The Fallen by Stephen Finucan Page B

for Cioffi, who on his own would explore the back corridors and the underground vaults and the other dark places where he was not meant to go, it gave him a taste for theft. The first, he recalled fondly, was a small hair clip made of polished bone that he traded to a boy at school for the chance to watch his sister take a bath.
    “And did he tell you?” Abruzzi asked. “Your uncle—did he tell you why it is that we repeat the mistakes of our past?”
    Cioffi smiled. “He says that it is in our nature. That we cannot deny our appetites any more than a dog can deny his.”
    Now Abruzzi smiled too. “He has a point,” he said, and slipped the coin into his breast pocket. “Did you have any trouble with the Carabinieri?”
    Cioffi had waited until the policeman guarding the front entrance went to the taverna around the corner on Piazza Gagliardi for his morning drink and then slipped into the museum. He made his way quickly through the darkened corridors to the storeroom on the ground floor where the surplus coinage was kept; the museum had far more pieces than could ever be displayed. He went quickly through the shallow-drawered cabinet, selecting a shiny piece that he was sure would impress Abruzzi. When he came out of the front doors again,however, he found that the guard had already returned to his post. “What are you doing?” the policeman demanded of him. A paralysis of fear had gripped Cioffi. He tried to speak, but could only manage an indecipherable stutter. “Who told you to come today?” said the policeman. For a moment Cioffi was convinced that Abruzzi had the man watching him. “Nobody,” he said. “Nobody, nobody,” parroted the guard. “Nobody tells anybody anything in this city. Well, you can go back to your nobody and tell him that the professore is not interviewing for the positions until tomorrow.” “The positions?” Cioffi said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To hire on for the inventory?” Cioffi nodded. “Yes, of course. The inventory.” The policeman studied him a moment, then said, “You don’t look the sort the professore would take on, but then, who knows with that crazy old fool.”
    “So, he’s taking on workers, then,” said Abruzzi.
    “Yes. The Americans want a complete inventory of the museum’s collection.”
    “That’s good. That’s very good. You will go and work for him.”
    Cioffi shook his head. “I don’t think he will have me. He doesn’t trust me anymore.”
    Abruzzi picked up the bottle and filled Cioffi’s glass again and handed it to him. “You should find a way, dottore ,” he said, “to earn his trust again.”
    Greaves was tired. He had been on the road since seven that morning and his kidneys ached—a consequence of the long ride on a nearsuspensionless Norton motorbike. He had come from the mountain village of Tenerello, where he’d spent the last two days of his week-long security liaison circuit of outlying police garrisons. At Tenerello he stayed with brigadiere Francesco Maglietta and his family in theirfarmhouse on the outskirts of the town. Greaves always made sure to manage his time in Casoria and Aversa and Afragola so that he had a little extra in Tenerello with the Magliettas. The brigadiere’s wife made lovely meals and his daughters were energetic and curious and would take Greaves for hikes in the mountains, and Francesco himself was always ready to open a bottle of brandy and stay up late into the night talking books and playing endless hands of tresette . Being with them was like being in a place outside of time: it was easy for Greaves to forget everything else—even easy for him to forget why he had gone there in the first place.
    Now, back in Naples, he waited for Major Woodard, who had left the office some time earlier in search of a tape measure. They had been in the middle of the briefing when the major excused himself. He’d been continually distracted by the conundrum of an empty shipping crate and a