neighbourhood. Brunetti couldn’t remember if there was a Minister of Information in the current government; if so, Signora Maria was a natural for the job.