22 ...

A faint "ping" announced to Bandone that he had received an email. He swung around in his chair, tapped once to open it and was quiet for a moment. 

"Tenente. One problem has been solved, I think. This is from the Carabinieri who were called to investigate the disappearance of 'Monet' from the Hotel Domus Romana. They've arrested a suspect. He had a fake beard and some period clothing in a backpack. Turns out this guy is a failed artist who likes to impersonate his heroes. He's done this sort of thing in several other cities in Europe. The photo we received earlier was a best guess, as the concierge swore that the suspect looked identical to Monet, whose picture he had seen in many art books. That's why we didn't have a positive I.D. earlier. Anyway, we don't have to worry about a kidnapping, it seems."

"Well that at least is good news," added Marchese. "Now, David, we'll let you get on with this other thing, and will expect to hear from you by the end of the day." He stood, signalling that the interview was over.

Newkirk rose from his chair, lost in thought, but smiling feebly. "Thank you, Tenente. I can use some fresh air. I need to clear my head."

"Paolo, please escort Signore Newkirk to the street entrance and hail a taxi for him." He turned to Newkirk, his hand extended. "Thank you for you cooperation, David. This is my card. I'll expect your call."

Returning to the office, Bandone sat down again at his computer and found the file that contained the early morning recording of the five men in the Sistine Chapel. Out of simple curiosity, he opened the file and pressed 'play.' Newkirk appeared as before. The others were nowhere to be seen.

*

That night, Newkirk issued the same mysterious invitation that, the previous September, had resulted in the big event in Venice. This time, he urgently advised everyone to meet at the church of San Pietro in Vincoli the next morning. 

Nave of San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome

Marchese had arranged with church officials to have the site closed to the public for the morning. He also enlisted the help of the Carabinieri in setting up a perimeter that could be monitored easily as the expected guests arrived and left.

At 7 a.m. on the morning of June 1st, Marchese and Bandone approached Newkirk where he stood alone to the right of the altar, staring at Michelangelo's Moses.

"Good morning, Signori." Again Newkirk shook hands with the two Guardia officers. "I'm sorry you missed everyone, but it all went well."

Taken completely by surprise, Marchese and Bandone exchanged glances. "What do you mean, we missed everyone?" asked Marchese.

"I suggested to them that an early start would be most discreet, so they arrived at 6 this morning, more or less, and everyone left just a few minutes ago."

Still puzzled, Marchese offered, "But the Carabinieri have been here since 4 a.m. They would have seen anyone entering or exiting. I was told that you arrived alone at about 5:30, and that no one else has entered since that time." Now all three seemed confused.

"But of course that's not possible, Tenente. I issued my invitation. They came. They left. It's as simple as that."

"Then how do you explain the fact that twenty highly trained policemen and women saw no one but you enter the church?"

Newkirk slumped against the iron railing that surrounded the sculpture. He remained silent for a long time, staring at the floor.

Finally he spoke. "Tenente. This place was packed. Are you telling me that no one else saw the hundreds of artists who came here this morning?"

"That is precisely what I'm saying, David ... Are you feeling well?"

Slow to respond and sagging even more, Newkirk said, "Oh yes. I'm fine. At least I think I'm fine." Another long pause. "It's me. It's just me, I guess."

"What do you mean, David?"

"I don't know. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is the grand delusion of a madman – harmless, I think, but also insane? No one sees these artists but me?"

"There is the small matter of our having recorded Michelangelo, Raphael, Bernini and Picasso with you in the Sistine Chapel. Are we all insane? Explain this please."

Bandone now reluctantly entered the conversation. "Tenente, I am sorry. I hoped that everything would be clear this morning. I neglected to tell you that I reviewed the tape from the Sistine last night. Only Newkirk appears. The others are not there. I can't figure it out."

Marchese's jaw dropped. Before he could respond, Newkirk uttered a single word ...

"Ghosts."

The other two took a step back from Newkirk. Marchese crossed himself, muttering "Dio mio." What was it that registered on their faces at that moment? Fear? Superstition?Disbelief?

"What more likely place is there in the world to see ghosts, if there are such things?" asked Newkirk. "And for a moment, they revealed themselves to you, as well as to me. Do you have a better explanation?" He looked at each of the policemen in turn. They were still dumbstruck. "Look," he continued, "until now, this whole thing – from Venice to the Sistine – it has all been mine: my metaphor, my fantasy, my hallucination. Call it what you wish. I told you that I felt the presence of these masters while I worked in my studio, and they are still with me. I suppose I have projected their presence, their influence into situations where they seem to fit. The fact that you too saw several of them – if you still believe that you saw them – I think it just means that one cannot dismiss their powerful presence in Rome, even though that presence may not actually be physical in nature. You were both sufficiently convinced of what you saw that you had me picked up by the Swiss Guard and delivered to your doorstep by the Carabinieri. That is hard to discount, don't you think? Are we all crazy? We keep asking that question. I think the answer is no, we are not crazy." The three exchanged nervous glances; their shared anxiety was palpable.

Bandone turned to cover a nervous cough and quite by accident … he farted. In that vast, marbled nave. 

Silence and looks of horror lasted for 4 seconds. And on 5, unrestrained hilarity exploded (as well). The three laughed so hard that they needed the support of walls and railings to remain standing. None could see clearly for the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

"Stop! Stop! Please ... it hurts ... I can't catch my breath ..." escaped one spitting, drooling mouth after another. Then, induced by the powerful laughter, a burst of 'aftershocks' shook Bandone, and all hope was lost of regaining anything that resembled composure. The three fell to the floor, and sat or lay there wiping away the tears, alternately quieting and bursting helplessly anew into giggles and brash laughter until a priest appeared from somewhere. With much trial and error, a fanfare of hearty guffaws, and streams of staccato 'tut-tuts' the priest finally was able to shoo the three offenders out of the church as they continued to struggle with their laughter.

Sunlight, and twenty staring and incredulous Carabinieri seemed to have a sobering effect. Newkirk, Bandone and Marchese stood gazing through the arches and over the pavement and the police cars. The air was cool and fresh. A small flock of birds circled overhead in a clear blue sky. All seemed right with the world, and apparently the universe, as Pierre Trudeau once suggested, was unfolding as it should. Reality or imagination? The debate was irrelevant for the moment. Calm returned, and the three stood quietly pondering their recent conversation.

Marchese broke the silence. "Alora. David, as you explained, this ... whatever this is ... it is yours. Maybe Paolo and I shared in it for a moment; maybe we did not." He shrugged, and his hands flew through several eloquent gestures as only Italian hands can do. "My advice? Don't worry about it; enjoy it. This is a gift for you, carrying these passengers of yours. How many others would like to have such feelings to cherish? Get back to your conversations with these people for whom you have such respect. Forget about us, and although I doubt that we shall forget about you, there is no reason for us to involve ourselves in your, uh, your ongoing metaphor ... your conversations. And believe me, this is far from the strangest thing we have seen in our years as policemen, eh Paolo?" He was smiling broadly now.

"È vero, Tenente."

“I’m curious, though,” Marchese continued. “What happens to these people when they are not with you? Have you ever asked one of them about just how they experience these things?”

Newkirk looked at the pavement, took a deep breath and answered. “I have, in fact. When we were in Venice, I had a moment alone with the great Diego Velázquez – such a charming and gracious man, and a giant of a painter of course. Anyway, I did ask him that very question. He smiled and shrugged, and said that in his case at least, his experience of time was seamless. He had no idea when or how he apparently shifted from his own time to ours, or vice versa, or if he were in both places simultaneously. When he found himself at home in the 17^th century, he had no memory of this adventure in the 21^st, although when he was here, memories of his real life were entirely intact. He laughed, and added that if too many dreamers were to summon him to other times and places, he’d never get any work done. “But how am I to be certain that it’s not happening all the time?” he chuckled. Frankly, I doubt that the artists who were here early this morning have any clearer understanding of this thing than you or I.”

Marchese retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and offered it to each of the others in turn. Both declined. He shrugged, and smiled again. "I too have almost quit. Almost. Now I have a cigarette perhaps three times a week. That's big progress for a man who smoked three packs a day for many years, no?" He lit up and inhaled deeply. The others both felt a twinge of envy along with sympathy for Marchese's effort to quit. Smoke curled lazily upward in the still air. It smelled delicious.

*

21 ... 

"Your other friends are in danger as well, if my assumption is correct," said Marchese. 

Suddenly agitated, his eyes full of fear, Newkirk blurted "Of course. It's so obvious. Someone has caught wind of the presence of these artists in Rome, or perhaps in other cities, or in the countryside. My god, can we ever figure out how to contact them? You're right. They are all in real danger. Whoever snatched Monet is planning more of the same, I'm sure. Just imagine ... you assemble history's greatest artists together in some remote location, and then ... oh god."

"You've got the idea," said Bandone, animated at last, and now completely engaged in the conversation. "This person, or organization plans to force these artists to make new work. These would not be fakes, you understand; they'd be genuine, as yet undiscovered Monets, Da Vincis, Van Goghs, Frankenthalers ... whoever can be coerced." He thought aloud, as he assessed the possibilities. "Out of the blue, unknown paintings by these masters would appear on the market. What if their captors were also able to 'persuade' the artists publicly to authenticate only certain of the works that already exist? Who would doubt Monet if he were to claim that, as a ridiculous example, his water lilies were all painted by a studio assistant, or a distant cousin? First we have kidnapping, perhaps on a grand scale. Then torture, or bribery, or perhaps a simple appeal to an artist's ego or a combination of all of these. A slave labour camp producing original works by artists long thought to be dead? Or – and personally I find this even more disturbing to contemplate – a country spa where everyone is getting rich by mutual consent. We've got to find them."

"And then what?" Marchese removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and ran a hand through his hair. "What do we do with them? What do we do with the new paintings?" His chair squealed in protest as he leaned back. He was silent for a moment. "I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves. Let's dissect this thing and see if we really have a problem. Sit down, Paolo. We'll go through this together, and calmly, OK?

"Here's a thought that worries me. What will happen if it becomes widely known that 'dead' people somehow have returned and are enjoying the sights of Roma, and perhaps Paris and London and New York? Cazzo! Are we really in some ridiculous Hollywood zombie time warp?"

Newkirk's sharp intake of breath spoke volumes. "Oh, man! How could I not have thought of that?" His eyes widen. "My god, they're going to want to talk to me! Everybody will want to know how to do this. They'll think it's some kind of key to immortality."  He exhaled in a low moan, and dropped his head into his hands.

Marchese put a friendly hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "For now, I think it would be wise to have someone from our office accompany you, David. Paolo here is the logical candidate. OK with you, Paolo?" 

Bandone nods. "Certamente, Tenente. No problem."

"But let's not panic yet," continued Marchese. Very few people have resources like ours, and even fewer would imagine that Michelangelo, for example, walks among us. People will, at most, think that a few eccentrics are impersonating the artists. So far, only a very few intelligence officers are puzzling over this. And only we three know the whole story. By the way, David, can you confirm for us now that it was indeed Michelangelo we saw you with this morning?"

"Yes. And Raphael, and Bernini. Raphael was dressed formally and for some reason was carrying a sword. That's what I used to poke the camera and dislodge it." He reached into a pocket. "Here it is. I'd forgotten I had it." Newkirk seemed desolate. He passed the tiny camera to Marchese, who was clearly relieved; he pocketed the camera.

Marchese shot a knowing glance at Bandone. "We were right, Paolo. It was a sword. Dio mio!" He wrestled with his sense of reality for a moment, and then, as if to himself, "No. I simply will not think about what is real. We must stick with our agreed procedure. We'll deal with the situation as it presents itself. Do you think, David, that you can contact these artists as you did before your event in Venice?"

Newkirk looked up, and brightened visibly. "Yes! At least I think so. I hope I can ... I don't know."

20 ...

Marchese smiled, reached into his pocket and handed the waiter a one-Euro coin. "Grazie Marco." The waiter placed the tray on the desk, turned and left without a word. Marchese poured two cups, looked up at Bandone who shook his head no, and with an open hand, gestured toward the pastries. "Please," he said. After a moment or two, the Tenente continued.

"I think you can relax, Signore. If we had wanted to arrest you, your present circumstances would be quite different, I assure you. No, there's nothing very sinister about this meeting. Frankly, we have been presented with some extremely puzzling information, and it would seem that you may be able to assist us. As you have probably surmised – since you seem to be well aware of the various policing agencies in Italy, and our ranks and insignia – Paolo and I work for the Guardia di Finanza. My special area of expertise is high profile kidnappings, and Paolo here appears to have extensive knowledge of art, although he has kept this very close to his chest all these years," he smiled at Bandone who shrugged and nodded.

"Now I must ask you to help us solve a particularly troubling mystery."

"How can I help," asked Newkirk.

"When we came here this morning, this monitor had gone dark. I asked Paolo to go back through the recorded data from that camera until we saw images that would tell us when and how the camera had malfunctioned. What we saw was extraordinary. We saw you, Signore, in the Sistine Chapel, accompanied by four other gentlemen. Three of these resembled some very famous Italian artists from the Renaissance and Baroque periods of our history. We'll come back to them in a moment. The identity of the fourth man has been established, although this identification comes with certain ... uh .. shall we say, discrepancies. This man was identified as Pablo Picasso." He watched Newkirk for his reaction to this news. Was it surprise, or something else that he saw?

"But, that's impossible. Pardon me, Tenente, but Picasso died in 1973, over 40 years ago. Are you pulling my leg? I'm a gullible guy, but really ... "

Marchese raised a hand to interrupt and nodded toward Bandone. "Paolo, tell him what you found, please."

"I was able to capture a very clear image of this man's face. Of course I assumed this was some impersonator, or simply a random citizen who resembled Picasso. Just to be sure, I put the photo through the face-recognition data bases of the Guardia, the Carabinieri, Interpol, MI6, the CIA, and your Canadian CSIS. In every case, I got a positive match. It was unquestionably Pablo Picasso. These systems don't make mistakes. Picasso is in Rome. What we want you to tell us, is why he was with you this morning, and exactly who the other men were, although we think we know that too."

"As you see," added Marchese, "there's no point denying that these men were with you. The camera that you discovered is one that we ourselves installed with some difficulty. And, if I may ask a favour of you, please do not mention the camera or its location to anyone. This could be rather sensitive should Vatican officials become aware. You understand? Now ... can you help us, Signore?"

Newkirk had become increasingly uncomfortable as the two officers spoke. When Bandone confirmed Picasso's identity, he sagged noticeably in his chair, and looking from side to side, hoped there might be some escape from this predicament. Marchese waited patiently as Newkirk's head swam, and though he tried to devise a logical strategy for escape, none was forthcoming. He took a deep breath and surrendered.

"Yes. Picasso was with me this morning," he offered with little more than a whisper. He stared at the floor, resigned to his situation. All he could do now was tell the truth as he knew it. But who could possibly believe him?

"Thank you, David. I may call you David? Grazie. We know a little more about you and your recent activities. I'm speaking of the event you hosted last fall in Venice, during the Biennale." Newkirk looked up, anxious and confused. "What can you tell us about that?"

Regaining some composure, Newkirk elaborated. "This is not going to make any sense. It makes no sense even to me. But I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll have to decide whether I need to be locked in a rubber room. The whole thing began as a kind of tribute to great artists I have always admired. I feel connected to these artists, and grateful for what they have added to my life. If you know about the event in Venice, then you know that I am a painter. These artists have influenced me and each other. It's like a legacy, almost a linear connection, a tradition or a club. These are my vocational forebearers. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Please go on," said Marchese.

"So, I was making paintings in my studio, thinking about this connection. It was as if these artists were sitting in the studio behind or beside me, one at a time, perhaps having a drink or a smoke. They were silent presences, but supportive. I know this sounds bizarre. And I thought how wonderful it would be to meet them all, to have discussions with them, to share a meal together. The Biennale was the perfect meeting place, if only I could organize a party, a get together of some kind, and include all the artists I have ever admired, living and dead – so I thought, anyway. 

"Now, this is where it gets weird.

"Without any fanfare or warning, there I was in Venice. I swear to you that this was no dream. I was in Venice, and they too were in Venice ... all of them ... Velazquez, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Pollock, Shuebrook, Hall, Whiten, Van Gogh, De Kooning ... all of them were there. It was happening just as I had imagined. They were exchanging ideas, having fun, getting drunk together ... " he was nearly breathless as he described what had happened. "I know it's impossible. I know that this cannot have happened, but it did happen. And now, back in Rome, I have run into several of the same artists. We seem simply to have picked up where we left off in Venice. Look ... I can't explain it. I can't! If I'm harmless, you can let me continue with my fantasy. If I'm dangerously nuts ... well ... that's another matter I suppose." He fell silent, looking back and forth at his audience, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"David," said Marchese. "Based on the evidence we have, and on some disturbing bulletins we have received from Interpol, we have no choice but to believe what you've said."

Newkirk visibly relaxed, surprised and relieved, and incredulous. "You do?" he asked. "Really?"

Marchese continued. "We were just notified that this man (he consulted a file) was seen yesterday both at the Palazzo Borghese, and at a hotel – the Domus Romana – where he was evidently a guest. The concierge there contacted the Carabinieri to report that he had disappeared without paying his bill." He passed a photo to Newkirk.

Claude Monet

Wide-eyed, Newkirk exclaimed, "Monet is missing? I haven't seen him in Rome yet, but I do know the hotel. Why would he leave without paying?"

"Monet is just one of several who have disappeared." Marchese paused. "I think we have to agree," he continued "to suspend belief, as you say in English. Can we agree that we all think these events cannot possibly be taking place, and at the same time accept that they are? There is no point arguing the plausibility of what is happening. We must deal with the facts as they are presented to us. My head throbs when I try to construct any other possible course of action. So .. from this point on, we discard logic, and simply deal with events as they unfold, ... agreed?"

"Wow," said Newkirk. "You amaze me. But yes, that is exactly what I have had to do."

"Sure," offered an emotionless Bandone. "Whatever you say."

"I believe that Monet has been kidnapped," announced Marchese.

"But why would anyone kidnap Monet?"

"David, really ... if you could kidnap Monet, what would you want with him?"

19 ...

Their polished leather boots seemed to propel the Carabinieri in unison along the hallway, marble under foot and on the sculpted walls reflecting back a clatter of echoes. As far as Newkirk could tell, they were alone in this tired-looking office building. The air carried the faint smell of a cleaning agent, but no fresh breeze stirred; all the windows he saw were tightly closed. 

No one spoke. After what felt like ages, he was ushered down several flights of stairs at the rear of the building. In what must have been a vast basement, confusing twists and turns followed until at last the trio came to a halt before a simple, unmarked wooden door. The policeman on Newkirk's left rapped crisply on the door, and in moments it swung inward to reveal yet another dark corridor. Once they entered, the door closed behind them with an ominous click. This scenario repeated itself twice more - unmarked doors, dark hallways and the click of locks. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Newkirk began to notice cameras mounted near the ceilings. They were being watched.

Finally a door opened on a brightly lit room. Several computer monitors sat on a long desk against the far wall (one displaying the hallways they had just left), and directly in front of Newkirk, leaning against the desk's edge stood a large, bald man drinking coffee. To the right, a smaller man swivelled around in his chair and with a perfunctory smile, Marchese greeted the newcomers. 

"Thank you for your assistance, constables. We'll take it from here. As you were told earlier, the two of you were chosen for your discretion. I'm sure I can count on you both. That's all, thank you." Once again demonstrating precisely how to move with grace and poise, the Carabinieri pivoted, and left the room, closing the door with a faint swish.

"Please, have a seat Signore." With a flick of the wrist, Marchese waved Newkirk toward a plain wooden chair. "Would you like coffee? It's very simple to have it brought in."

"Si, grazie, Tenente. I would very much like a cup of coffee."

"Ah, you speak Italian, Signore Newkirk."

"Very little I'm afraid. I appreciate your speaking English; I think we'll both understand each other better. You speak it beautifully, by the way."

Marchese nodded to acknowledge the compliment. "In fact, I have spent some time in Toronto, as has the Sottotenente ... excuse me, I am Tenente – as you noticed – Guido Marchese, and this is Sottotenente Paolo Bandone. Paolo, meet Signore ..."

"David, please. Piaccere." They shake hands. "You were saying that you have visited Toronto."

"Yes. I have relatives there, and I sent Paolo to stay with them when he decided to brush up his English," Marchese continued. 

"May I ask where in Toronto your relatives live?"

"Years ago an uncle moved his family to your Little Italy – Toronto's Italian community is very large, no? – Euclid Avenue, I believe, not far from an authentic little cafe, the Diplomatico. 

But he did well with a flooring and masonry business and they have long since moved to a sprawling house just north of the city." He turns to Bandone. "What was the name of the place Paolo, Woodstock?"

"Woodbridge," Bandone corrected.

"Yes, Woodbridge. I have not visited them there, but we email and occasionally they send photos. I should make time for a visit while my aunt is still with us. I like Toronto very much – so clean, and quite sophisticated now. It may not be New York, but ..." he shrugged.

"Little Italy is one of my favourite parts of the city," said Newkirk. 

"When I first began teaching, I worked at a high school in the northern part of Toronto, a kind of migration stop for the Italian population, a suburban area where families moved from Little Italy, but before they went on to bigger and better things in Woodbridge. About half of my students were of Italian descent – wonderful kids. Those students and the art of Italy were responsible for my interest in this beautiful country."

Marchese leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, marking a change in tone as he spoke. "Your interest in art is the reason we asked you to join us." Now he was all business.

"Oh. Am I visiting you here, or have I been arrested? I must say that being whisked away from St. Peter's by Swiss Guards and Carabinieri officers was confusing, and a little nerve wracking. Finding myself in the basement of a huge, empty building has not been very reassuring either, despite your congenial welcome, Tenente. Can you explain in more detail just why I'm here?"

Just then there was a knock at the door, startling Newkirk. Bandone pressed a button; the door swung open, and in walked a young man in waiter's garb, carrying a tray of fresh pastries and a pot of espresso whose aroma was irresistible.

18 ...

It was still early when the Swiss Guard began the search in earnest, but because thousands of tourists immediately began to flood the corridors when the Vatican Museums opened at 9:00 a.m., an average-looking, middle-aged white man might as well have been the proverbial needle in a haystack. From the video they had captured in the Sistine Chapel, Bandone had been unable to offer much in the way of a description: height about 6', weight maybe 180 pounds, white hair, glasses, black t-shirt and jeans – that was about it. He and Marchese had decided that it would be prudent not to mention the camera they had installed under orders – without informing the Vatican – in Michelangelo's Last Judgement. As far as the Swiss Guard were concerned, this was simply a request to detain someone wanted for questioning by the Guardia.

They got lucky. Two alert young Guards noticed a group of five men leaving the shaded colonnades of the Piazza San Pietro, and heading toward the Via della Conciliazone, Mussolini's grand boulevard that led away from the Vatican and back into the city of Rome itself. One of the men bent down to retrieve a pamphlet of some sort that he had dropped. That and the fact that three of them were dressed in costume attracted the attention not only of the guards, but of the crowd of passing tourists. One guard checked the photo he'd been given, nodded to his partner. In their colourful uniforms, they pushed forward. The Red Sea of tourists parted respectfully, and perhaps a bit nervously. Four of the five men were leaving, shaking hands as they left. The first guard addressed the only person his superiors had directed him to detain, Newkirk.

"Signore Newkirk." The guard consulted his orders to check the name and photo that had been provided. "Per favore, venite con noi."

"Certamente, signori, ma perché." No answer.

Newkirk was directed to a waiting police car and gently guided into the backseat by an expressionless Carabinieri officer as his partner watched from the driver's seat. Having delivered the suspect, the two Swiss Guards turned back toward St. Peter's and disappeared into the crowds. 

Like police cars everywhere, this one had a steel mesh partition between front and back seats, and the rear doors had no handles. Newkirk felt queasy and claustrophobic as the car sped away into the city. 

It was only logical to think that the camera they had found in the Sistine was being monitored by some authority or other, and that its discovery was the reason for Newkirk's arrest, if that's what this was. But what would those authorities have thought about the other artists who'd been with him in the chapel? Well naturally the police (or whoever) would have dismissed their identities as a prank, a hoax, or a costume a party ... wouldn't they? His mind raced with the implications of the situation. "I suppose," he mused, "now I'm some kind of perp." The thought made him smile despite his discomfort.

Within minutes they arrived in front of a nondescript building not far from the Carabinieri Stazione they had just passed in the Piazza Adriana. The same officer who had seated Newkirk in the squad car opened the door and gestured toward the building's entrance. Newkirk had never seen such elegance and grace in police officers. These men were not simply in uniform, they were dressed. And they did not simply stand up or walk forward; each movement seemed to have been choreographed. Ah, Roma. Looking down at his t-shirt and jeans, he felt rather grubby and clumsy as they climbed the few steps and entered the building.

17 ...

"I've found this guy Newkirk. Hey, wasn't that the name of the cook on that old TV show, Hogan's Heroes? Not a name you run across very often. Newkirk, David G., Canadian citizen; currently a resident of Toronto where he's lived since 1972; no priors; a few parking tickets and one for speeding on ... let's see ... ha! ... on his 40th birthday. Found a link to a web site; he's an artist, a painter, abstract stuff; long career teaching art, art history and related odds and ends. That would explain why he's in the Sistine. They all go to see the ceiling, don't they. This is a photo from his web site."

Marchese wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, then reached over to turn his partner's monitor in his direction.

"Anything else about him that might explain these bizarre circumstances?"

"Here. Look at this, Guido. This is a link to a blog the guy wrote last year. There." He read, "Fictional present-tense conversations among famous artists, from many time periods, as if they were all living, and assembled together in present day Venice."

"Let's have a better look at that," said Marchese. "You remember that Venice was mentioned in that memo from headquarters. You're sure about the others we saw at the Sistine?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's completely crazy; it's impossible! Of course it's impossible. But so far, I don't have a better explanation. The camera definitely recorded Michelangelo, Raphael, Bernini and Picasso chatting away in the Sistine Chapel today." Bandone stressed that last incongruous word. "Picasso's in the data bases naturally. But the others? All we have to go on are portraits and self-portraits from hundreds of years ago."

"OK, OK. We know where they were up until a few minutes ago. Call it in – I want them brought here. Start with the Swiss Guard; Gallo is reasonable most of the time, although if I were you, I would mention only the one guy by name ... Newkirk. If they find the rest of them, let them struggle with their own confusion." Marchese had decided that it was time to get some answers. "Tell them to start in the Sistine, and then to look in St. Peter's if necessary – Bernini has some big pieces there. Maybe we'll get lucky. If they've left the Vatican, we'll have to give it to the Carabinieri."  

*

16 ...

When not in uniform, Guido Marchese had the familiar look of a small business man, perhaps the congenial café owner who served your morning espresso with quiet efficiency. His height and weight were average. Once a month he had his barber touch up the colour of his hair; like many Italian men, he preferred to keep the coal black colour that he felt went a long way toward maintaining a youthful, if not sexy, appearance in which he had always taken pride. Over the years, however, his eyeglasses had thickened, as had his waistline, and the telltale wrinkles and pouchiness in his face tended to conflict with the look he imagined he saw each morning in the mirror. Still, he was a pleasant looking fellow, and usually calm and unflappable in any situation.

This morning was different. His coffee grew cold and the fragrant cornetto sat untouched as file after file landed with a slap on the desk. 

Finally, with an "ah, here they are," he leaned back in his leather chair, rolled it away from the desk a few inches, and absently picked up the pastry with his left hand while studying the papers in his right. 

Marchese had been recruited by the Guardia di Finanza after finishing his MBA at the University of Bologna. It was there that he met Rocco Papaleo, the legendary Carabinieri officer who was largely responsible for Italy's recent successes in combating the drug trade. Papaleo had been a guest lecturer at the time, and was given Marchese's thesis to read. The thesis examined various strategies for dealing with high profile kidnappings, and Papaleo had been sufficiently impressed that a collegial friendship with Marchese had eventually resulted in the invitation to the younger man to attend the central police academy. He thought that Marchese might have a future with the Guardia; and the rest, as they say, is history. Marchese, now in his mid-forties, with an impressive list of successes, had established a formidable reputation as an investigator. This was the work he loved. Several times he had turned down promotions – the higher ranks, the increases in pay. Simply put, he didn't want them. As a Lieutenant in the Guardia di Finanza he had time for a family life: a loving wife, two children (one son, one daughter) of whom he was immensely proud, a comfortable and spacious apartment not far from the Fontana di Trevi, and most importantly he had been able to keep his head where he wanted it, in the thick of investigation. This current assignment had made little sense to him, until now.

Fontana di Trevi

Sitting beside Marchese, patiently searching data bases from headquarters, from the local Carabinieri, and from Interpol, Paolo Bandone was the Hardy to Marchese's Laurel. 

Laurel and Hardy

Thickset and entirely bald, Paolo cared little about his appearance. Ironically perhaps, his relaxed self-confidence attracted women of all shapes and sizes, poor and wealthy, ignorant and educated. He tolerated his attractiveness to women and on occasion used it to advantage, but was not ruled by it. At 38 he was a confirmed bachelor. The other thing about Bandone that seemed inconsistent with this hulking, muscular package was his fascination with the history of art – and not just with the art of Italy – he loved all art, and enjoyed nothing more than spending the evening sipping a glass of Sagrantino, a favourite Umbrian red, reading biographies of great artists, Verdi or Puccini playing in the background. The catalogue of his memory was staggering in size, incredibly detailed and accurate, and always readily accessible. In short, although he didn't look it, he was a brilliant cop. The Guardia were always on the lookout for intelligent young recruits with specialized knowledge that could be put to good use, and Bandone's career path had been much like Marchese's. He too was puzzled by the circumstances that had brought him here to partner with the Lieutenant.

"I think I've found something here."