The Lost Relic [antikvár]

Prologue Italy October 1986 The old woman was alone that night, just as she had lived alone in her rambling country house near Cesenafor many years. She'd spent the evening in her studio, as she did most evenings, surrounded by her precious paintings and her beautiful things, putting the final touches to a piece of artwork she believed to be the finest she had produced in a long while. The work that was to be her last. It was just after ten, and the old woman was thinking about going to bedywhen she heard the crash of breaking glass and the six armed men stormed into her home. They grabbed her roughly, forced her down into a chair, held guns to her head. Their leader was a big, burly man with a nose that had been broken more than once. He wore a suit and his greying hair was cropped like a brush. The last time she had heard an accent like his had been a lifetime ago. She'd been young and beautiful then. 'Where is it?' he shouted at her, over and over, with his face so close to hers she could feel the heat of his fury when she said she didn't know, that she didn't have it. She'd never had it, never even laid eyes on it. 1