I Am Pilgrim(146)
One of the gumshoes – apparently, he was the leader of the group – shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There won’t be any help – not from the dagoes or anyone else. The mirrors stay where they are. This is reaching for straws, or however you people say it.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay. I am now making a formal request, on behalf of the FBI, to take possession of the mirrors for forensic examination. If you refuse I will need your reasons in writing so that I can forward them to the White House and the relevant officials in Ankara.’
Silence. My phone rang again, but I made no attempt to answer it. We all stood there without a word. Just before the phone stopped, the leader shrugged. ‘Take the damn mirrors then,’ he said angrily. ‘Waste your time if you want to.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘Who do I call to make arrangements to get them down?’
The officer laughed. ‘No idea. Try the FBI lab – they know everything, I’m sure they can help.’
The two gumshoes smiled broadly. Cumali looked embarrassed by her colleagues but, when the leader motioned them out on to the terrace, she followed obediently.
As they lit cigarettes and walked down the lawn – enjoying the view, bitching about me I’m sure – I called the Uffizi back. Someone had alerted the director of the workshop, and it was to him – probably the leading art-restoration expert in the world – that I explained what I needed.
Once he had stopped laughing, he got me to take him through it again. After a dozen or so questions he finally agreed – I guessed more for the challenge of it than any other reason – but made me understand that he had virtually no expectation it would work.
‘I suppose it’s urgent?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Isn’t everything? I’ll get them to you as fast as possible.’
The moment he had rung off I made one more call and – from a far different quarter – also received a promise of help.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE MANAGER OF my hotel arrived at the french house with two beaten-up trucks and eight companions who looked like they were on day release. Shame on me for judging them by appearance – they turned out to be some of the finest, most hardworking men I had ever encountered.
They were friends of the manager, he had rustled them up at a moment’s notice, and when I met them at the front of the house and told them I would pay them, they all refused.
‘These men peoples say that of the money today they have no kissing-love,’ the manager translated, sort of. The more I heard him, the more he sounded like one of those online translation programs. ‘Is enough for them of the great estate they have the chance to see,’ he said.
It appeared that none of the men, like almost everybody else in Bodrum, had ever been through the tall gates, and they were only too willing to heed the manager’s call for help. As I led them around the house, heading towards the rear terrace, we encountered Cumali and her colleagues on their way out. There was a moment of embarrassment when the two parties confronted each other, but the manager stepped off the path and his workers followed suit to allow the cops to pass.
It so happened that I was in a position where I could see the manager’s face clearly and the look of disdain as the officer walked by was almost palpable. The manager turned, saw me looking at him and smiled. Once the cops were out of earshot, he walked to my side: ‘He is the name of a man we call SpongeBob.’
All the workers nodded. ‘SpongeBob?’ I said. ‘Like the cartoon?’ The manager nodded and mimed a sucking motion.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘the big sponge,’ and rubbed my thumb and forefinger together in the universal symbol of bribery. The manager and his friends laughed, and one of the men spat on the ground. For a moment we had transcended all language, and we turned the corner of the house.
After allowing them a minute to stare at the view, I led them through the French doors into the library. Two of the men were carpenters and, while they discussed the logistics of building crates to protect the mirrors, several others returned to their trucks for ladders and tools.
I wandered out on to the lawn and started trying to call somebody at FedEx who could organize, at short notice, to pick up the mirrors and fly them to Florence. I was waiting for yet another customer-service rep to call back when the manager hurried to my side, obviously upset and wanting me to follow him into the house. For a moment I thought they must have dropped one of the mirrors, but I realized I would have heard it smash and I put that possibility aside.
I temporarily gave up on FedEx, followed the manager up to the terrace, went through the doors and into the library. I stopped. The men – silent and standing to one side – were watching me. They had removed both mirrors, and I looked at the dressed-stone walls where they had been hanging.