Page 100 of Enduring Caine
“Give me a hand.” He gestured to the end of the crate, and I held it steady while he withdrew the painting. He took a quick peek, then laid it on its front. “That’s the right one. We’re running low on time. We need to get it out of the frame and rolled up. There’s a staple remover in the tube.”
I nodded, heart accelerating. Waking me up. He split the cellophane with the screwdriver as I pulled out the staple remover. We worked in silence, as quickly as possible. Unscrewed the offset clamps holding the painting in its frame. Worked in concert with the staple remover and—as cumbersome as it was—the pry bar to remove the tacks holding the canvas to the wooden stretcher that held it taut.
Antonio would kill me for handling a painting so indelicately, but Vincenzo’s frenzied movements were contagious.
Vin lifted the stretcher out. “Put that back in the crate and redo the screws. If we’re lucky, they’ll assume they were cheated.”
“Don’t have enough time to do all of it.” I secured the stretcher in the frame with half its clamps and slid it into the crate with the shipping blocks.
“Leonardo believes one of the men who brought it—” He scooped up the tacks and placed them inside a bag he lay next to the tube. “—also brought that secret camera in here.”
“So it would be a reasonable assumption on his part that they didn’t actually bring the painting—just used the crate as a ruse.” I began screwing the lid back onto the crate. That theory would only hold if Giovanni didn’t tell anyone the truth about the camera.
Antonio and I needed to get out before the crates were opened.
“I wish I knew who they were,” he said. “What were they hoping to get pictures of?”
I paused, watching Vin for a moment. Elliot had implied going afterThe Magdalenwas an FBI-only operation, so Vin still didn’t know I’d brought the camera in.Should I tell him the truth?
Vin didn’t look up, just began rolling the canvas, preparing to place it inside the tube.
I glimpsed a flash of yellow on the front. My breath hitched.
Then green.
The painting was of yellow flowers.
No, no, no. It had to be a coincidence. Pasquale Fiori’s yacht wasThe Five Sunflowers, named after the only lost painting of Van Gogh’sSunflowersseries. Fiori had stolen the yellow flower fresco from Pompeii, plus the yellow pigment to go with it.
The screwdriver slipped and fell out of my grasp, my palm jamming down on the screw I was working on. I grunted in pain. “Do you know who Giovanni was going to sell it to?”
Vincenzo shook his head. “All I know is that it was coming from Cape Town. There were a few buyers on the short list the last time I got that report.”
The fresco wasn’t recovered. It was traded. Fiori had sent it to Giovanni as payment for this painting. And Giovanni used it to manipulate Antonio.
Giovanni had lied about everything.
“Give me your phone,” I said.
“I can’t do that. We have to—”
I finished the last screw, tossed him the screwdriver, and held out my hand. “Give me your fucking phone.”
His head jerked back, but he withdrew the phone from his pocket and handed it to me. He’d said they monitored communications, but if the security systems were down, it was the perfect opportunity.
I walked over toThe Magdalen, snapped a photo of it, and texted it to Elliot Skinner, with a message:E - Inside Giovanni Ferraro’s house per geocode data attached. Don’t respond to this number.
Behind me, I heard the tools drop into the tube. Vin was ready.
I handed the phone back to him, snatched the tube, and shoved it through the bottom of my pocket, holding tight to the end. “Let’s get this painting out of here.”
Chapter 43
Antonio
Leonardoenteredthekitchenfirst, heading straight for a lower cupboard by the sink to retrieve a disassembled moka pot, large enough for the three of us. “I’ll make the coffee. You two will just hurt yourselves.”
Cristian elbowed me, knocking me—and by bad arm—into the doorframe.