Chapter 3
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
I left Virgilio to talk to his boss and headed back to my office.
The streets of Florence’s centro storico are mostly narrow and paved with stone slabs.
Although much of the centre is reserved for pedestrians, the street with my office is one of the few where authorised traffic can still circulate, and this meant that I had acquired that most prized of possessions in Florence – a parking space.
The fact that the parking space is in a courtyard originally designed for carriages and horsemen five hundred years ago is an extra bonus.
Living in such a historic environment is a rare privilege, and I often thank whatever lucky stars brought me to this city.
Paul at Scotland Yard was in a meeting, and I didn’t get through to him until past one o’clock, and by that time, I had just given Oscar his all-important – to him – lunch, and watching him hoover up his food was making me feel hungry too.
‘Hi, Dan. What’s new?’
I would have recognised his voice anywhere.
Paul Wilson, now Inspector Paul Wilson, used to be my sergeant at the Met, and I’ve always had a lot of respect for him as a police officer and consider him a good friend.
Although I left the force some years ago, we’ve remained in regular contact, and he and I often speak.
I sometimes ask him to help me if I have an inquiry with a UK connection, and on at least a few occasions, I’ve been able to return the favour here in Italy.
‘Hi, Paul, does the name Tristan Angel mean anything to you?’
‘Tristan Angel? Is he one of your clients? Blimey, Dan, you’re playing with the big boys now.’ He sounded genuinely gobsmacked.
‘How big, Paul? I’d never heard his name before this afternoon. What can you tell me about him? Anything on the files?’
It very quickly emerged that Paul knew a considerable amount about Tristan Angel.
‘He’s an arms dealer. Big time. I’m not talking a couple of handguns and a pocket full of ammo; I’m talking everything from machine guns to missiles.
He’s reputed to be one of the richest men in the world, with a turnover of millions, make that billions – although nobody knows for sure, seeing as he has his money spread around in tax havens from the Caribbean to the Isle of Man.
We’ve had him under observation for ages, and last year, MI5 asked us to help check his bank accounts here in London.
I seem to remember he had something like nine million on instant access for spending money, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
He’s definitely not short of cash. He deals with some of the shadiest, nastiest people in the world, ranging from crime lords to dodgy regimes.
There’s a reason why they call him the Angel of Death. ’
‘When you say, “they call him”, who do you mean by “they”? Don’t tell me he’s a celebrity.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. I saw him being interviewed on TV a month or two ago, and he comes across as a right playboy with his Savile Row suits and his Hollywood teeth.’
‘Interviewed about what? Surely not about his life as a gunrunner?’ It wouldn’t be the first time the media had glamourised the life of essentially bad people.
‘Wait for it, you’re going to like this.
He’s set up a charity to look after “Victims of Conflict”.
Talk about two-faced! He sells the weapons to the people who do the killing and then tries to salve his conscience with a few handouts.
’ His tone made clear the depth of his contempt for Tristan Angel and I had to admit that I shared his feelings.
‘Haven’t you been able to do him for anything? Tax evasion like Al Capone maybe?’
‘Don’t think we haven’t tried, but he has a team of very expensive lawyers who deflect anything we fling at him.
Our nickname for him is Teflon Tristan, because nothing sticks to him – or at least it’s been that way up till now.
Plus, don’t forget that arms exports are big business for the UK, and he has a lot of governmental support – too much, if you ask me.
So why the query? What’s he been up to over there in Italy? ’
‘He’s managed to get himself killed.’
‘Wow!’ Paul’s voice reflected his surprise. ‘Killed, how? Was it an accident or something else?’
I gave him a brief rundown of what had happened this morning in the duomo, and his tone when he replied was ominous.
‘Angel’s death is going to stir up a hornets’ nest. Yes, it’s one unscrupulous dealer out of the way, but there’ll be more where he came from.
He can’t have been operating in isolation.
I imagine there’s a whole hierarchy of underlings and competitors who’ll now be squabbling to take his place.
’ He paused as a thought occurred to him.
‘Now that you mention it, I’ve suddenly remembered something.
Just let me check the file. Stay on the line for a moment, will you? ’
The door to my office opened and Virgilio’s head appeared. I waved him in and had only just started giving him a summary of what Paul had been telling me when I heard Paul’s voice in my ear once more.
‘I thought Florence rang a bell. It says here that, among his other residences spread around the world, he also has a place in Florence. If you haven’t already got it, let me give you the address, but listen, Dan, this news isn’t just going to stir up the arms-trade community; it’s going to set the whole security world alight.
I have a feeling you and your friends over there in the Florence police force are going to have to deal with interventions from everybody from the CIA to the KGB – or the SVR as the Russians call it these days. Good luck with that.’
Paul spelled out the address of Angel’s property here in Florence, and I thanked him warmly, promising that I would keep him informed of any developments.
For his part, he told me he was duty-bound to contact MI6 to break the news to them, and I told him to go ahead.
I felt sure he was right; this was going to cause quite a stir in intelligence circles.
For my part, I felt a little surge of excitement.
A case like this looked like being a welcome break from photographing Italian husbands behaving badly.
When I told Virgilio everything I had heard from Paul, he didn’t look enthused.
‘Sounds like we’re going to have half the spies in the world here in the next few hours.
When I broke the news to the questore, he almost had a stroke.
The last thing we need in the middle of August is a spooks convention here in Florence. ’
I nodded in agreement and read him out the address. As I did so, I saw it register on Virgilio’s face. ‘Villa Botticelli, eh? I don’t know the exact villa, but I know the little road and where it’s situated. It runs off Via San Domenico, the main road up the hill towards Fiesole.’
I had visited Fiesole a few times and I knew it to be a beautiful and historic little town, so close to Florence that it’s more like a suburb of the city, set on a hilltop and with spectacular views.
That whole hillside is dotted with magnificent and mightily expensive villas overlooking Florence, so I had few illusions as to what a property belonging to one of the richest men in the world might look like.
I raised an eyebrow in Virgilio’s direction.
‘So what’s the plan? Are you going up to take a look?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve got the car downstairs. Feel like coming with me? I have no idea who’ll be there, but I imagine they’ll speak English.’
‘What about Oscar? Shall I leave him with Lina?’ Lina is my PA who runs the office for me and she also happens to be Virgilio’s wife. Since she started working with me a year ago, she has proved to be invaluable, and Oscar loves her.
Virgilio grinned. ‘Bring him by all means. An investigation wouldn’t be an investigation without Oscar.’
The journey out to Fiesole didn’t take long.
Virgilio’s blue lights on his otherwise unmarked black Alfa Romeo efficiently cleared the way as he guided us skilfully through the afternoon traffic.
As we drove out of town, he called Marco at the questura to request backup, and then he and I discussed the case.
I could tell that he was apprehensive about what national and international repercussions it might cause, and I had considerable sympathy with him.
In the course of my years at Scotland Yard, I had found myself involved in a number of cases involving national security and the espionage community.
I knew to my cost that when national or international interests were at stake, the normal rules of right and wrong sometimes became blurred, and more than once, I had been left with an unpleasant taste in my mouth as a result of intervention from above. Virgilio clearly felt the same way.
‘I’d dearly like to get the case wrapped up before the security services descend on us but, first things first, we need to find out if Angel’s death was because of his job or his personal life.
I imagine somebody in his position would have had no shortage of enemies – some of them highly dangerous people. ’
‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. As for his personal life, let’s hope there will be somebody at his villa who can fill us in.’
Halfway up the winding road towards Fiesole, Virgilio turned off to the right onto what was little more than a narrow lane running around the contour of the hill.
I began to spot high fences and solid walls, many with CCTV cameras mounted on them, as we passed homes belonging to wealthy people who clearly valued their privacy.
Every now and then, I got a glimpse down the hill onto the rose-pink roofs of Florence, with the massive dome of the cathedral standing out in the midst of all the buildings. Views like this don’t come cheap.
Villa Botticelli was completely hidden behind a stone wall at least three metres high and bristling with security cameras.
The entrance was set back from the lane, and two massive metal gates, the height of the wall, blanked off any possibility of seeing what lay inside.
I spotted two video cameras pointing straight at us when Virgilio pulled up beside a shiny brass plate with the name of the villa on it and an intercom.
He pressed the button and waited. It took a few seconds before the speaker crackled and a man’s voice replied in Italian.
‘Yes, who is it?’ After three years in Tuscany, I was beginning to recognise Italian accents pretty well and I could tell that this was the voice of a local.
Virgilio’s response was terse. ‘Police. We need to come in.’
‘Of course, but I’ll need to see ID. Please hold your warrant card up to one of the cameras.’
Virgilio and I exchanged glances. The cameras had to be top-of-the-range equipment if they could read a warrant card through the windscreen of a vehicle.
It looked as though security was paramount at Villa Botticelli.
Virgilio did as instructed, and a couple of seconds later, an electric motor began to whine and the gates started to open.
The tyres crunched as we drove along a short gravel drive through a thick barrier of rhododendron bushes to a circular parking area outside the front door of the villa.
I stared at the house in silent appreciation for a few seconds before getting out.
The gardens surrounding the villa were immaculate, with beautifully mown lawns – no doubt watered by an irrigation system – and perfectly trimmed box hedges.
The villa itself was magnificent. It was probably hundreds of years old – Anna would have known – but it had been painstakingly maintained.
The walls were a wonderful sun-bleached pink that contrasted perfectly with the dark-green louvred shutters on the windows.
A beautiful curving stone stairway led up to the front door, set in an exquisite carved surround.
It was clear that no expense had been spared.
A shiny dark-blue Mercedes saloon and a brand-new VW people carrier similar to mine were parked outside, but no doubt without the lingering smell of Labrador inside theirs.
Beside them was a sparkling silver Range Rover, and all three vehicles had Italian registration plates.
As they were all so new and so clean, I wondered if they had maybe been rented.
Paul had told me that the victim had owned properties around the world so if he had been here for only a short visit, rental seemed likely.
I took another long, appreciative look at the villa.
Not bad for a holiday home. Not bad at all.
We climbed out of the car and I released Oscar from the back seat, where he had been sitting proudly throughout the trip like a visiting member of the nobility.
He then immediately let the side down by cocking his leg against a fine statue of a Vestal Virgin, but in his defence, it wasn’t very often that he could claim possession of a villa as elegant as this.
We walked up the steps to the front door and it was opened just before we got there by a mature woman dressed in black. She looked quite a stern character, although her expression softened when she saw Oscar. He trotted up to her and she reached down to ruffle his ears.
‘Is this one of those sniffer dogs?’ She spoke Italian with a strong Tuscan accent.
Virgilio nodded as he flashed his warrant card before her eyes. ‘Yes, indeed, he’s one of the team. My name is Commissario Virgilio Pisano. Tell me, Signora…?’
‘Manetti.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, Signora Manetti. Are we right in thinking that this villa belongs to a British gentleman called Angel, Tristan Angel?’
‘Yes. But I’m afraid he isn’t in just now. Would you like to speak to Signor Eddie?’
‘And who might he be?’
For the first time, Signora Manetti looked a bit uncertain. ‘He’s Signor Angel’s “right-hand man”.’ She used the English term, her accent still Tuscan, but easily comprehensible. ‘Does that help?’
Virgilio gave her a little smile. ‘He’ll do fine. How can we find him?’
She beckoned to us to come inside and we followed Oscar over the threshold. ‘If you would like to accompany me to the small lounge, I’ll go and call him.’