The Lake of Learning

by Steve Berry

  He knew the drill.

  Buying involved way too many trails and, until yesterday, had been MI6’s only option. But if what they wanted could be appropriated without paying for it, then that was the smart play. Especially considering that what they were after did not belong to the Italian.

  He had no illusions.

  Twelve years with the Magellan Billet, and a few more after that working freelance for various intelligence agencies, had taught him many lessons. Here, he knew he was being paid to handle a job and take the fall if anything went wrong. Which was incentive enough to not make any mistakes.

  The whole thing, though, seemed intriguing.

  In August 1945 Winston Churchill had arrived in Milan under the cover name of Colonel Warden. Supposedly, he’d decided to vacation along the shores of Lakes Como, Garda, and Lugano. Not necessarily a bad decision since people had been coming to the crystalized Alpine waters for centuries. The use of a code name ensured a measure of privacy but, by then, Churchill was no longer Britain’s prime minister, having been unceremoniously defeated at the polls.

  His first stop was the cemetery in Milan where Mussolini had been hastily buried. He’d stood at the grave, hat in hand, for several minutes. Strange considering the deceased had been a brutal dictator and a war enemy. He’d then traveled north to Como, taking up residence at a lakeside villa. Over the next few weeks the locals spotted him out gardening, fishing, and painting. No one at the time gave it much thought, but decades later historians began to look hard at the journey. Of course, British intelligence had long known what Churchill was after.

  Letters.

  Between him and Mussolini.

  They’d been lost at the time of Mussolini’s capture. Part of a cache of documents in two satchels that were never seen after April 27, 1945. Rumors were the local partisans had confiscated them. Some say they were turned over to the communists. Others pointed to the Germans. One line of thought proclaimed that they had been buried in the garden of the villa Churchill had rented.

  Nobody knew anything for sure.

  But something in August 1945 had warranted the personal intervention of Winston Churchill himself.

  Cotton climbed back into the Alfa Romeo and continued his drive up the steep road. The villa where Mussolini and his mistress had spent their last night still stood somewhere nearby. He’d read the many conflicting accounts of what happened on that fateful Saturday. Details still eluded historians. In particular, the name of the executioner had been clouded by time. Several ultimately claimed the honor, but no one knew for sure who’d pulled the trigger. Even more mysterious was what happened to the gold, jewels, currency and documents Mussolini had intended to take to Switzerland. Most agree that a portion of the wealth had been dumped into the lake, as local fishermen later found gold there after the war. But, like with the documents, no meaningful cache had ever come to light. Until two weeks ago, when an e-mail arrived at the British embassy in Rome with an image of a scanned letter.

  From Churchill to Mussolini.

  More communications followed, along with four more images. No sale price had been arrived at for the five. Instead, Cotton was being paid 50,000 euros for the trip to Como, his negotiating abilities, and the safe return of all five letters.

  The villa he was after sat high on a ridge, just off the road that continued on to the Swiss border about six miles away. All around him rose forests where partisans had hid during the war, waging a relentless guerilla campaign on both the Fascists and Germans. Their exploits were legendary, capped by the unexpected triumph in capturing Mussolini himself.

  For Italy, World War II ended right here.

  He found the villa, a modest three-storied rectangle, its stone stained with mold and topped by a pitched slate roof set among tall trees. Its many windows caught the full glare of the early morning sun, the yellow limestone seeming to drain of color as it basked in the bright light. Two white, porcelain greyhounds flanked the main entrance. Cypress trees dotted a well-kept yard along with topiary, both of which seemed mandatory for houses around Lake Como.

  He parked in front and climbed out to a deep quiet.

  The foothills kept rising behind the villa where the road continued its twisted ascent. To the east, through more trees sprouting spring flecks of green, he caught the dark blue stain of the lake, perhaps a half mile away and a quarter of that below. Boats moved silently back and forth across its mirrored surface. The air was noticeably cooler and, from the nearby garden, he caught a waft of wisteria.

  He turned to the front door and came alert.

  The thick wooden panel hung partially open.

  White gravel crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the drive and stopped short of entering. He gave the door a little push and swung it open, staying on his side of the threshold. No electronic alarms went off inside. Nobody appeared. But he immediately saw a body sprawled across the terrazzo, face down, a crimson stain oozing from one side.

  He carried no weapon. His intel had said that the house should be empty, its owner away until the late afternoon. MI6 had not only traced the e-mails it had received, but they’d also managed to compose a quick dossier on the potential seller. Nothing about him signaled a threat.

  He entered and checked the body for a pulse.

  None.

  He looked around.

  The rooms were pleasant and spacious, the papered walls ornamented with huge oil paintings, dark with age. Smells of musty flowers, candle wax, and tobacco floated in the air. He noticed a large walnut desk, rosewood melodeon, silk brocade sofas and chairs. Intricate inlaid armoires with glass fronts pressed the walls, one after the other, each loaded with objects on display like a museum.

  But the place was in a shambles.

  Drawers were half opened, tilted at crazy angles, shelves in disarray, a few of the armoires shattered, chairs turned upside down flung to the floor, some slashed and torn. Even some of the drapes had been pulled from their hangings and lay in crumpled heaps.

  Somebody had been looking for something.

  Nothing broke the silence save a parrot in a gilded cage that had once stood on a marble pedestal. Now the cage lay on the floor, battered and smashed, the pedestal overturned, the bird uttering loud, excited screeches.

  He rolled the body over and noticed two bullet wounds. The victim was in his mid-to-late forties, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. The villa’s owner was about the same age, but this corpse did not match the description he’d been given.

  Something clattered.

  Hard and loud.

  From above.

  Then heavy footsteps.

  Somebody was still here.

  The hiding place he sought was located on the third floor, so he headed for the staircase and climbed, passing the second floor landing. A carpet runner lined the stone risers and cushioned his leather soles allowing no sound to betray his movement. At the third floor he heard more commotion, like a heavy piece of furniture slamming the floor. Whoever was searching seemed oblivious to any interruption.

  He decided on a quick peek to assess things.

  He crept ahead.

  A narrow green runner ran down the center of the corridor’s wood floor. At the far end, a half-opened window allowed in the morning sun and a breeze. He came to the room where the noise originated, which was the same room he’d been directed to find. Whoever had beat him here was well informed. He stopped at the open doorway and risked a quick glance.

  And saw a stout bear.

  Several hundred pounds, at least.

  The source of the crash was evident from an armoire that lay overturned. The animal was exploring, swiping odds and ends off the tables, smelling everything as it clattered down. It stood facing away, toward one of the two half open windows.

  He needed to leave.

  The bear stopped its foraging and raised its head, sniffing.

  Not good.

  The animal caught his scent, turned, and faced him, snorting a growl.


  He had a split second to make a decision.

  Normally, you dealt with bears by standing your ground, facing them down. But that advice had clearly been offered by people who’d never been this close to one. Should he head back toward the stairs? Or dart into the room across the hall? One mistake on the way down to the ground floor and the bear would overtake him. He opted for the room across the hall and darted left, entering just as the animal rushed forward in a fit of speed surprising for its size. He slammed the door shut and stood inside a small bedroom, a huge porcelain stove filling one corner. Two more windows, half open, lined the outer wall, which faced the back of the villa.

  He needed a second to think.

  But the bear had other ideas.

  The door crashed inward.

  He rushed to one of the windows and glanced out. The drop down was a good thirty feet. That was at least a sprained ankle, maybe a broken bone or worse. The bear hesitated in the doorway, then roared.

  Which sealed the deal.

  He noticed a ledge just below the window. About eight inches wide. Enough to stand on. Out he went, flattening his hands against the warm stone, his spine pressed to the house. The bear charged the window, poking its head out, swiping a paw armed with sharp claws. He edged his way to the left and maneuvered himself out of range.

  He doubted the animal was going to climb out.

  But that didn’t solve his problem.

  What to do next.

  Tiffany Blues

  By MJ Rose

  Now Available

  Click here to purchase.

  The New York Times bestselling author of The Library of Light and Shadow crafts a dazzling Jazz Age jewel—a novel of ambition, betrayal, and passion about a young painter whose traumatic past threatens to derail her career at a prestigious summer artists’ colony run by Louis Comfort Tiffany of Tiffany & Co. fame. “[M.J. Rose] transports the reader into the past better than a time machine could accomplish” (The Associated Press).

  New York, 1924. Twenty-four-year-old Jenny Bell is one of a dozen burgeoning artists invited to Louis Comfort Tiffany’s prestigious artists’ colony. Gifted and determined, Jenny vows to avoid distractions and romantic entanglements and take full advantage of the many wonders to be found at Laurelton Hall.

  But Jenny’s past has followed her to Long Island. Images of her beloved mother, her hard-hearted stepfather, waterfalls, and murder, and the dank hallways of Canada’s notorious Andrew Mercer Reformatory for Women overwhelm Jenny’s thoughts, even as she is inextricably drawn to Oliver, Tiffany’s charismatic grandson.

  As the summer shimmers on, and the competition between the artists grows fierce as they vie for a spot at Tiffany’s New York gallery, a series of suspicious and disturbing occurrences suggest someone knows enough about Jenny’s childhood trauma to expose her.

  Supported by her closest friend Minx Deering, a seemingly carefree socialite yet dedicated sculptor, and Oliver, Jenny pushes her demons aside. Between stolen kisses and stolen jewels, the champagne flows and the jazz plays on until one moonless night when Jenny’s past and present are thrown together in a desperate moment, that will threaten her promising future, her love, her friendships, and her very life.

  * * * *

  Here’s an excerpt:

  Prologue

  March 13, 1957

  Laurelton Hall, Laurel Hollow

  Oyster Bay, New York

  I lost my heart long before this fire darkened its edges. I was twenty-four years old that once-upon-a-time summer when I fell in love. A love that opened a door into a new world. A profusion of greens, shades of purples, spectrums of yellows, oranges, reds, and blues—oh, so many variations of blues.

  I never dreamed I’d come back to Laurelton Hall, but I always trusted it would be there if I ever could visit. Now that will be impossible. For all that is left of that arcadia is this smoldering, stinking mess.

  Somewhere in this rubble of charred trees, smashed tiles, and broken glass is my bracelet with its heart-shaped diamond and benitoite charm. Did my heart burn along with the magical house, the primeval forest, the lush bushes, and the glorious flowers? I’m not sure. Platinum is a hard metal. Diamonds are harder still. Or did just the engraving melt? And what of the man whose hand had grabbed at the bracelet? His muscle and flesh would have rotted by now. But what of the bones? Do bones burn? Back when it all happened, no report about a missing artist was ever made.

  I take a few tentative steps closer to the rubble of the house. Bits of glass glint in the sun. A shard of ruby flashes, another of deep amethyst. I bend and pick up a fragment the size of my hand and wipe the soot off its surface.

  With a start, I recognize this pattern.

  Patterns, Mr. Tiffany once said, be they found in events, in nature, even in the stars in the firmament, are proof of history repeating itself. If we see randomness, it is only because we don’t yet recognize the pattern.

  So it shouldn’t surprise me that of all the possible patterns, this is the one I’ve found. This remnant of the stained-glass clematis windows from Oliver’s room. I remember how the light filtered through those windows, radiating color like the gems Mr. Tiffany used in his jewelry. How we stood in that living light and kissed, and the world opened up for me like an oyster, offering one perfect, luminous pearl. How that kiss became one more, then a hundred more. How we discovered each other’s tastes and scents. How we shared that alchemical reaction when our passions ignited, combusted, and exploded, changing both of us forever.

  Clutching the precious memory, I continue walking through the hulking mass of wreckage, treading carefully on the broken treasures. I listen for the familiar sounds—birds chirping, water splashing in the many fountains, and the endless rushing of the man-made waterfall that I always went out of my way to avoid.

  But everything here is silent. Not even the birds have returned yet.

  I learned about the fire seven days ago. I was at home in Paris, having breakfast, eating a croissant, drinking a café crème, and reading the International

  Herald Tribune. The headline popped out at me like the obituary of an old friend with whom I had long been out of touch.

  Old Tiffany Mansion Burns

  An eight-level structure with twenty-five baths, the house

  was owned originally by the late Louis Comfort Tiffany

  of the jewelry firm that bears his name. At one time the

  estate covered 1,500 acres of woodland and waterfront.

  I didn’t realize my hand was shaking until I saw a splotch of coffee soak into my white tablecloth.

  The structure later housed the Tiffany Art Foundation,

  which operated a summer school for artists.

  The reporter wrote that a neighbor out walking his dog noticed flames coming from the clock tower of Laurelton’s main house. Within hours, the mansion was ablaze. Fire companies came from as far as Hicksville and Glen Cove. Firemen drained all the neighboring swimming pools using the water to try to contain the conflagration. They carried hoses a half mile down to the Long Island Sound to siphon off that water, too. At one point, 435 firemen worked on the blaze, but the fire raged on and on for five days, defeating them. Those who lived nearby said the skies blackened as metal and wood, foliage, ephemera, and fabric burned.

  The sky here is no longer black. But the smell of the fire persists. And no wonder, considering it burned for so long.

  Once the present turns to past, all we have left are memories. Yes, sometimes we can stand where we stood, see our ghost selves, and relive moments of our life. See the shadow of the man we loved. Of the friend we cherished. Of the mentor who made all the difference. Our memories turn specific. The terrier that played by the shoreline, joyously running in the sand. We can remember the smell of the roses. Look at the azure water and see the glimmer of the sun on the opposite shore and hear a fleeting few bars of jazz still lingering in the air.

  If you were the only girl in the world . . . Staring into the remains o
f what is left, I see ghosts of the gardens and woods, the gazebo, terraces, rooms ablaze with stained glass—everywhere we walked and talked and kissed and cried. With my eyes closed, I see it all in my mind, but when I open them, all of it is gone, up in flames.

  Mr. Tiffany once told me that there is beauty even in broken things. Looking back, there is no question I would not be the artist I am if not for that lesson. But would he be able to salvage any beauty out of this destruction?

  No, I never dreamed I’d come back to Laurelton Hall. The Xanadu where I came of age as both a woman and a painter. Where I found my heart’s desire and my palette’s power. Where depravity bloomed alongside beds and fields of flowers, where creativity and evil flowed with the water in the many fountains. Where the sun shone on the tranquil sea and the pool’s treacherous rock crystals reflected rainbows onto the stone patio. Where the glorious light streaming from Mr. Tiffany’s majestic stained glass illuminated the very deep darkness that had permeated my soul and lifted me out of despair. And where I found the love that sustained me and remained in my heart even after Oliver and I parted.

  Standing here, smelling the acrid stench, looking at the felled trees with their charcoal bark, the carbon-coated stones and bent metal frames that once held the master’s windows, at the smoky, melting mess that was one of the greatest mansions on Long Island’s Gold Coast, I know I never will see it again, not how it was that magical and awful summer of 1924.

  The fire is still hot in spots, and a tree branch snaps. My reverie is broken. Leaves rustle. Rubble falls. Glass crushes. Twigs crack. Then comes a whisper.

  Jenny.

  But it can’t be. The wind howling through a hollow tree trunk is playing a trick. Fooling me into thinking I am hearing his sapphire voice, its deep velvet tone.

  As I listen to the repeated whisper—Jenny—I raise my hand to wipe at my tears and tell myself that it is the smoldering ash making my eyes water. The charms on my bracelet jingle as I lower my arm. And again the whisper…and again my name—Jenny.