Now I had a suite of skills at my disposal including martial arts and firearm skills. How I resented all those years when I’d felt restricted because cities were presumed unsafe for women in a way that didn’t hold true for men. Considering what I had been through in the past five years and that I was armed and probably dangerous, fearing the ordinary criminal wasn’t in the picture. I could defend myself against pickpockets, rapists, robbers, and the like, so cities at night no longer frightened me. In fact, I almost dared anyone to try anything.
Besides, the stalkers who had once dodged my heals had presumably lost interest now that Toby was locked up and I had broken up with Noel, not that we had ever really been together. It was as if the underground communication channels had informed the black market that I was no longer a person of interest. How long would it take for everyone to figure out that my friends and I sat on a fortune of rescued art? Until then, I flew under the radar, or so I hoped. I may as well enjoy it while it lasted.
The lively canal boulevard retreated into the distance the farther I walked. Enticing little alleyways beckoned me on and I took the path less traveled every time. Long dimly lit passageways hemmed in by looming buildings hundreds of years old suited my mood. I loved the mysterious atmosphere, the sense of treading in the footfalls of thousands of souls that had gone before me combined with that haunted hush that descends upon very old places at night. It was almost like walking among ghosts, a sense one rarely experiences when in the company of others.
Shop windows illuminated old bookstores, souvenir shops, and mask vendors, all closed for the night. The city still bore the tawdry remains of revelry as if Venice was just too exhausted after the Carnevale to wash off her face paint. I’d see streamers floating in puddles, a glittery mask hanging on a doorknob, and everywhere the sense of festive aftermath, from the ragged paper signs announcing past events, to the streamers and iridescent confetti plastered onto the damp cobbles.
Occasional groups of four or five pedestrians passed by me in full medieval regalia complete with sparkly masks as if nobody had told them that the Carnevale was over. Lost in time like Venice herself. One man dressed like a fifteenth century courtier poked his face into mine and said something in winy Italian while his companion pulled him away laughing.
Strollers of the more sedate variety squeezed past me in the alleyways, too—lovers arm in arm, a young man marching purposefully with his hands in his pockets, head down. I’d turn a corner and find myself sweeping over a tiny bridge, picture-postcard views of a sleeping canal on either side that left me enchanted, totally in the moment. I felt I could walk forever, stepping over and around this ancient city with its twinkling lights and watery byways while its foundations of ancient logs moldered away deep in the lagoon beneath my feet.
Of course, history always kept me company, a ponderous but fascinating companion. I knew how Venice was built as a refuge against invading marauders and constructed in the lagoon by logs plunged deep into the cold mud, wooden foundations that remained preserved for centuries. Amazing to think that this miraculous floating city was actually sinking by the minute and not because of rotting foundations, though there were signs of that, too, but because the rising sea levels threatened to swamp the ancient streets.
Lulled by the up and down of bridges, the twisting alleys and tiny campi, my mind traveled along its own windy path. After a bit, I left thoughts of history behind and focused on my own small universe. Look how far I'd come from the days when I wanted so desperately to please everyone that I could be lured unwittingly into danger time and time again. If you don’t know what you stand for, you’ll fall for anything. That saying certainly applied to me.
These days, I dove into trouble with eyes wide open. What I had to gain far exceeded what I had to lose, to my way of thinking—my life and those I cared about aside. Now I knew what I stood for and was willing to fight for it: protect the world’s art legacy for future generations and prevent the priceless from slipping into the hands of the criminal few. And spread the love for textiles while I was at it. Yes, I’d protect my friends and loved ones, too—yes, I would—even if they didn’t want me to. Toby came to mind since he hardly wanted to be incarcerated in order to get clean.
I crossed another bridge and caught sight of lovers kissing deeply in the shadows and an ambush of dismay hit me so hard I almost gasped aloud. I carried on across a deserted little campo toward a medieval well, and sat down on a stone bench, suddenly heartsick. So much for bravado. Bravado was a rogue wave of emotion at the best of times. Look at me now: I’d given up love in lieu of principle. Wasn’t I grand? This new kick-ass Phoebe had handed over her brother and cut the heartstrings to the man she loved. I felt the hole in my heart as deep as the grave and it didn’t matter that a moral choice influenced both acts.
What would I do if Noel were to appear over that little bridge right then? He had ambushed me at unexpected moments before. How I longed to see him and how I didn’t—the conundrum of heartbreak.
I stood up. Yes, I sent my brother to prison for a reason, and if Noel seriously wanted to turn his life around and spend some good years with me, he could have taken a stand that night in Jamaica. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to turn his life around, not in the legal sense. Instead, he ran. That’s not what I wanted in a man. I wanted a partner, a lover, a companion, not to mention somebody I could see more often than once or twice a year. I was tired of runners. Enough.
My backbone fortified, I continued my walk more resolved with every step but still oblivious to where I was going. Rupert and Evan were somewhere in this ancient city and by now they’d know I was here, too. Maybe they were even following me.
I swung around to gaze as another twisting alleyway disappeared into the shadows. Footsteps echoed behind me, stopping when I stopped, pausing when I paused. I had been so lost in thought I hadn't noticed until now. Who knew how long I’d been followed? Noel, maybe? My breath caught and I waited. And waited.
Not Noel. He’d approach. My spine tingled. Well, hell. Just when I thought no one cared what I was up to…but then again, maybe the mute stone walls, the narrow alleyways, the shadows, ghosts, and mists were wearing on me. Maybe my true stalker was my own conscience. I checked my watch: 11:05.
Turning away, I carried on down another alley, around and over and into and out, listening to the footsteps echoing out of sight behind walls and on the other side of bridges. Now I knew the stalker was real and it wasn’t Noel. Maybe whoever it was had been keeping me company the whole time. The Accademia Bridge came and went in a burst of bright lights, bars, and clusters of people in masks. I turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of my stalker in the crowd but it was impossible.
Fog began wafting in from the lagoon, thick and atmospheric, and now I had arrived on the other side of Venice. All the mysteries set in the city rose into my imagination unbidden: Don’t Look Now, every single Donna Leon book…
Hell. Stop that, Phoebe. I kept on walking and listening, thinking that I would find a dead end and wait for my stalker to arrive. That’s what children were advised to do with monsters chasing them in their dreams—face them—and that’s what I’d do, too. Only I was prepared to tackle my monster if necessary. I released the safety catch on the pistol in my pocket and kept on walking.
Two more small bridges came and went, each of which looked exactly like the other. I reached a dark body of water where the fog was so thick that lights across the canal could barely penetrate the gloom, where overhead streetlights pushed damp halos through the mist. Behind me stood the imposing domed church illuminated by spotlights that I recognized as the church of Santa Maria della Salute, consecrated in 1681 as a votive from the people of Venice following the devastation of the plague. Why did I have to recall all this historical minutiae at times like this? The plague church. Like I needed that. I turned and waited.
Before me lay the Grand Canal and across the water St. Mark’s Square shrouded in fog, which may as well be a million miles awa
y. I had walked across the whole of Venice, which also meant I’d have to walk the whole way back. I stepped onto the pier toward the deserted platform of a vaporetto depot. This late at night, I could be waiting for the next ride for a long time. Forget that. And what was worse, my pursuer did not step out of the alleyway to introduce himself.
I waited and waited and so, apparently, did he or she. Okay, so if my stalker wouldn’t come to me, I’d just meet them en route.
Thus began a frustrating interlude of me trying to retrace my steps over these same two little bridges to get back toward the Accademia Bridge from whence I’d come. Somehow I’d end up right back at the foot of the Salute having gone in one big circle. I rubbed my eyes, obviously far more tired than I thought. I tried again with exactly the same result and still those echoing footsteps on my heels.
What was I doing, taking a left when I should have gone right? Was my stalker hanging back in the shadows laughing at me while I lost myself over and over again? I felt a presence standing deep in the shadows somewhere. Once more I turned the corner following the side of the church until I reached the first bridge, and once again the second bridge led me to a passage between two buildings and straight back to the Salute.
“Who are you and what do you want?” I called out. Of course no one answered.
The fog was thickening, I was tiring of the game, and at last I pulled out my cell phone. My plan was to activate the GPS and find my way out of the maze but instead I found myself reading a text from Nicolina:
Phoebe, where are you?
I typed back: At Salute pier. Where are you?
We are at the villa, of course. Stay there. We will come get you. It will take at least fifteen minutes.
Great, fifteen more minutes of fog, shadow, and my unseen companion. Why not? I strode across the concrete to wait by the edge of the pier, looking down into the dark water. “If you’re still watching me, the least you could do is step out and hold a conversation.” Nothing.
Five minutes longer, I looked up to the sound of a speedboat approaching. Nicolina already? I stepped closer to the edge and waited.
A single figure manning a small speedboat approached, throttling the engine as the craft put-putted up to the wharf. It took me a moment to realize that the man wore a cape and a black mask, Phantom of the Opera–style. I was so not in the mood for this.
Fingering the gun in my pocket, I stepped forward. “Ahoy. Who goes there?”
7
“Good evening, madam,” the figure called up with a grin that I found both encouraging and unsettling, under the circumstances. “I have come to offer you a lift, rather like an Uber Vaporetto.”
My breath caught. I recognized that deep voice. “An Uberetto? Well, this is a surprise. A lift to where, may I ask?” I called down.
“Wherever you wish, madam. I am at your service.”
“At my service, really—in a mask and a cape?”
The man shrugged and smiled. “When in Venice…”
It didn’t matter, since I was extraordinarily glad to see this man no matter what his get-up.
“Were you just stalking me?” I asked. But being in two places at once was impossible even for him.
“Absolutely not. Was someone following you?” he asked, alarm in his voice.
“Someone was but refused to reveal himself in order to be properly introduced.”
“How rude.”
“I thought so.” I accepted his gloved hand and allowed him to guide me into the craft as if I couldn’t get my own self into a boat and drive the thing, too. He knew it, I knew it, but I took a seat in the prow facing my driver with my hands clasped between my knees. “Seriously, Evan, what’s up with the mask?”
“Venice is a city of subterfuge, madam, especially now. Where would you like me to deliver you?”
“Away from here as fast as this motoscafo can take us. Nicolina and Seraphina are gunning their way toward me now and I’m sure you don’t want that encounter. Take me to Rupert.”
“Sir Rupert?” he called over the engine noise as we churned away from the pier. “Sir Rupert does not expect you this evening, madam. He’s indisposed. We only wished to ensure your safety.”
Bizarre that something that once drove me to distraction—being tailed by Rupert Fox and his multitalented right-hand man—should now cause me so much relief. “My convenience was more the issue here than my safety but thanks, anyway. Rupert is indisposed, really? Does he require his pajamas pressed or something? Well, you can take me to see him, anyway. Please call him to say I’m coming over and that’s that. This can’t wait.”
“As you wish, madam.”
“And stop with the ‘madam’ stuff, will you? You know my name.” I’d lost count of the number of times I’d made that request but it never made a whit of difference. Apparently Evan was hardwired to call me “madam.” If James Bond had been pressed into active service as a dogsbody following his stint with Her Majesty’s Secret Service, it would be Evan.
While he spoke rapidly into his cell phone and steered with his other hand, I pulled out my phone and texted Nicolina: Ride not needed. I have another lift. Will be back in a couple of hours. Sorry for the inconvenience. Don’t wait up.
When I looked again, I realized that Evan had darted the boat into one of the smaller canals on this side of the Accademia and for the first time I wondered exactly where Rupert was staying—not at one of the luxe hotels along the Grand Canal, as I had expected. No, we were winding deeper into this side of Venice’s watery maze, the boat slowing down to a sedate putter after several twists and turns as we threaded between mostly residential buildings.
Soon Evan cut the engine and we floated for a few moments on the watery darkness. Had I not known him better, I would have thought he planned to slit my throat and toss my body into the canal—the perfect setting—but I’d always trusted this man with my life. Around us, Renaissance buildings with tall shuttered windows loomed down like long dark faces with their eyes closed. See no evil…
I was about to ask him what was up when he said: “Madam, what have you brought with you from the villa?”
I looked down at my new jacket and patted the pocket to indicate the gun.
He nodded at me and held out his hand.
Without a word, I shrugged off the jacket and passed it over, watching as he ran his phone up and down every seam until the device beeped. In a flash, he pulled a pocket knife from his jacket, slit the jacket’s lining, and tugged out a shiny coin-like object, which he promptly tossed in the canal. Next, he studied my phone, turned it off, and returned it to the jacket pocket and proceeded to investigate the gun. That, too, had some kind of tracking device secreted on its barrel. Once it was dropped into the water, the jacket was returned and he held out his hand again.
I passed over my carpetbag this time and watched as he performed the same test over each seam, finding another device tucked into the lining.
“Well, damn. Seraphina. I’ve got to get better at looking for those things.” I sighed. “They probably already know where I am.”
“No matter.” Then he pointed to what I thought was a black blanket folded beside another bundle at my feet. “There is a rain cape in that package, which you may find useful. Please put it on.”
Though it wasn’t raining, the mist was thick enough to dampen everything. I opened the package and unfolded a plastic rain cape, which I donned, pulling the hood up so as to give my hair less excuse to frizz.
“You will also find a mask in the other bag. Please put that on, too.”
“Seriously? Carnevale is over, Evan. Am I going to a masquerade or something? I know Rupert loves his balls but this hardly seemed the time, though admittedly the place couldn’t be more perfect.”
I was rewarded by a small smile. “Not quite, madam. The mask is for your protection. Should you be interrogated as to Sir Rupert’s location, you will truthfully be unable to provide directions.”
“So it’s not a mask so much as a
blindfold?” I pulled something stiff and cumbersome from the bag. Holding it up to the meager light, I stared aghast at a hood to which was affixed empty eye sockets and a long beak-like extension like a grisly comic-book bird. I recognized it immediately. This kind of bizarre mask was once worn by physicians in the Middle Ages who stuffed the beak with potpourri in the hope that the herbs would protect them against pestilence. “The plague doctor? Are you kidding me?”
“I assure you I am not,” he said. “This is the only thing I had on hand, and though not technically a blindfold, there’s a very slim chance that you will be able to identify our route while wearing it. Sir Rupert feels that even though you might swear not to reveal our hideout, you are, he says, ‘an abysmal liar.’”
“His fault for raising the bar so high. Is he hiding out, then?”
“The mask, please, madam.”
Rupert was in hiding. Did I blame him? Thoughts of Nicolina and the stalwart Seraphina peppering me with questions I might not want to answer clinched it. I dropped the thing over my head and stared out into the muffled silence. True enough, I could barely see more than misty shadows through the eyeholes. “I just want to say that floating through the Venetian canals dressed as a plague doctor with a masked bandito at the helm of a motoscafo is not how I thought tonight would end.” There was a mouth hole under the beak so presumably he caught the gist but he said nothing in return, or at least nothing I could hear.
In moments the boat lurched forward and we were on our way again, me caught in some kind of strange, sense-deprived limbo as we zipped along. With nothing left to do but think, it occurred to me that I knew the man at the helm only by his first name until recently. Though I’d spent many hours in his company, mostly in heightened situations, he remained a total enigma. That he had once been an MI6 agent was common knowledge, how he ended up as Sir Rupert Fox’s right-hand man was not. He was amazingly skilled at multiple things, from cooking to finagling technological devices to performing improbable feats at short notice. Yet he appeared to live a solitary life attached to Rupert’s side. Why would a man with Evan’s talents be content to work for another, except for the obvious—money and adventure? And yet, there was something about him that made me think that there had to be more to the story. There always was.
The Carpet Cipher Page 6