Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  Not that they were anything other than English speakers linked by place. But still.

  The buildings changed from dirtied stone to painted block, where balconies waved colored flags of shirts, pants, socks, and skirts. They crossed behind one set of apartments and cut over to an old lane that abutted rolling farmland, coming eventually to a stone bridge under which a small river meandered.

  “Let’s rest.” He offered a hand to help her down the bank. She ignored the hand.

  The scent of newly mowed grass hung in the air. The water barely moved. Bunches of purplish flowers grew here and there along the banks. She began to relax, to enjoy a silence filled with country sounds—bird song, an occasional insect’s buzz, a tractor’s drone in the distance.

  She settled on the grass, pulling up her knees and resting her chin on them. Tony picked a flower and twirled it between his fingers before he lay back with one hand behind his head.

  A slight smile turned up the sides of his mouth. “All this peace and quiet makes me think of the train from Rome where I ended up with kids running around and adults yammering over the noise. My head was killing me by the time we arrived.”

  “Oh, no.” She tried not to laugh. “Well, you could have joined me, my suitcase, and the gunman with whom I shared a compartment.”

  His grin froze, and he turned on his side to study her.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me tell Acie about him. Though I may not have mentioned his weapon.”

  “I only heard snatches of your conversation. I certainly missed the word ‘gun’.”

  “He was some kind of Arab or Iranian. I only know that because of his magazine, which had a mullah’s face on the cover. But I saw his shoulder holster as he reached overhead. You know,” she continued, “a man was killed on that train. An Englishman. Did you know about him?”

  He sat up all the way, tossing the flower into the water. “I did. Was there anything peculiar about the man in your compartment? Other than his origins?”

  “Oh, do you think he could have done it? He looked just like a murderer. His face was scarred here”—she drew a line through her eyebrow—“and he never smiled, not once during the entire trip. Only, he was in his place, reading, when I got back from the bathroom. That’s where I heard what I think was the murder.”

  “A scar.” He seemed fixated on the man instead of on what she’d heard. And he resumed a blank expression, the one he’d had at Santino’s, almost as if he’d withdrawn someplace he didn’t want her to follow.

  Or maybe not. She squinted at him. “You were on that train, too.”

  His immediate bark of laughter ought to have reassured her. It did, but… He held out his hands, turning them over for her to see. “They’re clean. These hands have pushed neither man nor woman off a train. Nor have they strangled a single neck or done bodily harm to another person.” He grinned again. “Not that I haven’t wanted to on occasion.”

  It wasn’t that she doubted him, not exactly.

  “I’ve no proof to offer. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  She’d been foolish to come on this walk. Jason would rail at her about poor judgment, and he’d be right.

  Tony must have read her reaction. He stood and dusted off his jeans. “Shall we go?”

  His cool tone roused her, and she uncurled, rising stiffly. At least he didn’t offer to help.

  “Fine, sure, I’d better get back.” She tried to lighten the mood. They were, after all, alone in the middle of nowhere. “And,” she said to his back, “just so you know. I didn’t push him either.”

  He spoke over his shoulder. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  She wrapped her arms around her upper body to warm a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. Obviously, Tony was just what he seemed, and his being on the train—and being Arab—were just what they seemed. Coincidences.

  She tried to shake off the pall that had fallen on the afternoon. They’d had a good time. It had been pleasant, that was all, a pleasant lunch, a pleasant walk, and all that other, the murder on the train… Well, the past was in the past, and none of it had much to do with either of them now. If doubts lingered, best to change the subject.

  He stared over the far parapet while she brushed the grass from her slacks. “Lots more of those flowers down there,” he said. “What are they, do you know? They almost look like little orchids.”

  Grateful for the distraction, she joined him. “They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

  “You want some?”

  “No, really, you don’t need to bother.”

  He walked to the bank, started down. “Which bunch do you like?”

  Surprised by the overture, she scanned the clumps. “Well, if you’re determined, that one, yes, see it? It has the most color. Can you manage?”

  He waved. “Not a problem.”

  Something glittered just to his right. She called to him. “Hold on. There. I see something, like a large piece of mirror. Can you check it out?”

  “Where?”

  “Over next to the bridge, where it goes under there. I’ll show you.” She started down the slope.

  “Watch your footing. I almost slipped.” He bent to push away some brush. “It’s a piece of chrome, looks like an old VW bumper. Wonder how it got here without the car?”

  And then he recoiled sharply, backing into her as she stepped up behind him. “Sorry.” He moved away and turned, keeping himself between her and the bush.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you wait for me by the bridge?”

  “Why? I want to see, too.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  She registered the change of tone and pushed past to look behind the bush.

  He grabbed at her. “Hold on,” he said, but not before she saw the black shoe that wasn’t empty.

  The foot inside the shoe angled strangely. Its mate was… The knee… It bent under.

  She was going to be sick. She clutched the hand Tony laid on her arm and backed away slowly, plopping down on a grassy spot about ten feet away. “It’s… it’s…”

  He pressed her head between her knees. “Take it easy. That’s it. Deep breath.” Then he released her. “Now, stay there.”

  He splashed about on the other side of the overgrown brush as she swallowed back the nausea and the bile that threatened to choke her. She looked up when Tony emerged with dripping shoes and cuffs.

  “Do… have you ever seen him before?”

  Instead of answering, he shook out his shoes, one at a time.

  “Do you think it, he, was someone from the town?”

  “I knew him.”

  “Knew him?”

  He reached toward her. “Come on. I need to report this.”

  She accepted his hand and then clung to his arm until the momentary dizziness passed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t really fine at all. She took a long, slow breath before pasting on the semblance of a smile. “How… how long do you think he’s been there?”

  “I don’t know. He must have been chucked over the bridge, landing in those bushes instead of completely in the water.”

  “So, part of him is floating?”

  “His head—”

  “And I thought this place was so peaceful.” She shivered.

  8

  TONY

  Language got in the way when the two Carabinieri tried to sort out details of who, what, and when. The how of the murder was obvious. Tony and Rina used the words they knew, but the officers either squinted or rattled off statements neither of them understood.

  Finally, one extended a notepad. “Nomi e indirizzi.”

  That was easy enough. They scribbled their names and addresses, and Tony figured out he was supposed to show up at the station as soon as he delivered Rina to her boarding house. The friendliest of the men opened his map and drew the route from the Piazza IV Novem
bre west about a kilometer.

  Tony thanked him, and they headed silently back into town.

  Rina paused at the door to the convent. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “I will. It may not be right away.”

  And wasn’t that an understatement? He waited while the English-speaking detective talked—in rapid-fire Italian—on the phone. Waited when the man left the room, returning eventually with a sheaf of paper. Then there were more questions and more non-answers and a lot of chin scratching.

  Finally, after another indecipherable phone call, the detective turned with a smile and a sigh of satisfaction. Yusuf’s apartment had been ransacked. Yusuf must have returned home, and now his body lay in the morgue because of a robbery gone bad.

  Tony felt none of the policeman’s satisfaction as he returned to his room. What robber could have gotten close enough to break Yusuf’s nose and send it into his brain? Or taken the chance of hauling the body out of town before dumping it over a bridge?

  The why of the murder puzzled him. Andrew Darling had been traveling with Yusuf’s fiancée. Now Yusuf was dead. Did it come back to his relationship with a woman who might—or might not—be British Intelligence?

  Who, other than Achmed, would have considered Yusuf dangerous? As far as Tony knew, he was the only one in Perugia working undercover for Achmed. Or pretending to work, he reminded himself. Unless Achmed had sent a second person.

  Ibrahim?

  That would be like the Abu Sadiq leader. Confuse the issue. Drive a wedge between people. Maintain control by not giving any one operative the full picture—a scenario that did not bode well for Tony.

  He pulled up a chair, opened his computer, and used his secure device to log in again. The little thumb drive left no traces for others to follow and would self-destruct if someone got hold of it and tried to guess its password more than three times. Using it made Tony feel very much the spy, but it was the only thing that did. He might be one, but that reality did nothing to assuage his feelings of inadequacy.

  He asked Zif to consider the possible involvement of Ibrahim/Kamal in more than just the Englishman’s death. “You got that?” he typed. “I’m no match for a pro, and if Achmed sent a professional hit man to dispatch Yusuf, how far down the list can I be? I’ll have to assume I’m under suspicion.”

  Layers upon layers.

  He needed to examine this as he would an engineering problem. Consider the facts. Do the math. Draw the parallels. And find the links. Get to the end from this very uneven beginning. Didn’t those accounting guys say “garbage in/garbage out” when a computer didn’t spit forth the right information? All he had was garbage flowing in.

  He rose from the chair and again leaned out his open window, sucking in fresh air. He was nothing but a bumbling fool on all fronts. Take Rina. It was a small town. If he’d wanted to find out what she knew about the dead Englishman, he could have questioned her without the lunch. Without whiling away an afternoon. And now Yusuf was dead.

  Yusuf, who had never come within a hundred yards of death, hadn’t even been born when his family had fled the Golan Heights. Sure, he’d been angry at Israel. Sure, he’d been spoon-fed the stories of life in the homeland—stories that failed to mention the whys and wherefores and concentrated on blaming everyone except Arab leaders bent on grabbing the land for themselves. No, Yusuf had been misguided and vulnerable to influence, a good guy in league with some really bad guys. Tony could imagine Yusuf putting all that eager enthusiasm into the cause of peace. If only someone—maybe even his girlfriend—could have turned the man’s thoughts and kind heart in another direction.

  Maybe he could have saved Yusuf if he’d been doing his job instead of pursuing Rina. That’s what it was, even if he told himself his motives were job-related.

  Yeah, right. Liar. He’d been attracted to her. Fine, but now he knew better. Besides, she was engaged.

  He grabbed his wallet and keys and headed down the stairs and out the door. Focus, that’s what he had to do. Keep his eyes open and his mind on the task at hand. Of course, he wasn’t exactly sure what that task entailed at the moment—except to learn whatever he could from whatever source he could find.

  The closer he got to the town center, the more often he found himself glancing at café tables to see if one tall, dark-haired woman sat sipping something. He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. He couldn’t let himself even consider Rina. And to have flirted with her? He never flirted. He couldn’t afford to. What had he been thinking?

  He had no answer to that one. He could lie to himself all he wanted, call himself all kinds of fool, but her image lingered.

  It was probably just his longing to speak American English. That had to be it. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like Sheila, except maybe when her grayish eyes lit up in humor at that Italian lothario. And when she blushed. When that pink crept up her neck into her cheeks, and she bit her lip…

  Stop. Right. Now.

  Evening began to descend as he strolled the length of the Corso Vannucci. He saw no one of interest and turned toward the back streets. Walking might help. He often thought better on his feet.

  Raucous laughter, a baby’s cries, a mother shouting at someone, and music blaring from a café barely registered. His feet pushed against the pavement, and all he noticed was the piston movement of his legs.

  Tiredness finally turned him around, and the scent of coffee lured him inside a bar. He ordered an espresso and checked for an empty seat in the crowded room. As he waited for the barman to tamp down the grounds and flip the lever for that elixir to sputter forth, he noticed the man slouching next to him. The guy had chiseled Roman features, like one of the old statues minus the haughtiness. Just past him, two teenagers tried to flatter an older and obviously sophisticated woman nursing her own drink.

  He enjoyed their antics until something familiar at a back table caught his eye, perhaps a movement of the hand or something about the face, a scar that cut across the brow.

  “Signore, il vostro caffè.”

  His coffee had arrived. He paid and glanced back to the far corner, moving to a table where he could easily see Ibrahim and the well-dressed man across from him but not be easily seen by them. The perpetual glass of buttermilk must not be working, because Ibrahim scowled and pressed the heel of his hand against his stomach. As Tony watched, the second man fumbled with something in his briefcase, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Ibrahim.

  That envelope certainly caught Ibrahim’s interest. He ran his hands over the bulk, then opened the flap, pulling out something far enough to examine it, but not far enough for even eagle eyes to recognize the print or to tell which denomination made up the pile of what had to be money.

  Why the cash? A slew of possibilities occurred to Tony, from drugs to assassination. The Englishman? Yusuf? Was the man paying Ibrahim for Yusuf’s murder?

  Ibrahim finished his drink, nodded to his companion, and ended the interview. Tony turned quickly in his chair so his back was toward the exit, giving Ibrahim several minutes to get out the door. Then he picked up his cup and peered casually over it into the room.

  “Nicco! Come stai? I didn’t see you. How are you doing, cousin?” Ibrahim’s companion slapped the Roman’s back, making him wince, but probably not from pain. This Nicco wasn’t a stranger to exercise.

  “Roberto.”

  Ah. An Italian named Roberto. So probably not handing over money to pay off Yusuf’s murder—unless Yusuf had his hand in more than Abu Sadiq business. And if that were the case, what did it mean? The man bowed slightly, his dark hair falling onto his forehead until he brushed it casually back. “How’s the family?”

  “Bene. Everyone is well. And you?”

  “The same. Just on my way home. I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Forse.” Maybe. The man named Nicco sounded anything but enthusiastic. Good thing they spoke in simple phrases.

  The other’s smile showed a lot of white teeth. “Ci
ao.”

  Tony pushed back his chair, stood, and followed several yards behind the departing man. Once on the street, he increased the distance between them until the Italian slid into the driver’s side of a dark sports car.

  As the tail lights blended into traffic, Tony kicked at a loose stone and sputtered out a curse. Passing on information was one thing. He could keep his eyes open, and he knew how to listen. But solving mysteries that didn’t have to do with engineering puzzles? He’d do his best, but headquarters had better find a professional for this detective work—and soon. A detective who could do something with the Italian’s license plate number and figure out what linked Ibrahim to an Italian’s cash.

  Was the Italian merely a go-between for some other agent from some other country?

  See? He was in way over his head.

  His folks had emphasized that a man kept his word and stuck with whatever he’d begun until he finished it. But two people were dead, one he’d really liked.

  And he might just be next in line.

  9

  RINA

  Bushes, twisted bodies, and drowning heads showed up every time she closed her eyes and slept. She’d wake, shivering, to scrunch her pillow into a feather-mound and pull the sheet to her ears.

  Two deaths. No, two murders. One she’d heard, and that was bad enough, but the second? To have stumbled upon the body like that? If they hadn’t gone to pick flowers, if they’d simply walked back to town, she’d have remained uninvolved, removed. Instead, she felt like an extra in one of those early talkies where everything is overly dramatic and totally unbelievable. She’d thought her aunt’s reading material chock full of the clichéd and far-fetched, yet look at her own First Trip to Europe.

  That black-shod foot had belonged to someone. To someone Tony knew. Maybe even a friend of his. Lying in bed, unable to sleep, she remembered questions she’d forgotten to ask, all the wheres, whens, and hows.