Book of Stolen Tales

by D J Mcintosh

  “Ah. What a series of tragedies. My book does seem to live up to its reputation. The rumors surrounding it go back to the seventeenth century, to a nobleman, Baron Lorenzo Mancini, my ancestor and a forefather of the Italian royal family. By all accounts, a domineering and intimidating man. It is said the copy of the book my family owns brings misfortune and its history would certainly seem to confirm that. Right from the start it was associated with a catastrophe.”

  The attendant brought the drinks over, serving Mancini’s cocktail first. He poured a shot glass full of amber liquid over frosty ice cubes in a tumbler and handed it to Shaheen.

  “It’s brought tragedy in its wake again then. As I mentioned, Ewan Fraser was murdered.” Shaheen watched Mancini closely, but beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes the man didn’t react.

  “I wonder where you heard that. The police blamed vagrants for the killing. If you’re right, perhaps it was a falling-out among thieves. Rats fighting over the spoils. The book is worth quite a large sum. When that order of money is involved, who can predict what criminals will do?” He tilted his glass and took a sip. He set it down and glowered at the attendant. “Chist’ fa schif!”

  Although Shaheen couldn’t speak Italian, it wasn’t hard to imagine what Mancini said.

  The attendant scurried over, bent to pick up the glass, and dropped it on the floor. When he stooped to gather the broken pieces he cut his finger badly but continued to collect the shards in his bare hands. He scurried back to the bar.

  “What a fool,” Mancini said contemptuously. “I hope your drink is acceptable.”

  “High-class bourbon,” Shaheen replied. “Can’t go wrong with that.”

  “You pay them a fortune and they still don’t know how to make a simple cocktail,” Mancini grumbled. “Now where was I. Oh yes. One year after our temperamental mountain erupted in 1631, a deadly plague struck Naples. I suppose the first sign of calamity associated with the book is that its author died of this contagion. There’ve been various speculations as to what the illness was but no one knows for sure. The gullible will tell you the sickness is associated with an ancient demon, birthed in the Middle East.

  “Giambattista Basile and the painter José de Ribera had brought gifts to the daughter of a Neapolitan noble on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday. Basile gave her a puzzle, a curious stone weight he’d acquired on his travels as a soldier of fortune in the Aegean, and also a collection of folk tales he’d spent a lifetime gathering and rewriting. The book came in the form of a printer’s galley. De Ribera illustrated those tales.”

  “There’s some speculation several of his stories were based on real events. What do you think?” Shaheen asked.

  “It’s plausible. Basile wrote versions of both ‘Snow White’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ Medical researchers have recently discovered a very rare disease called Kleine-Levin Syndrome. Those afflicted with it experience periods of constant sleep for days, even weeks. They must be woken up to take food and water. Who knows? Centuries ago people would explain away an illness like that by saying a spell had been cast on the victim. And someone sleeping for weeks on end would be such a startling occurrence, you can see how a story would be woven about it.

  “But you interrupted me, Lieutenant.” Mancini allowed himself a crack of a smile when he said this. “I was telling you the history of my family. Both the daughter and Basile succumbed to the plague shortly after her birthday celebration. Since then, the book has been called cursed. And a belief, held dearly by Baron Lorenzo Mancini, clings to it still: that it points to a secret location in old Mesopotamia, an undiscovered landmark that like Tutankhamen’s tomb is lethal to anyone who disturbs it.

  “The book was originally owned by Baron Mancini’s cousin. Since the cousin’s only child died of the plague, it was passed on to the baron in the 1640s. He took a special interest in it. He was a master of the occult, studied necromancy and astrology, and taught these practices to his five daughters.”

  The attendant approached Mancini with a replacement cocktail and set it gently on the side table. Mancini threw the man an exasperated glance and continued. “Through the machinations of their well-connected uncle, Cardinal Mazzarin, one of the baron’s daughters, Olympia, married Eugene Maurice, Prince of Savoy and Comte of Soissons, an ancestor to Italy’s royal house. At that time, the French court held sway and Olympia was a favorite, some say a lover, of the French king. Her husband died under strange circumstances. It’s rumored she poisoned him and engaged in the black arts. Court life in those times was rife with esoteric beliefs—astrology, alchemy, and sorcery. Accused of plotting another poisoning, this time of the king’s mistress, Louise de La Vallière, Olympia was forced to flee to Spain for fear of her life after what they’d called ‘the Affair of the Poisons.’” He picked up his glass and touched his lips to the drink, apparently satisfied with it this time. “So has mere possession of the book afflicted this family? History would seem to bear that out.”

  From Samuel Morland,The History of the Evangelical Churches of Piedmont

  “And the Mancinis have owned it ever since?” Shaheen asked. “Yes. Although the book remained within my branch of the family, since those times the Savoys have indeed been cursed with a brutal history. In 1655 the Duke of Savoy ordered the massacre of the Waldenesians. They spared no one, not even children, drove women through with pikes and burned their homes to the ground. And in 1900, King Umberto I was assassinated as a result of his association with another massacre. This time of protesters.”

  “A bloody history all right,” Shaheen said. “But not much different from a lot of other dynasties. Look at the massacres of Protestants all over France in the sixteenth century.”

  Mancini nodded approvingly. “Yes. I fear the Italian royalty was treated rather harshly by its people. And worse was to come. Because the Savoys supported Mussolini, they lost the monarchy along with all their property and were condemned to exile. A trail of woe continues to follow them. Whether there’s any truth to these beliefs about the book, who knows? Until recently my copy hadn’t been opened since the time the baron had it.”

  “Maybe you’re better off without it then?”

  Mancini responded with a barking laugh. “Come now, Lieutenant, there is no place for superstition in modern life.… You are aware who actually stole it, I presume?”

  “A young woman—your lover, I’m told.”

  “Betrayals are worst when they’re close to home. You’re referring to a girl I took under my wing. I gave her everything. No one would describe me as a vulnerable man.” He pressed his lips together as if to suppress some unwelcome emotion. “But she’s broken my heart and repaid my generosity in a most cruel way. I discovered the book was missing only recently. At first I thought a servant stole it but found mere days ago it was her. And now she’s left me.”

  Shaheen sensed he was genuinely upset about losing her. Mancini paused to collect himself before saying, “These recent events have all come at a very difficult time. My wife just died in a terrible accident. That’s why you find me in Belgium. I think, however, you may already know this.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your wife. I know it’s a difficult time to intrude. If you’ll bear with me a few more minutes. The reference to a location you say is hidden somewhere within the book—any idea where it’s supposed to be?”

  “I have no time for such frivolous pursuits.” Although Mancini said this dispassionately, Shaheen noted how the man’s angry spirit now fell away as he spoke. A slight tremor in his voice and a light in his hawkish eyes gave him away. He’d been seduced by the notion of hidden valuables and believed the rumors to be true. Basile’s book was worth much more to him than sentiment or family heritage.

  “I do intend, though,” Mancini continued, “to recover all the volumes and restore the book to its rightful place in my home. And I have a question for you, Lieutenant. Where is Madison? He’s intruded into my affairs recklessly. He has defiled my women. I want him
stopped.” The glass the man held was delicate and Shaheen thought it might break in Mancini’s hand. His knuckles turned white under his sudden, forceful grip.

  “Last I heard Madison was swanning around Europe, trying to pick up the trail of the missing volumes. But if he does find them, that will only help, won’t it? He’ll tell the police, who will get them back to you. Maybe you should be paying him. He might even unravel the secret the book’s supposed to hold.”

  “What’s your opinion of him?” Mancini asked.

  “A troublemaker. On the other hand, he may turn up something helpful to my investigation. As long as he’s useful, I don’t have a problem with him.”

  This answer appeared to satisfy Mancini. Visibly relaxing, he sat back and crossed his legs.

  “You might have a point there. Perhaps I should not have let my anger get in the way of common sense.”

  Shaheen decided to push the conversation further. He watched Mancini closely with his next words. “Madison nearly bought it today. Someone tried to shoot him.”

  “I gather he survived,” Mancini responded dryly.

  “He did. The gunman was a rookie. Had to be. Head shot’s the one he should’ve gone for. Or if he’d used a Russian Makarov with nine by eighteen AP rounds he’d have got the job done.”

  Mancini managed a wry smile. “The assailant got away, I assume?”

  “Yes, he did.” Shaheen set his glass down.

  “I admire the work you people do over there in Iraq. Laying your life on the line for such small rewards.”

  “We’re not exactly in it for the money.”

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply anything of the kind. I have business connections in Iraq. My family line has had a long association with the Middle East. Napoli’s commercial history is intimately connected with the region. I suppose I too have played a positive role. Easing the flow of money in and out of Iraq is as vital a need as bullets and planes.”

  Shaheen finished his drink and rose. “Well, let’s hope the war’s over soon. Thanks for agreeing to talk with me. Much obliged.”

  Mancini rose, the look on his face almost affable now. “Please leave your contact information with my guard. If I learn anything more, I’ll be glad to let you know.”

  “Happy to.”

  The guard returned his gun and saw Shaheen out.

  Evening had settled in by the time Shaheen left. The air had turned cold and the slender young trees lining the sidewalk bent and swayed in the wind.

  One thing stood out from his conversation with Mancini. The notion that an elderly English book publisher, or book of fairy tales for that matter, could be remotely associated with bioweapons would strike anyone as absurd. And yet Mancini hadn’t pointed this out. Had not asked even one question about how they might be related.

  Thirty-Four

  The offer came late that night with a knock on his hotel room door. It arrived more quickly than Shaheen expected. The man who stepped over the threshold reminded him of Leonard Best. Nondescript. The kind of mid-level bureaucrat who toiled away behind some office partition, ticking off the days until retirement.

  Shaheen listened carefully to what the man had to say. Mancini’s name didn’t once cross his lips. Shaheen accepted the blank card with a cell number and bank account printed on it. Predictably, the phone number was untraceable; Shaheen made sure of that the minute the man left. The proposal was enticing, no question, and after taking some time to consider it, he answered the man in the affirmative.

  What the fellow had to say was short and to the point. That if, in the course of his investigation, Shaheen was willing to share what he’d learned, he’d be well compensated. The amount of money offered made his eyes pop. It was understood his participation wouldn’t include any military knowledge that might compromise his mission or any aspect of the war effort.

  Mancini, both in character and behavior, was the kind of man Shaheen detested. But Shaheen believed Mancini knew much more than he’d revealed and that prying this knowledge out of him could turn out to be fundamental. Given the enormous repercussions should an outbreak occur, Shaheen couldn’t afford high-handed morality when choosing allies. He’d crossed that line in similar ways more often than he cared to remember over the past three years.

  In intelligence circles, rumors about what Shaheen had done and what was necessary to achieve it caused some to fear him. Deep trust from his mates, essential to his job, was often missing. More than once this came close to causing a catastrophe.

  He had a lot of Arab blood on his hands, literally, not all of it justified. One time, in the baking heat of the desert, he’d gone without water for days after an operation. The blood had dried on his skin like a stubborn stain. He’d spent hours picking off the dry flakes. Those memories caused Shaheen much worse pain than the jagged nerve endings in his spine and he hated them. His contract was up in another year and he’d sworn that would be the end. Shaheen had total confidence the money Mancini offered him would be impossible to trace. Start-up funds for when he was free of the job. He could do worse than that.

  The second proposition presented a more troubling concern. Shaheen wouldn’t be required to take any action, just stay out of the way when they dealt with Madison. That would happen when Madison ceased being useful. Nothing more than venal retribution on Mancini’s part, Shaheen thought. He liked Madison and thought the man had courage. Judged within the wide parameters of such an important mission, even good men were expendable. It was the devil’s hand he was holding, but he’d shaken that hand a few times before.

  Thirty-Five

  November 27, 2003

  En route to Naples

  While I waited at the airport for the flight to Rome, my cell chirped. Dina’s clear tones came on the line. “John, is that you?”

  “It is. Are you still at Renard’s?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” I recalled her hurtful words. “You said you never wanted to see me again.”

  “You don’t really think I meant that? We were right outside the dining-room door, John. Renard was listening to every word we said. It was the only way to convince him.”

  “And the point of going through that charade was?”

  “I knew if I was alone with him I could persuade him to let me see the book. And I was right.”

  “He just let you go freely? He was totally obsessed with you.”

  “Quite frankly, I wanted to stay there. Renard was an entertaining companion. I loved the estate. He became very upset when he heard I wanted to go but kept his word and didn’t force me to stay. I told him I’d return in a few days.”

  “Is that your plan?”

  She didn’t answer me directly and said instead, “Where are you?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “You said you were planning to meet the bookseller in Naples—right? I want to go with you.”

  “No, I didn’t, Dina. You never told me about Naso. I had to discover that one on my own. We haven’t had the most fortuitous time together so far. Going our separate ways makes more sense at this point. Why would you even consider returning to Naples? I thought you were afraid to go anywhere near Mancini again.”

  “I couldn’t pick a better time. I’m in touch with one of our staff who told me he’s still in Ghent dealing with the house and Katharina’s death. The last place they’ll expect either me or you to turn up is Naples. Anyway, I thought you needed to see Renard’s book?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “How were you planning to get to Naples?”

  “By train.”

  “I’m in Rome now. I’ll get on the train with you—which one are you taking? I’ve got Renard’s book with me.”

  She’d been stringing out information bit by bit and I didn’t have the patience for it anymore. “Email me photos of Renard’s book. If I get them before I reach Rome, I’ll agree to go to Naples with you.”

  There was a pause on the line while she thought about
what I asked and I heard her sigh. “Very well. But you’d better be there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Katharina?”

  “If I said anything, you might not go to see her. And of course I couldn’t cross her doorstep. She used an intermediary to buy her volume but Ewan managed to learn her name. I knew it was her.”

  “Are you aware of what’s happened to her?”

  “Yes. It’s front-page news. In all the newspapers and on TV. The blaze started in the day room. They think she used some kind of starter fuel and put too much on. When the flames leapt up her clothing caught fire. It must have happened rapidly. Maybe some fuel spilled—I don’t know. She toppled into the hearth. That’s what they’re saying.”

  A distant image flickered in my mind but I ignored it, too intent on unwinding the rest of the story. “The reports say she tried to light a fire in the middle of the night?”

  “You’ll never hear what really happened through the media,” Dina said. “Mancini killed her. It had to be him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Either Alessio did it or one of his other men.”

  “And you know this—how?”

  “Because he wanted to clear the way to be with me—officially. Divorce isn’t possible because they’re both Catholic. He’d grown tired of her accusations and complaints. Said she’d become too expensive. That’s another reason I made up my mind to leave him.”

  With divorce out of the question Dina was right; only a partner’s death could pave the way for a new marriage. And yet the whole thing struck me as false. I met men like Mancini regularly in my line of work. Wealthy, elite alpha males. Keeping up a good front, maintaining at least the appearance of a marriage, especially with a family, was the norm. A gorgeous mistress—sure. But those men didn’t tend to trade their wives in for one. Married with a mistress on the side was practically expected as proof of manhood.