Strokes of Deception
Episode I: In Which Inspector Thomas "Tommy" Harding is Tasked With Retrieving Stolen Art; Hangs with Italian Prog-Rockers; Is Deceived By his Old Enemy, Henri Hennequin
Inspector Tommy Harding of Interpol was attached to the British Embassy in Rome for a special assignment he knew nothing about. A wire had come through in Cairo, relieving him of his previous post: monitoring the activities of the Muslim Brotherhood.
“It was a thankless task,” Harding coldly admitted. “British, American, French and Soviet intelligence have thoroughly penetrated the hierarchy within the organization. They can shape the organization to suit their interests, as they like, or blow the whole thing up.” His voice falling an octave lower. He struck a match, the phosphorus igniting in a bright red and orange hue, and lit his tobacco pipe, “Just like that.”
The legal attaché nodded contemplatively. “That makes the whole assignment all the more amusing,” he said.
Harding drew strongly from his pipe; a purse smile formed at the edge of his lips.
“The international criminal Henri Hennequin—”
It was with the announcement of this name alone that sparked a flare in the eyes of Harding. Hennequin was his cat-and-mouse chase for well over a decade.
“You are aware of this man?” The legal attaché inquired.
“Quite aware,” Harding said. “Hennequin is a gangster and mercenary with ties to the Secret Army Organization. I had hunted him across France, Algeria; as far as Quebec, and French Indochina.”
“Precisely,” the legal attaché said, leaning across his desk. “His criminal activities now extend to art thievery—indeed, a departure from his more capable acts of violence, no doubt. The question remains: who is withholding him from his capabilities and why?”
Harding exhaled a tendril of smoke and observed it with concentration. A good criminal always appreciates the intricacies of detail, he thought to himself.
“It is the artist’s trade to hide and obscure their message, after all. We suspect the same ends driving his art theft activities. All across Italy, precious works of art have disappeared since the Years of Lead, and we are confident that Hennequin is responsible. We know not who he is working with, but we can rest assured that the stolen works are exchanged in return for weapons. Only recently has our MI5 agent uncovered an underground network operating through an obscure Italian record label—that is your lead.”
Harding laughed and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk. “I’d much rather explore the world of art than toil on the banks of the Suez, anyway.”
“Don’t lose sight of the task, Harding,” the legal attaché said firmly, pushing back his chair and rising from his desk. Crossing his arms, he began to pace the room. “He’s using these androgynous, maladroit musicians as his cover. He can easily blend into a disguise. Don’t let your guard up!”
“But why me? There must be a catch, no?” Harding asked, his curiosity piqued.
The legal attaché smirked. “You know why, Inspector Harding. More importantly,” his voice sharpened as he leaned in, “your organization’s mandate under Article 3 of the ICPO-INTERPOL Constitution demands strict political neutrality.”
“Political neutrality?” Harding scoffed. “Man is, by his nature, inherently political.”
“We can debate philosophy once Hennequin is in custody,” the attaché replied coolly, slipping a business card into Harding’s hand. “Your lead is here: Echoesophy Records.”
Interpol and the British Embassy had seen fit to supply Harding with a Fiat 500 F “Berlina” for navigating Rome’s bustling streets; the vehicle being small and compact enough to accomplish the task. The city was bustling with life in the summer, teeming with tourists and locals basking in the sultry Mediterranean sun. Harding parked the car into a spot along the curb of a side street and studied the logo on the business card, comparing it to the sign on the picture window of the office of Ecosophy Records: a perfect match. Slipping the card into his breast pocket, he stepped out of the Fiat.
Lighting a cigarette, he crossed with relative ease through the street, exhaling thin streams of smoke. His eyes lingered on the building’s facade, scrutinizing it with the same familiarity one might give their reflection in a mirror. He stood by the window, cigarette in hand, smoke curling lazily around him as he studied a poster: “VELLO D’ORO - VIVERE NELL’AUSTRIA.” The advertisement was exactly what he’d expect from a band of young, thick-witted potheads. The five band members, all gaunt and long-haired, flashed exaggerated, toothy grins. Beyond the garish poster, Harding peered into the office. A young woman, no older than thirty, sat behind a desk. Her hair was long and straight, enough to bring out an almost polished, natural luster. She worked meticulously filing down her nails, carefully shaping them as if it were the most pressing task in the world.
Harding took one last drag of his cigarette before flattening it under the sole of his shoe. He entered the office and approached the desk. The woman kept at her filing.
“Ciao bella.” Harding greeted with a faint smirk.
The woman lifted her gaze lazily, giving him a brief, unimpressed once-over before returning her attention to her nails without a word.
Harding rocked on his heels before clearing his throat and speaking in a grating Italian. “Mi scusi, il mio italiano non è perfetto—may I ask what bands are signed to your label?”
She sighed, rolling her eyes as she stood. She pulled a small booklet from a nearby shelf and handed it to him. “This is a catalog of all the bands Ecosophy has signed. But you’d get a better feel for their music by tuning into our radio station, Radio Ecosophy.”
“A radio station? Fascinating.” Harding took the catalog and flipped through it. The pages were filled with the names of bands he didn’t recognize; faces akin to those plastered on the window outside the office. His attention settled on a familiar entry: Vello D’Oro. A different photo of the band accompanied a list of their members:
Matteo RICCIARDI – vocals
Luca MORETTI – guitar
Italo VITALE – bass
Enzo CARUSO – drums
Vincenzo BIANCHI – keyboards
Harding lingered on the photo, scrutinizing the face of Italo Vitale. Folding the catalog over, he stepped outside to compare the band’s photo with the poster. The woman looked up with curiosity as he exited and observed the photos.
Satisfied, he returned to the receptionist.
“Scusi, bella, my apologies. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find the gentlemen of Vello D’Oro, would you?”
She glanced up with a disinterested expression. “Do I look like their personal manager?”
“Do they come by often?” Harding pressed. “Or is there a recording studio—or anywhere they might be hanging around?”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully, twirling a pen between her fingers. “I’ve heard whispers about a flat they stay at across the Tiber, in the rione of Campo Marzio. It’s not far from the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia.” She obtained a scrap of paper from her desk, and jotted down the address, handing it to Harding. He glanced over it, gave a terse nod, and absconded outside.
Inside his Fiat, Harding took a moment to appreciate its compact frame for expeditious travel in the tight streets of Rome. Turning the key in the ignition, the small engine sputtered to life. Gripping the slim steering wheel, he maneuvered the tiny car through the congested streets of the Prati rione, weaving past larger sedans and the lumbering buses along the Piazza Adrianna, on the grounds of the Parco Adriano where the Castel Sant’Angelo stood in all its magnificence. Crossing the Tiber, the Fiat’s suspension bounced slightly on the cobblestone roads as he approached his destination.
Harding parked his Fiat again and approached the flat. It was a medium sized building set along a narrow street. Opposing structures loomed close, their height casting deep shadows over its unassuming facade. As he climbed the creaking stairs, the distant twang of an electric guitar echoed through the stairwell, each note reverberating sharply.
The second-floor hallway was dim and musty. Two doors shy of his destination, a pungent cloud of marijuana hung in the air—an invisible mark of their presence. At the far end of the hall, he came to the address and rapped firmly on the door. The guitar strumming and incessant prattle inside abruptly ceased. After a pause, Harding could hear a series of shuffling footsteps approach from the other side.
“Chi è?” a voice called out, sounding casual but guarded.
“Eh… Edward Waldheim,” Harding replied, nervously scratching the back of his neck.
A rapid array of locks and tumblers clicked and unlocked, the speed of the sound startling in the relative quiet. The door swung open to reveal a scruffy man, his hair a maddening tangle and his clothes slightly disheveled.
“Waldheim!” the man exclaimed with a grin and a squint of the eye. “You must be our agent from Vienna. Please, come in!”
“Ah, yes. Thank you,” Harding said, stepping inside.
Upon stepping into the flat, Harding was immediately met with the stench of marijuana. The interior was just as he had imagined: sparsely furnished with two battered sofas, grimy curtains barely hanging on their rods, and a kitchen that looked more decrepit than practical. Harding eased himself onto one of the low sofas, which felt about as comfortable as a wooden plank. He couldn’t help but think that, at one time, the sofa might have been invitingly plush, but years of misuse had reduced it to its current state—a cause of activities he preferred not to imagine.
Seated beside him was the guitarist, Luca Moretti, his shaggy mop of hair nearly obscuring his eyes. Without a word, Luca extended an arm, offering a cigarette. Harding accepted, lighting up and taking a slow drag. Each puff helped settle his nerves.
“I’m sorry,” Harding said, breaking the brief silence, “but I didn’t catch your name, young man.”
“Enzo Caruso. I play drums,” came the reply from the kitchen, where Enzo was preparing a cup of espresso. “Vincenzo, Italo, and Matteo are out, but they should be back soon. So, about our gig in Vienna—what have you heard?”
“Well, those details…” Harding hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They’ve yet to be confirmed. I’ve been coordinating with various booking agents at a number of venues to secure a prime spot for you—the Raimund Theater, among them, including the the Burgtheater… but I’ll admit, progress has been slower than anticipated.”
Enzo shook his head in disbelief, pouring the espresso into a small ceramic cup. “I can’t imagine why. We’re topping the charts across Europe! We’re one of the greatest Italian progressive rock bands out there,” he said, crossing to the balcony and staring out into the bustling street below.
“Believe me, I understand your frustration,” Harding said, leaning forward. “But these things take time, unfortunately.”
Enzo waved dismissively. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s the same nonsense here in Italy.” He took a sip of his espresso, pausing as he glanced out the window. “Ah, here they are now, and it looks like they’ve brought company.”
“Company?” Harding rose from the sofa and joined Enzo at the window. Outside, five men were approaching the flat, the three band members, and two smartly dressed in colorful suits.
“And who might those two in suits be?” Harding asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The one on the right is our manager, Niccolò Cattaneo,” Enzo replied.
“And the other?”
“Dunno. Maybe his valet,” Enzo said with a chuckle. “Cattaneo’s a wealthy man. He can afford help like that.”
The door swung open, and voices filled the flat. “Ciao, Luca! Enzo!” called one of the newcomers.
“Ciao, Matteo,” Enzo replied. He gestured toward the bathroom. “Mr. Edward Waldheim, our booking agent from Vienna, is here. Cattaneo! Who’s your guest? Can I offer you both an espresso?”
Vincenzo chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s a good one. We must be really famous in Vienna, huh, Cattaneo? This here is Mr. Klammer, our booking agent—also just come in from Vienna. We picked him up.”
Harding, standing in the cramped bathroom, splashed water on his face as the voices carried through the flat. His thoughts raced. He cringed at the name “Edward Waldheim”. How was he going to wrangle himself from this mess?
“I’d like to meet this Mr. Waldheim, if you don’t mind,” Cattaneo’s voice grating, tinged with impatience.
Harding exhaled slowly, squared his shoulders, and exited the bathroom, stepping into the living room. “Mr. Niccolò Cattaneo. Vincenzo, Matteo, Italo,” he said, pausing as his sharp gaze settled on Italo. “I am Edward Waldheim. Pleased to meet you all.”
Cattaneo’s face darkened, his patience clearly fraying. “This is why we’ve been at a damn standstill getting booked in Vienna!” he exploded. “Two fucking booking agents—two! And neither one seems to know the other exists. You’re stepping all over each other, wasting my time, and getting fuck all done! Look, Mr. Klammer, Mr. Waldheim, nice to meet you both, but let me make one thing perfectly clear—I’m the poor bastard who has to manage this fucking band! They’re like kids, and I’ve got enough headaches without adding two more fools into the mix. Figure this shit out. Now, damn it!”
With that, he stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.
A heavy silence hung in the room until Enzo broke it with a grin. “Ha, ha! Good ol’ Cattaneo!” he said, leaning against the counter. “That’s just his colorful way of welcoming you. Sorry if it’s not what you’re used to—the Italian music business is like any other: it isn’t exactly polite and is as ruthless as Florentine politics. Come, let’s sort this out over some espresso.”
“Mr. Waldheim, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Klammer began, his tone polite but probing. “May I ask—who exactly is your employer?”
Harding shifted uncomfortably on the low sofa, crossing his legs and adjusting his posture. He threw back the espresso in a single swig, the scalding liquid careening down his throat with ease.
Klammer’s brows rose in surprise. “Sir?” he pressed, clearly mystified by Harding’s apparent indifference to the temperature of the espresso.
Harding exhaled audibly; a moment to collect himself. “I am employed... directly,” he said carefully. “I work in the public sector, supporting theaters and cultural venues.”
Klammer’s face lit up in realization. “Then you must work for the Austrian Ministry for Culture and Sport.”
The assumption startled Harding, but he masked his surprise. “Yes,” he replied smoothly, recovering his composure. “My work is part of a government initiative to promote cultural exchange in Austria.”
Klammer clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. “Fantastic! I knew the band had a following in Austria and across Europe, but this? This is beyond anything I expected. Incredible news!” He stood and gazed out the window, almost giddy with excitement. Meanwhile, Italo Vitale, seated across the room, was fixed on Harding with an intense, knowing stare.
“Mr. Waldheim, might I propose a partnership?” Klammer turned back. “With my private-sector resources and your public-sector support, we could propel Vello D’Oro to unprecedented heights—not just in Europe, but across the Atlantic to North America, even Japan! The possibilities are endless!”
Before Harding could respond, the door burst open, and Matteo Ricciardi stumbled in, breathless and panicked. “Cattaneo’s been kidnapped!”
“What?” Klammer stammered, visibly shaken.
“Kidnapped!” Matteo repeated, his voice trembling. “We were smoking outside—right there! A group of armed men pulled up; threw him into a truck. They pointed a gun at us!”
“Shit!” Enzo shouted, springing to his feet, “let’s go!” The band members scrambled out of the flat, yelling curses in Italian, with Klammer following rather sheepishly behind.
Harding rose to follow, but as he approached the door, Italo stepped into his path, blocking the way. They stood face-to-face for a tense moment before Italo leaned in, his voice low and sharp.
“‘Edward Waldheim,’ really?” he said, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You think I wouldn’t catch on? Edward—Prime Minister Edward Heath, no doubt. And Waldheim—Kurt Waldheim, Secretary-General of the United Nations. Clever, but too revealing. I am ashamed, Harding boy.”
Harding froze, his silence betraying his guilt. “What are you doing here?” he asked evenly, his voice devoid of pretense.
Italo’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “All in due time,” he said cryptically. “For now, someone you need alive is being held hostage.”
With that, Italo stepped aside, leaving Harding to contemplate the layers of intrigue now unfolding. Without a second thought he exited the flat, his gait wide and strident.