Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2)

by Plame, Valerie

  But the right opportunity had not yet presented itself. He was still trying to improve his patience, one of his weaknesses that his Brother Initiates had pointed out to him when he was in America.

  While he waited near her hotel, he resolved to try to fit in with the nonbelievers, so he bought a mask from the first vendor he found, a cheap and gaudy mask with dyed feathers and fake gems—it was large enough to cover his scars. That vendor also offered capes and jackets, but at exorbitant prices. Less than a block away he’d found an old lady who sold him a rough black cape for five euros.

  Now he’d been outside the restaurant for hours while the girl and the old man took a hundred years over dinner. He could barely believe it when the ancient waiter brought a different color wine with every course. How long does it take to eat a few forkfuls of salad, a few bites of fish, and a spoonful of dessert? It was all so decadent.

  All that time he had done everything he could to avoid attracting attention. Not so hard when the crowds were thick and rowdy and everyone was drunk and costumed. He pretended to be waiting for a friend. He walked a hundred meters in every direction. And then he made his way back, always keeping the restaurant in sight. He even made friends with a pigeon.

  And every few minutes he recited a verse from Matthew to remind himself why he was here. “And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.”

  He stared past three men, caped and masked and strutting along the narrow alley. They had huge swords sheathed against their thighs, but the blades were obviously as fake as the marble-sized jewels crusting the hilts.

  These people called themselves Christians, yet he hated their mockery and debauchery. How could they believe this was any true preparation for Lent, with its fasts and rituals of penitence?

  “All these are the beginning of sorrows.”

  He felt in his pocket for his watch—and the garrote.

  But the realization hit slowly, enveloping him like warm and dangerous water—the garrote was gone.

  He’d been robbed! Rage washed over him. His fingers cut into the flesh of his palms. When he’d bought the mask from the old lady, someone had picked his pocket!

  He calmed himself with prayer. He still had his bare hands.

  64

  Vanessa eyed Charles soberly. “You worked for Eagle Enterprises while Jeffreys was still CFO.”

  The look of distaste on Charles’s face filled in the momentary silence. He set his glass down on the white cloth. “You remember correctly. I worked in Africa for E.E. for a year or so. You may recall that I grew momentarily disgusted with the ‘company’ and thought I would try something different for a while. The pay was much better, but the job was not nearly as fun. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d hope that your interest in it might be idle.”

  “But you do know me, Charles.” She lowered her voice, glancing left and right, aware that the gesture seemed melodramatic. “I believe Jeffreys could be the mole the Agency has been hunting.”

  Charles touched his finger to his lips just as their waiter returned holding a slightly dusty bottle wrapped in a linen cloth as gently as one might hold a new baby.

  Charles barely paused to look up, and then he waved the waiter off with a nod. “Certo.” Meaning this new, undoubtedly very expensive bottle would accompany the primo course of their meal. Charles was a connoisseur of many things, and wine topped the list, after women. Vanessa found it disconcerting if not alarming that he would order without tasting first. She had never seen him do that, and it told her he was concentrating intently on their discussion.

  “Charles . . .” She toyed with her as yet unused dinner fork, drawing a line across the cloth with its tine. “After the suicide bombing in Paris I was contacted by Bhoot . . .”

  She filled him in on the details quickly, sparingly. “Bhoot claimed that it was his prototype that was stolen, and by the same person who betrayed so many of my—” Her voice broke. She pushed back the overwhelming guilt she felt for the deaths of her assets.

  On the walk from the hotel to the restaurant, strolling arm in arm, Vanessa had filled Charles in on the details of the past six days and he’d been direct in his response. “I know you, Vanessa, and I know you’re wondering if you missed something, if you are in some way responsible.” As they passed to the north of Saint Mark’s Square, Charles steered them to the edge of the street, farther away from the hundreds of costumed revelers who flowed and eddied through the piazza like a restless human lake.

  He said, “You’d be inhuman if you weren’t wondering if this hell will just go on forever.”

  At that moment, a drunken court jester stumbled toward them. The hair on Vanessa’s arms bristled just as Charles managed to guide Vanessa safely out of the man’s path.

  But still panic swelled inside her. She tried to bite back the fear, silently ordering herself to breathe.

  Her heartbeat began to slow just as Charles squeezed her hand. “As for the fact that you haven’t been killed, my dear, that is luck. And you’ve been lucky too many times, Vanessa.”

  Hearing this from Charles, who saw and understood so much of what others did not, was more than unsettling. She felt completely vulnerable. In that instant, she knew that her luck would run out one day.

  —

  “THE DEPUTY NATIONAL security advisor is an arrogant bastard and a narcissist,” Charles said, his head bent close to Vanessa’s. “He is also incredibly intelligent, although I guarantee you that he believes he is smarter than he actually is. But that’s common for the privileged—they rewrite history, theirs and the world’s, until they alone are responsible for the sunrise and sunset. So yes, he is guilty of many sins and capable of committing many more.”

  The waiter returned with clean glasses for the new bottle Charles had accepted without sampling. He tasted it now, swirled it around in his mouth, and nodded, but not with his usual concentration, Vanessa noticed. He was too focused on her, on the conversation. She felt a pang of wistfulness—it would have been nice to be able to dine out with Charles the way normal people could.

  “Ordinary life would bore you to death in a matter of minutes,” Charles said.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?” But Charles was smiling again.

  “You know what! Don’t read my effing mind.”

  The waiter turned to top off her glass but she waved one hand to signal she was good for now. The elderly man allowed himself a tiny smile as he backed away.

  Over the course of their conversation, Charles had been progressively lowering his rich baritone voice. He was down to a round whisper. “If you know the identity of the mole who betrayed you and your assets to Bhoot, then, my dear, you are in deep trouble. You keep bad company. In order to bring down your traitor, you have chosen to cast your lot with Bhoot, who is absolutely amoral. He will always be a direct threat to you.”

  She shook her head. Had he compared notes with Dr. Peyton?

  She frowned. “Would you have said ‘no’ to an open line of communication with Bhoot?”

  “Well it is hardly an open line, is it? As you’ve told me, he chooses when and where.”

  Vanessa nodded as a plate of crusted swordfish was set in front of her along with a small side of beautifully prepared vegetables. It all smelled amazing. She broke off a bite of fish with her fork. “I can’t figure out what ‘the win’ is for a man like Jeffreys.”

  Charles eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you remember the Vandenberg Air Force Base controversy a few years back? In the PowerPoint presentation to train young officers on the ethics of a nuclear launch they were using Wernher von Braun as a moral authority and quoting examples from the Bible to justify the concept of ‘just’ wars?”

  “The Jesus Nukes?”

  “Quite so. Then you know something about the Circle. Your man ranks very high amid the muckety-mucks of the Circle. In fact, he may well be their number one. Their goal, kept fairly quiet, is
nothing short of world domination. Jesus is their personal advisor, and this is not a Jesus who turns the other cheek. He, as in Jesus, approves of power and wealth and action. Hence, their Jesus believes in the actions of Genghis Khan and Hitler. And it’s all in the name of End Times.”

  Charles worked to contain his anger, but Vanessa saw it, she saw his outrage, and she felt it, too.

  He closed his eyes. “‘When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people kill each other. To him was given a large sword.’”

  “That’s from the Old Testament?” Vanessa asked, shuddering, spooked, even. “Charming.”

  “The Book of Revelation,” Charles said, opening his eyes. “By the way, you can often spot a fundamentalist because they say the Book of Revelations—plural.”

  He sipped his wine. “The Circle was active in Uganda, pressing their homophobic agenda. I saw their ugly work when I was there.”

  His mouth went flat and his nostrils flared. “The members of the Circle believe the Book of Revelation lock, stock, and barrel. They believe in a River of Blood and Jesus as wrathful warrior on a white steed and the Apocalypse. Jeffreys does, too—and if he has his doubts, he does well to keep those to himself to gain more power and more wealth.”

  Vanessa had raised another bite of swordfish to her mouth, but now she set it down untouched on her plate.

  “You’ve got a very bad man to catch,” Charles said, delicately tasting black sea bass. “And after you catch him, you’ve got to deal with Bhoot.”

  Neither of them spoke for the next minute or so. Charles savored the last bites of his dinner. Vanessa sipped sparkling water while picking at her food, both of them caught up in their own thoughts.

  When his plate was completely clean, Charles set down his fork and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You and I, Vanessa, share a hunger for truth as well as a kind of core morality, which is why it is vital you understand that you’re endangering your heart, your moral center, even if your end goal is bringing a traitor to justice. You must decide how far you can go without compromising yourself. And I’m not talking only about your career. Do you understand?”

  She shook her head, feeling a bitter internal surge as her thoughts went to Khoury and his own battles with the Agency. She looked away and said, “Maybe none of it will matter anyway if the world goes up in a nuclear hell.”

  “Melodramatic!” Charles expelled a rush of air. “Your priority right now is a loose nuke.” He held out his long fingers, his pinkie banded by the signet ring, to punctuate his statements. “And all this story is missing is the right target. Where would you get the most bang for your buck?”

  No need to rack her brain on that one. “The Middle East.”

  “Agreed,” Charles said. “If you want End Times, you want World War Three in the Middle East.”

  Vanessa set her napkin on the table. “Okay . . .”

  Charles shook his head. “Pillow talk . . .”

  Vanessa’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Something I shouldn’t know about . . . but I think something big is going to happen in Istanbul.”

  Vanessa went cold. “What are you talking about, Charles?”

  He sighed. “My lovely ‘friend’ of the moment is married . . .” He made a quick face. “To a Turkish MIT officer who is quite highly positioned in the government.”

  Classic Charles. And the Agency worried about its female officers sleeping around . . .

  Vanessa said, “You have my attention.”

  “The highest-level security has been arranged for an event. I don’t know what it is, but there is a welcome banquet tomorrow evening. It is conceivable that Jeffreys will be attending.”

  “My God . . . Am I crazy, Charles? Could this actually be happening?” She broke off, setting her glass down abruptly so that wine almost splashed over the rim. Her pulse was quickening and she felt a rush of heat. Do not panic . . .

  He studied her in silence for several moments, his forehead creased with concern.

  Khoury had warned her not to go over the edge.

  “Listen to me now . . . this scenario is still all speculation.”

  Vanessa’s mouth had gone dry. She finished the last small sip of water left in her glass. “I’m listening.”

  “If, for this moment, we assume you are right,” Charles said, not moving, “you are in grave danger.” His forehead was almost touching hers and his voice was a whisper. “He cannot suspect that you are tracking him, or, I believe, he will simply make it all disappear. But not before he takes you down, ruins your career, and destroys your future. Are you clear on that, Vanessa?”

  They both pulled back slightly and Vanessa met his dark brown eyes. One of the decorative candles on their table had gone out and the tiny strand of its dying smoke was reflected in his pupils. She reached for his hand, letting her fingers close around it lightly. “Clear.”

  65

  It was the end of the dinner hour and restaurants were closing their doors, and the Carnevale crowds on Calle del Mondo Novo had grown noticeably denser. Even as a silent Charles took her arm and began guiding her back in the direction of Hotel Ala, her mind raced with everything they’d spoken of over dinner. She had to contact Chris the moment she got back to her room.

  But first she had to make it back. She felt disoriented and a little dizzy, and spooked again. The sights and sounds around her suddenly all seemed foreign and a bit macabre.

  As if he heard her thoughts, Charles tightened his grip, and Vanessa felt intensely grateful for his company.

  The cool night air stung with the sulfur smell of fireworks. A light breeze also carried the sour reminder of low tide and sewage in the canals. Charles didn’t seem to notice. She held her breath. All around her, people were boisterous—laughing and yelling. A few were obviously intoxicated.

  Someone jostled Vanessa roughly from behind, then a man in a plague doctor’s mask almost plowed into Charles, without apology.

  But just then a masked, caped figure stepped up to Vanessa, doffed his hat, and made a low bow. Was this a reveler who was drunk or simply carried away by the spirit of the night? Now he was bowing to Charles, too.

  But wait—Khoury?

  “David, is that you?” she asked in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He was speaking in a low, hushed, almost theatrical voice and he was pulling them both to a clearing beneath a shop awning. “I’ve decided to celebrate Carnevale with the most beautiful woman in the world. Charles, would you allow me to escort this fair maiden back to her hotel?”

  “David, under other circumstances this would undoubtedly be a welcome surprise,” Charles said, picking up the strange intensity that Khoury communicated with his actions, if not his words. “I’m not quite sure of your intentions except that you seem most adamant and I won’t stand in the way of lovers.”

  But before Charles would step aside or let go of Vanessa’s arm, he shot her an intense and questioning look that made it clear he would not leave her without her explicit permission.

  “I’m in good hands, Charles,” she said, nodding. Whatever Khoury was up to, she trusted him. She also wanted an explanation for his appearance. Its suddenness unsettled her.

  “And Charles, I know you have someone of your own waiting for you this evening. I’m sure she will be happy to see you.”

  As Vanessa began to follow Khoury, she blew a kiss to Charles and mouthed Thank you. Who knew what would happen before they met again.

  The last thing she saw before Charles was swallowed up in the crowd was his sweeping, courtly bow.

  66

  Vanessa gripped Khoury’s arm hard enough to hurt him and found herself staring into his masked face and dark, glittering eyes. “Now tell me what the hell is going on? What are you doing here? How did yo
u find me?”

  “Keep moving,” he ordered, his voice low under the ambient noise. “I’m pretty sure someone in this crowd is tracking you.”

  She instantly eyed the crowd around them, trying to identify friend or foe. “Who?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Sorry, no time to explain,” Khoury said, pulling her along with him almost roughly. “Don’t want to scare you, but if I’m right about this guy, I need him to make his move.”

  “What, his move? Where is he?” Vanessa scrambled mentally to catch up with the meaning of his words.

  “Don’t know. He’s in costume, a black cape, a mask. I lost him.”

  “That doesn’t help, Khoury, everyone’s in a cape!”

  “It might be Scarface,” Khoury whispered in her ear. “Keep going with this crowd toward the piazza. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be sticking very close.”

  “You’re using me as bait?”

  But he was gone; he’d disappeared back into the crowd of revelers.

  Her muscles felt as tightly strung as wire, but she didn’t slow or stop. Instead, she followed his directive, walking quickly along with the crowd. At their pace the piazza was roughly fifteen minutes away.

  The tall old buildings and awnings pressed in over her head, blocking moonlight. The few streetlamps gave off skirts of illumination and some of the shops had lights glowing. Alleys and lanes branched off the old stone street in various directions from the closest corner. At least Vanessa knew which way she’d come, thanks to her unerring sense of direction. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t known which road to take.

  Where was Khoury? Was he behind her? Vanessa thought so, but she stopped herself from checking over her shoulder, suddenly paranoid and feeling the effects of the wine in the dizzying crowd.

  She turned with most of the crowd onto Salizada San Lio, in the company of devils and angels, aristocrats and beggars, historic villains and saviors. But the majority were villains—at least it seemed that way by the abundance of glowering faces and grotesquely painted masks. Was one of them Scarface?