3
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
I left Virgilio to talk to his boss and headed back to my office. The streets of Florence’scentro storicoare 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 competitorswho’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 thequestore, 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.
