Professor K- The Final Quest, page 12
part #4 of Jack Rogan Mystery Series
Cesaria heard the kitchen door open and turned around. Conti stood in the doorway with a tray in his hands. ‘The baker just dropped these off,’ he said, ‘still warm.’ Conti walked over to Cesaria and put the tray down on the table in front of her. ‘The best crostini for miles,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the reasons I live here,’ he added, smiling. ‘Have one.’
What a transformation, thought Cesaria, watching Conti with interest. The grumpy, dishevelled drunk from the night before had turned into a clean-shaven man wearing a freshly ironed shirt and a tie.
‘Ah, here comes the coffee,’ said Conti, pointing to the kitchen door. ‘I think we can both do with some.’
‘You are right about that,’ said Cesaria, and thanked the old barman. For a while Conti and Cesaria sat in silence, sipping the hot coffee and enjoying the delicious crostini. Give him time, thought Cesaria, and decided against asking the obvious question. But she reasoned that the shirt and tie were encouraging signs.
This girl is good, thought Conti, appreciating Cesaria’s tact and self-control. She probably thinks she already knows the answer. Conti took another sip of coffee and watched Cesaria. I wonder how she’ll react when I tell her? ‘I promised to give you my answer in the morning,’ began Conti. Cesaria looked at him, alarmed by the sad tone of his voice. ‘I’m afraid the answer is no,’ he added.
‘I see,’ said Cesaria, unable to hide her disappointment. ‘And you dressed up just to tell me this?’ she said, the sarcasm in her voice obvious.
‘No. I dressed up, as you put it, because I respect you and would like to take you to the airport.’
Cesaria pushed her plate aside. She had lost her appetite. ‘I think you are making a big mistake.’
‘That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘You’re right; I’m sorry,’ said Cesaria, realising she had gone too far. ‘It’s just ...’
‘I know.’
‘Do you?’
‘You care,’ said Conti.
Cesaria looked at Conti, surprised. ‘Yes, I do. And yet—’
‘It’s complicated,’ interrupted Conti.
‘Simple things often are.’
‘This isn’t simple. After my wife died, I promised myself never ...’
‘Perhaps it was the wrong promise,’ ventured Cesaria.
Conti shook his head and looked melancholy.
‘You would rather wallow in self-pity in this godforsaken place than do what you do best?’
‘That’s a little harsh.’
‘Is it?’ Cesaria pressed on. ‘You are wasting your life here; a man like you ... just like my father,’ she added quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
Cesaria waved her hand, the gesture dismissive. ‘It’s nothing ...’ she said.
‘I told you a lot about myself last night. More than I have told people in years. Now it’s your turn. Fair?’
‘My father was a judge in Rome,’ began Cesaria.
‘Oh?’
‘He was abducted by the Mafia during a high-profile trial. They kept him in a cellar for six months and demanded certain undertakings from the government.’
‘What kind of undertakings?’
‘The release of two prisoners, with pardons.’
‘What happened?’
‘The government refused.’
‘And?’
‘My father was found in the boot of an abandoned car in front of Castel Sant’Angelo. Surprisingly, he was still alive, if only just. They had cut off his ears and broken his fingers,’ whispered Cesaria.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘But that wasn’t the worst of it. He survived, but gave up and resigned. They had broken him.’
‘And you are blaming him for that?’
‘No, not anymore. I used to at the time; I was very angry.’ Cesaria paused and turned to face Conti. ‘But I’m blaming you.’
Conti looked at Cesaria, surprised. ‘I don’t follow,’ he said.
‘You are not a broken man like my father; far from it. Yet, you choose to do nothing. My father had no choice; I can see that now. And not a day goes by when I don’t regret having blamed him ...’
‘It’s not as simple as you think,’ snapped Conti.
‘It is to me,’ whispered Cesaria, tears in her eyes.
Conti realised it was time to change the subject. He glanced at his watch. ‘If you want to catch the morning flight, we better get going.’
Palermo airport was already full of tourists and the security queues were long. Progress was slow and several planes were delayed. ‘What made you decide to join the police?’ asked Conti.
‘Something that happened at my father’s funeral.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was just finishing law at the time,’ said Cesaria, ‘following in my father’s footsteps, you see. A long family tradition.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘As my mother walked past the open coffin in church, she slipped something inside.’
‘What?’
‘A small plaque my father used to keep on his desk. It had an inscription.’
‘What did it say?’
‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. It’s what my father believed. Before they broke him,’ she added sadly.
Conti stopped, his face ashen. ‘Good God!’ he whispered.
‘You know what it is?’ asked Cesaria.
‘A quote from Edmund Burke, the eighteenth-century Irish statesman. When things got really tough, my wife used to remind me by using the same ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Never mind. Do you still have that ticket?’
‘The one I rather naively brought with me, for you?’ asked Cesaria, perplexed. ‘I have it right here.’
Conti nodded. ‘Good. Give it to me.’
‘I don’t understand; why?’ stammered Cesaria.
‘Because I’m coming with you.’
13
Florence: 21 May
Lorenza’s grandparents, Carlo and Amadea, lived in a fifteenth-century villa overlooking the Boboli Gardens and the river below. The villa had been in the Medici family for generations and still retained many of its original features and furnishings.
Countess Kuragin, an early riser, listened to the pealing of the church bells drifting across the river, the familiar sounds bringing a smile to her face as she remembered the endless summer holidays in Florence with her parents a long time ago. Gelato after church on Sundays followed by a pizza treat for lunch, elaborate picnics in the country and countless visits to art galleries and museums with her father were the stuff of happy memories to be treasured. Most of her friends flocked to the Riviera for their holidays, but not her father. He referred to the Riviera as a sunny place for shady people and preferred cultured Florence and its way of life.
The countess stepped out onto the terrace and took a deep breath. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the morning sun, she gazed down upon Florence, which looked like a painting.
‘You’re up early,’ said Leonardo da Baggio, joining the countess on the terrace.
‘So are you,’ replied the countess, enjoying the first private moment with her friend since her arrival the day before. Part one of the grand finale had been exciting and tumultuous. Watching the long contest and the nail-biting culinary battle had taken its toll on everyone. The grandparents were exhausted by the end of the long evening and everyone had retired to their rooms as soon as they got home just after midnight.
The countess put her hand on da Baggio’s arm. ‘You must be very proud of her,’ she said. ‘That was an amazing performance last night, especially by someone so young. I wonder what they have in store for them this evening for the finale.’
‘Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll do well. She is very determined and resourceful; well ahead of her age. She wants to win.’
Da Baggio paused and looked dreamily down into the city. ‘She’s doing it for her mother, you know,’ he said quietly.
‘I understand … What did you mean when you said yesterday it wasn’t an accident?’
Da Baggio took his time before replying. ‘Look at this city,’ he began. ‘Spectacular, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is.’
‘Underneath all this beauty, culture and history is a dark side, brutal and very violent. This is a dangerous, corrupt place ruled by an untouchable elite. A criminal elite.’
The countess looked at da Baggio, surprised.
‘Come on Leo …’
‘I’m serious; the crash that killed Lucrecia and Antonio was no accident. The car was run off the road by a truck – deliberately.’
‘How can you say this? There was an investigation …’
‘It was a cover-up.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded the countess.
‘It was supposed to be a warning, not a fatality.’
‘A warning? Why?’
‘Carlo and Amadea own a lot of property in Florence, as many of the old families do. There was this development proposal for a new hotel by the river. Spectacular views, right in the heart of the city, great location. Only one thing stood in its way …’
‘What?’
‘An old historic building owned by the grandparents, and they refused to sell. That’s when it all started.’
‘Started what?’
‘The threats, the intimidation.’
‘Come on …’
‘I’m serious. You know Carlo, he isn’t one to be pushed around. He refused. That’s when they ramped up the pressure.’
‘Who?’
‘The Mafia. The Mafia rules this city with an iron fist. Three families. All the locals here know this. The authorities are corrupt and in Cosa Nostra pockets. The rule of law is compromised here right up to the highest level.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. After the accident, they approached Carlo again. They tried to make him sell and referred to the “accident” … That’s when everything became clear and fell into place.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He told them to go to hell! Ironically, by killing his daughter and his grandson they had gone too far; a warning gone wrong. There was no more pressure. In the end they realised this and gave up. The development didn’t go ahead.’
‘And no-one did anything about this?’
‘No. There was no way to prove it, and the inquest finding was as clear as it was final; it was an accident. Guess who owned the truck that ran them off the road?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Mafia family behind the development. Things are that brazen around here.’
‘My God, Leo; how dreadful!’ said the countess and threw her arms around her friend. Now, everything began to make sense: Leonardo’s appearance, his dejection; everything. ‘What about Carlo and Amadea?’
‘What do you think? They are devastated, they blame themselves …’
‘How awful. But it’s not their fault!’
‘Try to tell them that.’
‘Does Lorenza know?’
‘No. And I hope she never finds out. It would destroy her. You can see why the possibility of winning Top Chef means so much. To us all …’
‘We’ll know tonight. Are Carlo and Amadea coming along again to watch?’
‘They wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Preparations for the grand finale had reached fever pitch at the Villa Laurentius. Neither Monti the compere nor artistic director Louis had slept a wink since the nail-biting contest the night before. The show that would be watched by millions was about to get underway. One point the difference, thought Louis. This is anyone’s race; how perfect! The two finalists, Lorenza and Carlos, were a producer’s dream. The whole of Europe loved them.
Louis knocked on Lorenza’s door and entered. ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘We are on in ten minutes.’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘You look absolutely gorgeous, darling,’ said Louis, and adjusted Lorenza’s hair.
‘Has my family arrived?’
‘Yes. Wonderful people. And your nonna; what a star! The audience loved her, especially her stories about your adventures in her kitchen as a toddler … You are very lucky!’
‘I am.’
Apart from a fleeting embrace at the beginning of last night’s show, Lorenza had had no other contact with her family. Phones were strictly forbidden. But she did manage to catch glimpses of them in the audience as they watched the contest from the gallery above the kitchen arena.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Elated, but a little scared.’
‘Good. Scared is good. It brings out the best in people in situations like this. I’ve seen it many times. Just take a deep breath and stay calm. You can do it!’ Louis prattled on. He gave Lorenza a hug and kissed her on the cheek. She was his favourite and he hoped she would win. ‘Get ready. I’ll be back in five minutes to get you.’
Lorenza walked out onto the balcony, took a deep breath, and listened to the church bells. Then she pulled a small photograph out of her apron pocket and looked at it intently. It had been taken in her mother’s kitchen in Venice on her tenth birthday. It was a snapshot of her mother handing her a cookbook, her first. Lorenza lifted the photograph to her lips and kissed it. ‘This is for you, Mum,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes.
Moments later, Louis burst into the room, excited. ‘Are you ready?’ he shouted.
‘I am,’ replied Lorenza. She slipped the photograph back into her pocket, adjusted her apron and followed Louis out of the room.
14
Villa Laurentius, Top Chef Europe Grand Finale,
day two: 21 May, 7:00 pm
‘Good evening, Europe,’ said Monti, grinning into the camera. ‘This is it! By the end of the evening, Europe will have a new Top Chef. Who will it be? Will it be Carlos’ – the camera zoomed in on Carlos standing in front of the judges, waving – ‘or will it be the lovely Lorenza? During the past few weeks,’ continued Monti, ‘both contestants have dazzled us with their extraordinary talents and have impressed and surprised the judges with their creativity and skills. But there can only be one winner!’
Sitting alone in his study, Gambio turned up the volume on the TV, poured himself a glass of wine and sat back. He was only interested in the outcome of the contest for one reason: should Lorenza win, he would implement his plan as promised, and bring Bahadir into the business. For Gambio, that would be the best outcome. And then there was an added, unexpected bonus … Gambio smiled as he remembered seeing the old couple – Lorenza’s grandparents – in the television audience the night before.
At first he had refused to believe what he saw. But then, as the old man was introduced and began to speak, Gambio knew there was no mistake. This was the same man who had so stubbornly refused to sell and had caused him so much trouble with the hotel. To some extent, Gambio blamed himself. The botched accident had effectively killed the deal. However, fate had somehow dealt him another hand, and he intended to use it to win this time. And Gambio knew exactly how he would do that. All he needed was for Lorenza to be crowned Top Chef Europe.
Superstitious and a passionate gambler, Gambio enjoyed the excitement caused by uncertainty and firmly believed that fate would once again point him in the right direction; go ahead, or walk away? He was ready to do either.
Back in his hotel room, Bahadir was hanging on Monti’s every word. Part of him was hoping Lorenza would lose, which would to some extent at least repair the damage inflicted by his earlier, crushing defeat. But to his surprise, part of him was hoping she would win, which would allow him to embark on the daring plan Gambio had proposed. This would open up totally unexpected possibilities and allow him to vindicate himself and heal his wounded pride in a most dramatic way.
After introducing the judges, Monti turned to the contestants and began to explain the rules. ‘Tonight, the judges have decided to depart from tradition and do something quite different,’ he announced with a flourish. ‘You have already demonstrated your technical skills, your vast knowledge and insights into cooking and your ability to work under pressure. You have shown us that you are not afraid to explore something new, and know how to improvise and create. So, what’s left? What is left here to explore?’ Monti paused to build suspense. ‘What is left, is you. You will have to show the judges who you are, what cooking means to you, and why. So, how will that be done?’ The camera zoomed in on the faces of the two contestants standing side by side – looking serious and tense – and stayed there.
‘You will be asked to create a dish of your choice that best represents your cooking style and personality,’ continued Monti. ‘As part of your presentation you will have to explain to the judges why you have chosen the dish, and what it means to you. This will form part of the score, as the dish will have to reflect that. The final element is time. Among other things, this is a pressure test. You will have unlimited access to the pantry, but only an hour and a half to prepare the dish. Each of the judges will score your dish out of ten, which will be added to yesterday’s results. The contestant with the highest score out of a total of sixty, will be declared the winner.’
Lorenza’s heart missed a beat when she heard Monti explain the rules. With the tips of her fingers resting on her mother’s photograph inside her apron pocket as a painful, yet precious link to the past, she closed her eyes and smiled. ‘Hunkar Begendi,’ she heard her mother whisper in her ear. Yes, Mum, I’ll cook the Sultan’s Delight! she thought and opened her eyes, her face exuberant. She had created the spectacular dish many times before, and knew every intricate detail of the complex recipe by heart. The dish had already impressed one of the legendary rulers of the mighty Ottoman Empire, perhaps it would impress the judges as well. And then of course there was the story …
