Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

matter, an issue which concerns me greatly. Your little cave was impressive, but how do I know that it is the real thing?” His steady voice surprised even himself. “I’ve yet to be convinced that I have seen even a single genuine piece of Etruscan art. I can’t have you sending copies back to America, as good as they may be.”

The two Italians again smiled at each other, it was getting to be a big part of their routine. Then Zerbino laughed and stretched his arms wide. “Look around you, Riccardo, you are surrounded by genuine pieces of Etruscan art.”

Rick’s eyes went from one wall to the other and then back to Zerbino. “I hardly think we can just pull something off a shelf, Arnolfo. How do the pieces in this museum help me?”

Zerbino rubbed his hands together, ready for the question and relishing the opportunity to answer it. “Riccardo, there are hundreds of urns in these rooms. I am the curator of the museum and even I don’t know the exact number.” He pointed to one on a top shelf. “Do you see this wonderful piece? Notice the intricate carving of the battle scene. What beautiful work, don’t you think?” He glanced at Malandro whose half smile had turned full. “The original is in a private collection in Berlin, if I remember correctly.” Zerbino pointed to another shelf. “And that one up there, it is somewhere in the Middle East.” He paused to see the look on Rick’s face. “But you, Riccardo, you will have an advantage over those buyers. You can actually choose the exact piece you want to purchase. It will be like going into a fine jewelry store and pointing to the necklace you wish.”

He was enjoying the whole scene, striding from one side of the room to another, pointing at the shelves like he was once more lecturing to a class. “The process is quite simple. You pick the one you want and it will be removed from display, replaced by a small card indicating that the urn is under restoration. Then my friend here and his staff will work their magic. A few weeks after that, a piece of authentic Etruscan history is in your gallery in America. And at the same time, what everyone assumes is the lovingly restored urn returns to its place of honor on this shelf.”

Rick nodded, impressed, despite himself. “So everyone is happy, the buyer has his stolen art and the seller has made a profit. Your business plan is brilliant, Arnolfo.”

Zerbino positively glowed. He raised his index finger in the air. “Ah, but don’t forget about our precious museum patrons, those tourists and school children who can’t tell the difference between an Etruscan pot and one made by your Navajos. Those patrons, my friend, are also very happy, now able to admire a professionally restored burial urn. Look at the wonderful restoration Malandro did on this piece. Why it’s almost like new.” Malandro bent to an abbreviated bow.

“What about serious scholars?” asked Rick. “They must come from all over Italy to see this collection.”

Zerbino walked from the shelves to where Rick stood in the middle of the room. “Not just from Italy, my friend, but from around the world. Another advantage of my position, Riccardo, is that I control which pieces are available for close professional observation. With so many urns it is not a problem. And even scholars are usually drawn only to the most famous pieces in our collection. I’m afraid I can’t let you select one of those for your buyers. You must forgive me.” Zerbino was pleased at the little joke.

Rick’s mind was churning, but he kept himself on the business at hand. “Arnolfo, you have convinced me of authenticity. The only other major issue to discuss, before I call my people in New Mexico, is price.”

Rick watched the expression on Zerbino’s face go from the wide smile to a worried frown. What could this be about? he wondered. Surely the man was expecting the question, was he changing hats from the friendly salesman into that of the tough negotiator? Then Rick understood. Zerbino was not frowning at him, but rather a something directly behind him. Or someone. As he began to turn to see what it was, Rick heard a new and unfamiliar voice from the back of the room.

“Dr. Zerbino, I regret to inform you that the American is working for the police.”

The man standing at the doorway was dressed in a well-cut dark suit, light blue shirt and simple striped tie. He did not strike Rick as the kind of man who would be involved in a criminal activity, but then neither had Zerbino on first meeting. It was not the dress and demeanor of the man that concerned Rick, it was the large pistol which he held up stiffly in his two hands, giving the clear impression that he knew how to use it. And had likely used it before.

The curator spoke first. “I don’t understand,” he stammered, while removing the large white handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his bald head. Zerbino was clearly as bewildered as he was angry. The smiles and laughs were gone. He glared into Rick’s face and took short breaths to contain his indignation.

The man with the gun spoke again. His words were cold and deliberate.

“Just what I said, Dr. Zerbino, he has been hired by the art police in Rome to flush out traffickers of Etruscan artifacts. And it appears he has been successful.” Hints of delight appeared in the man’s eyes.

Rick, Malandro, and Zerbino stared at the gun. Rick could only guess what part in the gang the man played, but what was clear was that the police had been infiltrated. Unless the leak had come all the way from Rome. Could someone in the ministry be involved, feeding information to the very criminals Beppo was trying to catch? His adventure had suddenly turned dangerous, and now there was no policeman following