by Tom Savage
Vera nibbled a cannoli, thinking. If she found anything odd in Nora’s line of questioning, she didn’t show it. She seemed to still be under the impression that all this was somehow connected to the TV interview, which was fine with Nora. Frances had been right about Vera: She wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but she noticed everything. As ruthless as it seemed, Nora would use this woman’s naïveté to her advantage.
“I will tell you something, Joan,” Vera said at last. “I knew about Marius since Galina first went with him, last April. I knew she was seeing him and also the general, you understand? But Galina is my friend, so I say nothing. I can see she is in love with Marius, and I have always known she does not love the general. He is so old and mean; why would Galina love him? And he is married to that beautiful woman, he has two beautiful daughters. Galina does not love him—she loves Marius.”
Vera lowered her voice further and leaned in. “The women in the company do not like Galina—Madame Danilova and the others. They tell the stories all over Moscow that Galina is with old Mr. Lovanko, and also with Ivan Kirin, Natalia Fedorovna’s man. I will tell you a secret, Joan—Galina has been with these men. She has been with Mr. Lovanko since she first came to the Moscow State Theater as a girl of sixteen. And she has what I think you call a fling with Ivan because Ivan is so handsome. He has been with all the pretty girls in the company—he even asks me, but I say no. But then, last April, everything changes for Galina. She meets Marius Tarkovsky at the general’s dacha, and soon they are together. She is different with Marius, she is really loving him. And he loves her, too; I can see that.”
Nora nodded. She glanced around the shop to be sure they were not being observed. Out in the square behind Vera, Jeff was pacing in front of the opera house, constantly looking around at everyone passing by. They would have to go soon; Nora wanted to get back to the convent. She didn’t feel safe here. She felt exposed, vulnerable. A few more questions, and she’d be done.
“They met in April,” she said to Vera, “and he vanished from his military base in September. Do you think the general knew about him?”
Vera swallowed a lace cookie, blushing. “I will tell you the truth, Joan—I have seen something I should not see, in her dressing room in Moscow one night. We were doing the Gorky play about the homeless people, so it must be August. The general comes to the dressing room after the play, and he has been drinking. He is not happy. He starts to shout, and she shouts back, and they tell me to leave the room. I go out in the hall, but I—I listen through the door. They are shouting about Marius. He says he knows she is in love with Marius, and she laughs and says yes, she loves Marius and does not love the general. And he—he…”
She paused a moment, looking away. Then she looked back at Nora and continued. “He hits her. I hear a blow, and everything is very quiet. Then I hear Galina crying. The general comes out fast—he almost knocks me down—and leaves the theater. In the dressing room, Galina cries for a long time. Then she calls Marius on the phone, and he comes to her. She tells me to go home, so I do. That is the last time I ever see Marius. He goes away from his post two weeks later, and nobody knows where he is, but there are stories.”
Nora smiled at the young woman. “You’re very observant, Vera. And you care about Galina; I can see that. You’re a good friend.”
Vera blushed again and helped herself to the biscotti. “I wish she had said goodbye to me before she went to America. I will not see her again, I think.”
No, Nora thought, you probably won’t. She signaled for the check. As the waitress brought it over, Nora said, “I must get back to my TV crew, Vera, but before I go, do you know the Federation security agents who are with you on the tour? Do you know Sergei?”
“Yes, I know Sergei, and Rudi, and Pavel, and Juna.”
“Juna,” Nora said. “The woman—the big woman with muscles?”
Vera laughed. “Yes, she is big. She has been an athlete in Russia with the wrestling; she was supposed to be in the Olympic Games once, but she got sick and could not go. She became an agent for the Federation because she has no money, but now she says she is going to be rich. She is getting a, what is the word, a payment. Someone is giving her a lot of money soon, that is what she says.”
Nora nodded. “I was wondering about Sergei and Juna. Do you know if they’re friends with General Malinkov?”
Vera’s eyes widened in surprise. “The general? No! Juna does not even know the general. When he comes here Thursday, Juna asks me who is that. And Sergei does not like General Malinkov because he is in love with Galina.”
Nora blinked. “Wait—you mean, Sergei is in love with Galina?”
Vera grinned. “Oh, yes. This everyone knows. They are from the same street in Saint Petersburg; they know each other since they are children. He follows her everywhere all of the time. I think he is surely in love with her.”
Nora placed some euros on the table and stood, pocketing her phone and slipping on her cloak.
As Vera put on her coat, she said, “Thank you for the coffee, Joan. I must hurry to the hotel—we are having lobsters for the supper tonight!”
Nora glanced down at the empty plate on the table. She’d eaten exactly one lace cookie; everything else had gone into Vera, who was now eager for dinner. And she was thin as a reed. Nora thought, Oh, to be young again! If I’d even looked at another cookie, I would have gained five pounds.
They were nearly to the door when Nora remembered one other question she’d meant to ask.
“Vera, do you remember Galina leaving the hotel in Zurich one afternoon without permission?”
Vera nodded. “Oh, yes, our last day in Switzerland, the day she went to the bank. She was a long time there; she almost missed her entrance in the play!”
“How do you know she went to a bank?” Nora asked.
“I was with her when she asked the man at the hotel desk for directions to the Alpine Bank, then she left the hotel. She asked me not to say anything about it—but I am thinking it does not matter now.”
“No,” Nora said, reaching for the doorknob. “It doesn’t matter now.”
At that moment, the phone in her pocket buzzed.
Chapter 38
Nora quickly did the air-kiss ritual with Vera in the doorway and then pulled the phone from her pocket.
“Goodbye, Vera, and thank you for helping us with our program. If I am in Russia soon, I will come see you.”
“That would be wonderful! Goodbye, Joan.” With a final smile, Vera went out the door and away in the direction of Hotel Danieli. Nora remained in the café, shutting the door and raising the phone to her ear.
“You have company,” Jeff said. Nora glanced across the campo to where her husband still stood near La Fenice. “One of the Federation guys. Not Sergei or Rudi; it’s the big one with the beard. He’s good—I only just now spotted him.”
Nora had never met the third male guard, but she remembered Vera’s words from minutes ago. “Pavel. What’s he doing?”
“He must have followed Vera here from the hotel, and he just watched her leave without making a move to follow her. He’s watching the café, so he knows you’re in there.”
Nora shuddered. “What should I do?”
“Go out the door, turn left, then turn left again into the alley beside the building and head south. Walk briskly, but not too fast. Whatever you hear behind you, just keep walking. Do not turn around. Turn left on Via Twenty-two Marzo and head east to your old friend Calle Vallaresso. If I don’t catch up with you, take the vaporetto back to the convent.”
“Right.” She slipped the phone into her pocket, pulled the hood of the cloak up over her head, retrieved the cross pendant from under her sweater, and stepped out into the square. She turned left and strolled to the corner, then turned down the alley there. She walked in the center of the alley between high piles of snow, looking straight ahead. After a few moments, she heard faint footsteps behind her.
The urge to turn around was overwh
elming, but Nora obeyed Jeff’s instructions. He was a trained agent, and this sort of situation would be familiar to him, whereas Nora knew it only from books and movies. Make-believe: It was her stock-in-trade, but it hadn’t prepared her for this very real crisis. The freezing air stung her cheeks, particularly after the warmth of the café. She didn’t know this calle, didn’t think she’d ever been here before, but it led to Via 22 Marzo—that she knew.
The footsteps behind her grew louder, boots on pavement. Pavel, the big one with the beard. She hoped Jeff was close behind him.
Nora passed a smaller side alley, glancing down it in both directions as she went. No one there. No one in this one, either, except her and the man following her. There didn’t seem to be anyone, anywhere. Sunday afternoon, five-thirty, after a storm, and the overcast sky made it seem like nighttime. Welcome to mysterious Venice. She fought the urge to run, keeping her pace brisk but steady, as instructed.
When she heard the sudden shout and the sound of a struggle behind her, she shut her eyes and moved forward. She heard what sounded like a blow, then another, followed by a muffled groan. Something large and heavy landed on the pavement with a thud. Oh God, she thought, please let that be the other man, not my—
As if answering her prayer, her husband’s voice called, “Go, take the vaporetto. Go!”
Nora walked faster, then began to run. She flew across a bridge over a canal, slipping twice on patches of ice beneath the snow, stumbling but regaining her balance. The sound of her own running footsteps filled her ears, bouncing off the walls around her. She came to Via 22 Marzo and turned left, running east toward the familiar neighborhood, the cloak flapping behind her like a superhero’s cape. Another bridge, then Calle Vallaresso finally appeared before her. She turned into it and managed a final burst of speed all the way down its length to the Grand Canal. When she came out into open space, she stopped abruptly and doubled over, gasping.
There were people here, including a crowd standing at the edge of the quay, waiting for a boat. A westbound vaporetto pulled over to the landing just as Nora joined the line. She boarded, still struggling to breathe while trying to look serene, fumbling for her change purse under the cloak and counting out euros for the ticket seller.
“Grazie, Suor,” he said with a little bow. He clearly hadn’t looked at her face, either. When Nora could draw a full breath, she asked him for the name of the landing where she should transfer for Fondamente Nove, memorizing his reply. She sat in the crowded boat, gazing out through the glass at the gray-tinged landscape, concentrating on the scenery in order to avoid speculating about her husband.
She transferred at the correct station, trying to relax in her seat as the new boat made its many stops along the way. People boarded and disembarked around her, but she paid no attention to them. She shifted her thoughts from the view to the problem at hand. She thought back over everything she’d seen and heard in the five days she’d been in Venice. But when the vaporetto finally deposited her at Fondamente Nove, Nora had still not come to a conclusion.
The many conflicting stories she’d heard would have to be sorted out as soon as possible. Time was a very real factor here. Tomorrow was Monday, and with any luck the planes would be flying again. She had less than twenty-four hours to figure this out.
She crossed the fondamenta and mounted the snowy steps to the back gate of the convent. As she rang the bell, her phone buzzed. She whipped it out and raised it, suppressing an urge to shout into it in sheer panic. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” her husband whispered.
“At the convent gate. Where are you?”
“On my way to you. Aldo picked me up at the Giglio landing, and he’s taking a shortcut.”
“Jeff, is everything okay? You sound funny.”
“Everything’s fine. See you soon.” And he was gone.
Nora always felt weak with relief whenever she learned that her husband was out of danger. Adding that to the delayed shock of her headlong dash down all those endless corridors, she was suddenly overwhelmed. By the time the smiling Sister Genevieve arrived to open the gate for her, she was weeping. She heard singing from the chapel, the Magnificat: vespers. She brushed her hand across her eyes, smiled at the nun, and went over to the kitchen door of the guesthouse.
When Nora arrived in the lobby from the kitchen, Frances and Patch were waiting there to tell her the news about the dead Russian guard who’d just been found, strangled, in an alley near La Fenice.
Chapter 39
The little group was clustered at the desk in Mother Agnes’s office, watching the news report on her computer. Nora had waylaid her as she came into the main hall from the chapel, explaining the urgency. The abbess sat in her chair while Nora, Patch, and Frances stood around her, staring. The report was in Italian, and Mother Agnes and Frances took turns translating it for the others.
It was Patch who’d stumbled onto the news. He and Frances had been in the lounge with Galina, and this afternoon they’d switched from cards to Parcheesi when they’d found an ancient game box on a shelf next to an equally ancient radio. The heat from the fireplace, the dull board game, and two glasses of red wine had soon sent Galina upstairs for a nap before dinner. Frances had found a book to read, and Patch had pulled out the old radio and plugged it in, placing it on the card table and fiddling with the dials. He’d picked up several Venetian stations broadcasting in Italian, with odd-sounding pop tunes and classical music here and there, and he’d suddenly lighted on a news station in English just as the headlines began at six o’clock.
The top story was a breaking news bulletin. Frances had dropped her book and joined him at the table as they listened to the first sketchy details. The announcer didn’t have a name yet, but he knew the dead man found near La Fenice was an SVR agent of the Russian Federation accompanying the visiting Moscow State Theater troupe. Frances and Patch had run out into the lobby just as Nora had arrived there.
Now, in the convent office, the name of the murdered man was being announced: Pavel Oblomov, thirty-four, of Moscow, who’d been an agent with the SVR RF for eleven years. He left behind a wife and four children. His strangled, badly beaten body was found in the doorway of a home in a side alley just south of Campo San Fantin, the site of La Fenice.
The home owner, Signor Nunzio Luna, had heard a commotion outside and opened his door to discover the body. He’d caught a brief glimpse of the back of a tall man in a black leather coat and fur hat running eastward along the small alley. The Russian Embassy in Rome was preparing an official statement, and a woman was now reporting live from Hotel Danieli, where the theater people were staying.
The old director, Mr. Lovanko, spoke in Russian, translated into Italian by an interpreter. The company was deeply saddened by the news—Pavel Oblomov was a nice man who hadn’t deserved a violent death in a foreign country, so far from his family and his beloved Russia. Behind the director, crowded into the lobby of the Danieli, was the Moscow State Theater group, including Natalia, Ivan, and Vera, plus Rudi and Juna. They all seemed to be genuinely shocked, blinking into the camera. Off to the side, at the edge of the shot and trying to stay out of it, was General Nikolai Malinkov.
The newscast switched abruptly back to the studio, where the anchor continued. The Sunday murder followed Friday’s mysterious disappearance of Galina Rostova, twenty-eight, the stage and film star who was playing the lead in the Moscow State Theater production of The Seagull. A publicity photo of the actress was shown, along with a clip of a scene from the play.
Now the anchor had more news about the murder. A bloody knife had been found near the dead man, and drops of blood in the snow led away from the scene in a different direction from that of the running man, south toward the Grand Canal. Ispettore Reggio of the Venice police said this evidence indicated the possibility that there might have been more than one assailant.
Nora had been following everything as best she could, but this new announcement leaped out at her. She pictured t
he alleys in her mind. She’d been moving south toward the Grand Canal, with Pavel behind her and Jeff behind him. The scuffle she’d heard would have been just at the place where the smaller alley intersected the main one. Pavel had apparently been able to stab his attacker, and the blood trail went south toward the Grand Canal—toward the Giglio vaporetto landing, where Aldo had picked up her husband, who’d sounded so strange on the phone…
Nora was already out the door of the office and moving through the refectory to the convent kitchen when the others caught up with her. They all ran out into the garden and over to the locked iron gate. Everyone else flanked her, and Mother Agnes produced a key ring, searching for the right key.
“Look,” Patch said, pointing down toward the waterfront.
Aldo’s water taxi was docked, and he and Jeff were making their way across the fondamenta toward the steps. People were out and about again down there, not a big turnout for a Sunday evening but still a considerable number. Nora watched from the gate as passersby stopped to stare at the two men. A child pointed and laughed, but his parents, who were also staring, quickly reprimanded him.
From this distance, Jeff and Aldo appeared to be drunk. They leaned against each other, Jeff’s arm across Aldo’s wide shoulders, Aldo’s arm firmly clasped around Jeff’s waist. They staggered and reeled, laughing hysterically, and as they drew nearer to the base of the steps Nora could hear them singing. It was a raucous old English sea chantey, something about a lady named Betty who’s waiting at the jetty for the sailors to come ashore. A crowd formed, following them to the stairs and gathering at the bottom as the two men began to climb. By the time they reached the gate, Mother Agnes was holding it open. The abbess had her cellphone up to her ear, and was speaking urgently.
Nora stared as the two men stumbled through the gate and Mother Agnes quickly shut and locked it. Jeff removed his arm from Aldo’s shoulders, walked a few tentative steps, then sank to his knees and toppled over into the snow. In a swift, powerful move, Aldo bent down and scooped him up in his arms. Jeff’s coat fell open, and Nora caught a brief glimpse of the bright red bloodstain saturating the right side of his sweater. Patch stepped forward, and the two men carried her unconscious husband off toward the guesthouse, where Sister Genevieve waited with the kitchen door wide open. Mother Agnes followed them, still talking rapidly into her phone.