The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

appetite. “Please go on . . .”

      Miranda pursed her lips, then continued while she studied the menu. “General Conforti became personally obsessed with this case, so he and the Carabinieri started investigating True in the late ’90s. There was tremendous rivalry among the ministries, each trying to make la bella figura, to look good. When such competition gets going in Italy, the evidence can get lost in the shuffle. You see, Conforti was particularly obsessed with the return of the Aphrodite, the most disputed piece at the Getty. And he and the Carabinieri were unimpressed by the museum’s pretense at diligence in returning other items. They became determined to pursue this case to its conclusion. To create an intimidating example.”

      “What do you mean by lost in the shuffle?” asked Andrea, fingering an engraved silver cigarette case that she never opened in Justine’s presence.

      “The process is more important than the outcome,” explained Miranda. “Looking good, getting promoted, playing the game, outdoing your rivals. As long as the evidence is enough to bring a passable case to court. After all, it might all be dropped anyway. Usually for political reasons.”

      Andrea laughed in recognition. “Men are more alike than different.”

      “Did you ever meet her?” asked Justine, indifferent to the menu.

      “Once, at a party,” said Miranda. “A woman in her mid-fifties, gracious, confident. Well-dressed, an Armani suit and furs. Blond hair, probably not natural. She told me, quite casually, that you’re not really important in Italy unless someone is investigating you. Actually, I liked her.”

      “Sounds like a sophisticated woman,” observed Justine.

      “I’d say so,” said Miranda, “Ironically, many of the reforms that Marion talked about are now in place. Many in the field have argued that if museums hadn’t picked up on and collected unprovenanced finds, they would have ended up in private collections. But things have changed. Museums have stopped buying these antiquities for the most part. Many items have been returned, and museums are engaging in loans. Ownership isn’t that important anymore, as long as loans can be liberally arranged.”

      For nearly a half hour, Justine had been trying to piece together Andrea’s motive in pursuing the Marion True story. Andrea did few things without reason. “What does this story have to do with the codex, Andrea?” Justine finally asked, almost sharply. “There’s always a purpose behind your curiosities, n’est-ce pas?”

      “You know me too well, cherie. I wanted the inside story so we’ll know what to expect from the Italian authorities regarding the codex.”

       Protecting me—or herself?

      Miranda placed both her hands firmly on the table, palms down, and demanded to know what the codex was.

      Andrea and Justine stared at each other. After a short silence, Andrea said, “Let us order first. A true Roman dish, baccalà, cod with raisins and pine nuts.”

      “And puntarelle, a salad of chicory and garlic-anchovy sauce,” added Justine.

      Andrea touched her forefinger to her nose and called the waiter. “I’ll have the nudi gnocchi. And another Bellini,” added Miranda. For several minutes, the women listened to the music, watching people come from and go into the underground station situated between the restaurant and the stone city wall. Street lamps gave the remains of their Bellinis a pearly luminescence.

      “I’ll start,” Justine said finally. “A year ago—I can’t believe it was only a year ago—I visited St. Sergius Church in old Cairo. The cave, now a crypt, under the church, was supposed to have been the resting place, for some years, of the Holy Family.” Justine heard Miranda inhale sharply. “I entered the cave just before a major earthquake hit. I was trapped. But with help, I managed to get out, carrying with me a little book that wasn’t mine . . . that had apparently fallen into my bag in the chaos.”

      “An ancient codex,” interjected Andrea, coolly. “The diary of the Virgin Mary.”

      Miranda opened her mouth but was unable to form a word. Then she managed, “Where is it?”

      “It was stolen,” whispered Justine, just as dinner arrived.

CHAPTER 8

       The market in antiquities is perhaps the most corrupt and problematic aspect of the international art trade.

       —Marion True

      THE NEXT MORNING, Justine lay on her bed in the Hotel Michelangelo, staring at the cocktail napkin in her hand. An hour passed as a kaleidoscope of haunting scenes raced across her mind. The earthquake in Cairo, her disappointing love affair with Nasser, being expelled from her mother’s home country. But Amir is here . . . where do I want that relationship to go?

      But it was the story that Andrea had told her in Alexandria that flooded her mind most prominently: the story of Andrea’s fiancé, Francois, landing in Algeria the night before he was kidnapped, tortured, and killed. His Foreign Legion uniform perfect in the afternoon sun, shining buttons and metals. His blinding smile. Francois had written to Andrea that last night. On the letter, he had doodled a sketch of the plane he’d flown across North Africa. So eager was she for news, his voice. Justine was convinced that the plane was a DC-2. The same plane, she’d come to learn, that was flown over Africa by Hal Blackburn, the codex thief’s father. So many questions she’d had for Andrea. But not asked. Had Francois expected Algeria to be like India—safe? So innocent, so unsuspecting he was. Andrea’s only grand passion, and the one from which she still hadn’t recovered.

      A wave of guilt washed through Justine. How could she resent Andrea? Her secretiveness; her efforts to find momentary happiness with Morgan. Forcing herself to get out of bed and stop whining, Justine walked unsteadily to the bathroom and stood under the hot shower for several minutes while she made her decision. Oh, those Bellinis! She would go to the antiquities area alone. Andrea didn’t need to know . . . not yet. Although Justine was convinced that Andrea suspected something, she would protect her friend until she was sure.

      She quietly opened her door, glanced across the hall to Andrea’s room. No light was coming from under the door; she heard no sound. Justine headed for the stairs, avoiding the noisy elevator.

      Light swarmed into the narrow alleys off Piazza Navona. Bicycles wound their way by grocers filling bins with spring squash, carrots, and chard, alongside imported bananas and peaches. Street grocers gave way to shops distinguished by black brick and brass entrances. Justine stepped into a coffee shop and ordered an espresso, which she drank quickly before returning to the alley.

      She walked more slowly now, staying in the portion of walkway still shaded from the searching early light, examining each antiquities shop in turn. Unknown to Justine, another figure moved rapidly, running toward her, south across Ponte San Angelo, turning briefly onto Tor di Nona, then continuing south, nearing Via Coronari. The two collided violently. Justine fell on the cobblestones, cutting her left elbow. The runner grabbed a cornerstone and kept her balance.

      “What are you doing here?” demanded a breathless Justine, struggling to sit up.

      “I could ask you the same thing,” answered Andrea, clearly angry that she was being left out of some adventure, even if concerned about her friend’s injury. “I often run in the early morning too. Just started up again recently. Trying to stay in shape.” Andrea held out her hand to help Justine up. “Weren’t we going to meet for breakfast at the hotel?”

      Justine accepted the extended hand, brushed herself off, and examined her bleeding elbow. She pulled a handkerchief from her jean pocket and held it to the wound. “You run with