Read Murder at the National Gallery for Free Online Page B

walked away burdened with their bags,Mason lingered behind with Giliberti. “Be direct with me, Carlo. What are you saying?”
    “I am saying, my friend, do not enter into this meeting unless you intend to go through with your plan.”
    “I made it clear from the beginning,” said Mason, “that it would depend upon my evaluation of what he has to offer.”
    “Of course, of course, and that is still the understanding. Tonight, you and he will break bread and get to know each other. Establish trust. That is very important to the
Camorra
,” he said, referring to the Naples Mafia. “Signor Sensi rules with—what do you say?—with the iron fist. He must trust those with whom he does business.”
    “And so must I, Carlo.”
    “Go. Swim. Take your nap. I am confident everything will turn out exactly as you wish.”
    Mason was alone in the pool. He swam laps until a shoulder cramp sent him to a chaise for a half hour of sun. He returned to his room, sprawled on the bed, and fell asleep. Soft, fragrant breezes drifted in from the terrace through the open French doors.
    That evening, Luther and Carlo walked to a restaurant called Covo dei Saraceni, where they were ushered to a table already occupied. He was, as Giliberti had said, an old man. He had the face and hands of someone who’d spent his life doing hard manual labor in the sun; his brown skin had the quality of elephant hide, his face was molded into dozens of lumpy planes. The fingers were gnarled, his gray hair unruly. He wore a suit that had been bought many harvests ago; the points of the collar on the once-white shirt were curled. His tie was a mustard yellow and carelessly knotted.
    He reminded Mason of a groundhog.
    Aside from a cursory interest in those physical details, Mason was more aware of two young men seated behind the old man at their own small table. He didn’t know, of course, that one of them had recently gunned down a former schoolmate, Giovanni Saltore, in an alley in Cosenza, an act for which he’d been rewarded by a promotion to Signor Luigi Sensi’s cadre of personal bodyguards.
    Giliberti introduced Mason to Sensi, but Sensi waved away Mason’s outstretched hand and mumbled something in Italian, gesturing for Mason to sit to his left. Giliberti took the chair opposite.
    Sensi virtually ignored Mason throughout dinner, speaking to Giliberti in a tired, low, raspy voice. There was no menu. Regional dishes—pasta
all’amatriciana
, made with pancetta and local pecorino cheese; pasta
all’arrabbiata
, which Giliberti explained had been made “angry” with hot peppers; roasted artichokes, tripe; and saltimbocca, slices of veal, cured ham, and sage leaves in a hot sauce—were brought to the table one after the other. The two young men ate what looked to Mason to be spaghetti.
    Once dessert had been cleared, the old man leaned in Mason’s direction. “So you want to do business with me,” he said in hesitant English.
    Mason nervously glanced left and right. For the first time he realized that adjacent tables had deliberately been left unoccupied, even though a knot of people waited at the front door for vacancies.
“Si,”
he said in a barely audible voice. The old man fixed him in a cold stare. Mason cleared his throat and repeated, “
Si
. Yes. I would like to do business with you, Signor Sensi, provided, of course, that what you have for sale is—well, is what I want.”
    Sensi’s hand gesture to Giliberti said that he was about to enter into a difficult discussion. He looked at Mason again: “But I do not understand the terms you offer, Signor Mason. No.
Non capisco
. I do not understand. You will forgive me, but I am an old man.”
    Mason looked to Giliberti, whose face was serious. “Didn’t you explain to Signor Sensi about how we would proceed?” he asked.
    “Of course. But what you suggest is unusual. Not the normal way Signor Sensi does business.”
    Mason’s stomach had knotted, and he felt woozy. He’d sipped