Chapter Twenty-two

I WOULD NEVER have found it if it hadn’t been for a set of traffic lights.

I had driven down from the southern headland and hit the outskirts of the town at that time when restaurants transform into bars, women start thinking of ditching their stilettos and normally sober couples begin ordering just one more glass of raki.

The traffic lights – at a busy intersection with a club on one corner and a construction site on the other – changed from green to amber. I was close enough to have been able to run the light but, as there were so many mopeds working to their own rules and crowds of pedestrians with a buzz on, I decided not to risk it.

Waiting for the green, I glanced across at the construction site and among the graffiti supporting various political parties was a tattered poster advertising an all-night rave that had been held on the night of Zafer Bayrami. It showed a stylized graphic of the harbour, the French House on top of the headland and the huge ‘bomb of the phosphorus’ exploding above it. Shredded magnesium was what it was, I thought idly, remembering my chemistry classes at Caulfield Academy. It was the same material old-time photographers used in their exploding flashguns, I rambled on mentally.

Then an idea struck me that was so far out I had to repeat it to myself. After I had, it seemed even more outrageous.

I knew Dodge had been in the library when the starburst exploded – Cumali had said so, and there was no evidence to disprove it. It meant he would have been sitting in the leather armchair with a pair of large mirrors behind him when the magnesium burst outside the tall glass doors. There was a chance, I figured, that those seemingly unconnected elements – the magnesium and the mirrors – would provide the proof I desperately needed.

I was so engrossed by the idea that it took me a moment to register that the drivers behind were laying on their horns and I had a green. I hit the gas, rummaged one-handed through the files Cumali had given me, found a note to the medical examiner with her mobile number attached to it and pulled out my cellphone. I was halfway through dialling when I realized that a woman with a six-year-old child might not appreciate being woken and, anyway, what was she going to do that late at night?

Instead, I decided to drive to the hotel, get on the Internet, find the home page of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and hit every one of their email addresses with my phone number and an urgent request for help.

The Uffizi, a former home of the Medicis, was one of Europe’s greatest art museums, home to the finest collection of Renaissance paintings in the world. When I was young, Bill and Grace had taken me down its corridors half a dozen times and, on one occasion – the visit I had enjoyed most – Bill had arranged for us to tour what the museum director modestly called their ‘workshop’: an art-restoration facility unequalled on either side of the Atlantic. It was the workshop’s facilities I needed now, and I hoped that, when the museum staff arrived early in the morning, somebody would get my message into the right hands and they would contact me.

I pulled up at the hotel, parked the car and headed to the front desk to get my room key. The manager handed me another envelope.

‘I hope this is not news of the type which might cause Mr Brodie David Wilson the great sorrow, ’ he said. The envelope was unsealed and I figured he had already read the message and it was almost certainly going to cause me the great sorrow.

I was right. It was from Leyla Cumali, telling me she had discussed with her superiors my ‘request’ for a delay in finalizing the investigation into Dodge’s death.

‘After examining the file and all supporting documents, my superiors have decided that no delay can be justified on investigative grounds. ’

She said the chief of police and his senior officers had concluded it was a clear case of ‘death by misadventure’ and, as a result, the file would be forwarded to Ankara in the morning, Dodge’s body would be released to his wife for burial and the passports of their friends and acquaintances would be returned, allowing them to leave town immediately.

‘The Bodrum Police Department thanks you for your interest and have been proud to offer the FBI every possible assistance, ’ she wrote. ‘Please feel free to keep the copy of the material we provided to you for your files. ’

No wonder Cumali had seemed to surrender a little too easily. I was sunk if the cops implemented what they had decided – there would be no need for the FBI in Bodrum, and reopening the investigation would be impossible. The body would be gone and any potential witnesses scattered around the world. My inclination was to call Cumali immediately, but my calmer instincts prevailed. I could phone her in the morning; the priority was the Uffizi.

The manager was watching me closely, and I told him that life was full of the sorrow but to this type of problem Brodie David Wilson was no stranger. Hell, I was so tired I was starting to talk like him. I went to my room and, after bombing the Uffizi with emails, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed.

But there was one more call I had to make. I put the battery into my phone and called Ben Bradley. I told him the local cops were convinced Dodge’s death was accidental and were closing down the investigation.

‘Christ, ’ Bradley replied.

‘Yeah. They’re wrong, too. I’m working on something to keep it open, but you’d better let the other interested parties know. ’

‘Anything I can do? ’ Bradley asked.

‘Appreciate it, ’ I replied, ‘but my mess, my clean-up. ’

I hung up but left the battery in the phone just in case there was an urgent response. As tired as I was, I hadn’t even got to sleep when it started ringing. ‘I forgot to ask, ’ Bradley said. ‘When do you think you’ll know if your idea has worked? ’

I knew it was from Whisperer, and I could almost hear the panic in his voice.

‘This time tomorrow, ’ I said. ‘I may have to go to Italy in the morning. ’