“A small one, yes—and the satisfaction of seeing the masterpieces returned.”
“Why the cloak-and-dagger? Why haven’t these people contacted us themselves?”
“They’re worried that they could still be charged with possession of stolen goods.”
“I see. You will forgive me if I am skeptical of your story. We have had quite a number of false leads over the last twenty-three years.”
“I’ve read about that, yes.”
Twisdale gave him a hard look and drummed his fingers on the table. “If you can indeed procure the works, they will all have to be returned to us and examined by our experts to verify their condition and authenticity before the reward can be paid.”
“I understand.”
“So how do you suggest we proceed?”
“I’ve been told that I will be contacted sometime next week. At that time, I’ll explain your requirements and do my best to make the appropriate arrangements.”
Appropriate arrangements? Jesus. He was starting to sound like Charles.
*
Two mornings later, Val startled awake. Someone was hammering on his door. He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was just after six a.m.
He got up, pulled on a Dustin Pedroia Red Sox T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and padded barefoot to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw a frowning face topped by a baseball cap. He unlatched the security chain, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door.
“Valerio Sciarra?”
“Yes.”
“FBI.”
“I gathered that from the letters on your hat.”
“We have a warrant to search the premises.”
The frowning man shoved a sheet of paper at Val, elbowed him aside, and walked in, followed by three more men wearing the same hat.
“Sit on the floor against the wall, please, and keep out of our way.”
Val did as he was told and watched the four agents tear the little studio apartment apart. They pulled books from shelves, dumped bureau drawers onto the floor, dug through his clothes closet, rifled through his kitchen cabinets, rummaged through his Frigidare, and even peered into the grease-caked oven.
When they were done, the agents gathered what they seemed to think was evidence—stacks of articles about art theft, Val’s laptop computer, and his properly registered firearms, a .380 Taurus ACP and a .50-caliber AE Desert Eagle. Two of them lugged the stuff out to the car. The other two pulled Val to his feet.
“We need you to come with us,” the one who seemed to be in charge said.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, but our superiors would like you to answer some questions.”
Val considered refusing, but that would make it look like he’d done something wrong. Instead, he was driven to the FBI’s satellite office on Dorrance Street, taken to a small interrogation room, seated in a straight-backed metal chair, and left alone to stew for two hours.
He was thinking about walking out when the door swung open and two men he hadn’t seen before strode in.
“I’m Special Agent Alex Burns of the Boston bureau of the FBI,” said the tall one in the pearl-gray suit. “And this,” he gestured toward the shorter one in a charcoal suit, “is Special Agent Francis Hanrahan of our Providence office.”
Burns took the chair across a metal table from Val and placed a leather briefcase on it. Hanrahan remained standing, his body tense as if ready for trouble. Neither offered to shake hands.
“So then,” Agent Burns said, “why don’t you begin by telling me why a Brown University art history professor feels the need to be heavily armed?”
“Heavily armed? It’s only two handguns.”
“True, but the Desert Eagle has enough stopping power to drop an elephant.”
“I’m ex-military. I like firearms.”
The agent snapped open the briefcase, removed a file folder, and shuffled through the papers inside. “Six years in the army, 75th Ranger Regiment, three tours of duty in Afghanistan.”
“That’s correct.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And you like firearms?”
“I just said that.”
“Where did you get the Desert Eagle?”
“Proline Firearms in Warwick.”
“It would have set you back nearly two grand. Isn’t that an extravagant expense for someone living on an assistant professor’s salary?”
“Brown pays well enough for me to afford it.”
Burns consulted the file again and said, “Huh. Eighty-two thousand a year. So why do you live in a rundown Federal Hill tenement?”
“I’m saving my money in case I don’t get tenured.”
“Seems odd that you’d splurge on a gun.”
“Not to me.”
“Okay, then. I see from your blog that you are an expert in stolen art.”
“It’s an interest of mine, yes.”
“In fact, last summer you assisted in the recovery of two stolen paintings, is that right?”
“It is.”
“Can you tell me how you were able to do that?”
“The Association for Research into Crimes Against Art, a group that I’m associated with, received a tip that the paintings were hanging in a private home near San Francisco.”