I stood looking down at her, grateful for my two-inch height advantage. “For now, but I require much more information if I am to assist Nicolina with her investigation.”
“I will assist the countess with her investigation,” she stated.
So, it was like that, was it? Could Seraphina be jealous of my involvement or simply frustrated to have me underfoot? “And so will I in my own way. I presume we can cooperate with one another?”
“But of course.”
I broke the standoff and indicated the closed door. “So, the interview continues. This is going to be one exhausting day for Nicolina.” I was only making neutral conversation.
“The countess is a strong woman,” her assistant said with a nod.
“As are we all—a good thing, considering. Oh, and before I forget, Seraphina, I have something for you.” I scraped up the surveillance bits from my pocket and held them out to her. “You might want these back. Maybe you can glue them together and use them again on someone else. By the way, I consider this kind of thing very uncooperative considering I was asked to come but I won’t mention this latest violation of my privacy to Nicolina unless you do.”
She fixed me with a penetrating gaze best served for staring down pickpockets.
“No hard feelings,” I said as I emptied them into her hand. “I’m getting used to spy paraphernalia but that doesn’t mean I want it in my face. Why did you put this in my room?”
Her pert, sharp-eyed gaze intensified. “You are in touch with Sir Rupert Fox. I must assure the countess’s interests.”
“And I must assure all my friends’ interests, including my own. Do we understand one another?”
“Perfectly,” she said between her teeth.
“Excellent. Let’s get going.”
I had thought that we would walk down the canal to the closest bridge and simply stroll over to the building in question but Seraphina insisted we take the boat. That involved bounding down the basement stairs and helping her place the vessel onto its rails so that we could slide it into the water. That done, I studied the canalscape as she puttered through the narrow tributaries at the helm, transversing the main canal to a dock close by the building. There was no rush—I knew the woman would be long gone—but I could have walked there much sooner. Seraphina must have known that, too.
Moments later, we were on the street opposite the canal standing beside one of the countless little restaurant bars that lined the water, the only defining feature to this one being that it sat almost directly opposite the Continis’ villa.
As restaurants go, it was a relatively humble affair with an outside eating area of a few metal tables that hugged the blue-and-white painted front with a sun-bleached striped awning over all. An aproned waiter beckoned us over, pointing to a daily special sign fixed on a sandwich board. Seraphina shook her head and began bantering (or I assumed that was bantering) as I backed up far enough to see past the awning to the upper stories—three floors with presumably a roof patio at the very top.
Seconds later, Seraphina was at my elbow. “Luigi says that this is an apartment building—three flats. He says that he does not personally know those who live there except one old man who has lived on the bottom floor for years and a young man who moved in months ago—an art student, he thinks. But the top flat had been empty until a few weeks ago. He says has seen many different people come and go over the last few days. A woman, she just arrived earlier this morning and left a half an hour ago. Very suspicious.”
“Suspicious, why?”
“He has never seen any of them before last week—three men and a lady. None of them appear to stay overnight. Foreigners, he thinks.”
Foreigners. I knew locals can always tell a visitor from myriad telltale signs. “Is there any way we can get up there?”
“Of course. You distract, I pick.”
It is a testament to my new lifestyle that I immediately went up to Luigi and requested to use the facilities with what I hoped was a desperate look on my face. He frowned as if to say no buy, no pee so I ordered an espresso. As he dashed inside to fetch it, I watched Seraphina go to the door to the right of the restaurant, unfold a little wallet of tools, and open the door in seconds. I tossed down a euro on the nearest table and followed her in.
A tall narrow flight of stairs led upward with three metal mailboxes affixed on the wall nearby, each with a grimy doorbell button. The first two floors had names neatly typed in the plastic sleeves but the topmost one remained empty. Seraphina pressed the upper one repeatedly. No answer.
Without a word, we climbed the steep stairway, passing a blue-painted door on the first landing, one with a bike locked outside on the second, and a plain wooden one on the top floor upon which Seraphina knocked imperiously. I’d have loved to know what she would have said had anyone responded since I was too out of breath to do much more than pant at that point.
My companion had the lock picked in seconds and we stepped into a dusty, unfurnished flat smelling faintly of garlic with a single front window overlooking the canal and two smaller back ones facing the rear of another building. We both strolled around, me stepping into the tiny back bedroom and Seraphina into the galley kitchen. My Foxy phone tingled in my pocket.
Turning my back, I slipped the phone from my pocket and read: Sloane has arrived. Can we meet? E
I typed back: With Seraphina now. Where?
Push lower volume button twice and hold. I’ll find you.
I heard Seraphina’s footsteps marching in my direction. I dropped the phone back into my pocket.
“No one has lived here for weeks but in Venice flats do not stay vacant for so long.”
“I doubt this one is vacant, either. I’m betting that someone’s rented it for the sole purpose of surveillance. You’ll need to search immediately for the lessee,” I said, turning around. “You have amazing skill with that kind of thing, right?”
Seraphina shot me a quick look, possibly surprised that I had made a statement that sounded suspiciously directive. Clearly I needed to go head-to-head in a power struggle with Nicolina’s indomitable assistant. “I will do this, yes, and you must not jump to conclusions,” she said. “This is probably the press staking out the countess for the next big story. In Italy, we love our big stories.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Why was Seraphina downplaying this? Someone was watching the villa. That couldn’t be good, no matter the circumstances. Turning, I strolled to the front window and pointed to the Styrofoam coffee cup loaded with cigarette butts. “It is a stakeout, for sure. Look at this. Someone has been watching the villa for days, if not weeks. Is the Italian press really so bent on a story that they’d put four people on the job? I always pictured news hunts to be the domain of some lone-wolf paparazzi stalking the unlikely victim. Come, let’s check out the roof. I saw the little door to the left of the landing.”
I bounded out of the flat and stopped by the door—locked, of course. Seraphina jiggled her little tool into the keyhole and it sprung open in seconds. Moments later we were on top of a shabby little rooftop with a single plastic table and four matching chairs, two of them knocked over. The bottom of the concrete banister was littered with stacked cups of ashes and cigarette butts. “Hmm, messy, and signs of a long, protracted stakeout,” I remarked as I stepped up to the railing. “Now why would anyone be that interested in Maria’s villa, Seraphina?”
“As I say, probably the press.”
I didn’t believe that and I bet neither did she but I played along. “So why not plant one of your little surveillance devices up here so we can at least identify the reporters who are violating our privacy? Surely there must be laws against that kind of thing in Italy? You can send the paper responsible a cease and desist order or the Italian equivalent.”
I turned to find Seraphina seeming to consider this for a moment, though I guessed she was more likely trying to think up a reason why to counter my suggestion. After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, this I will do.”
<
br /> “Excellent. So while you’re doing that, maybe I’ll to do a bit of research and you can report back to me later.” I made for the exit.
“But there does not need to be such a hurry,” she said, dashing after me. “I can do these things later.”
“Nonsense,” I said, waving my hand dismissively as we descended the stairs. “This must be dealt with now. There’s no time to waste.”
When we emerged outside, I turned to her and waved goodbye. “See you later.”
In moments I was striding down the street, leaving her standing there watching me with her mouth pursed in annoyance. Check one for Phoebe. But, I thought as I clambered over a little bridge, Seraphina did not give up so easily. She had to have another plan.
9
It occurred to me as I turned a corner to march down a narrow street edging the water that Seraphina probably expected to track my whereabouts using my tampered phone. No doubt that those blue fingerprints belonged to her. Now what? I pulled out my superphone and tapped out a message to Evan: I’m free now but I’m sure Seraphina is tracking me.
The response came back immediately: She is but to no avail. Don’t worry, I have you covered. Keep walking.
He had me covered—an interesting thought. I strode past churches and other intriguing old buildings until I reached a smaller canal where I took a left-hand turn and continued deeper into the heart of Venice. Somehow I ended up across from the International Gallery of Modern Art, but as tempting as it was to drop in for an eye-feast, I kept on going. I’d look over my shoulder every thousand feet or so expecting to see Evan emerge from behind a building, but nothing—nothing, that is, until a motorboat suddenly came into view zipping toward me.
When the boat slowed and I looked down at Evan at the same time that he looked up at me, our eyes held for seconds too long. I ignored his hand and climbed into the boat without assistance. “Good morning, Ms. Phoebe.”
That greeting nearly spoiled the moment. “So,” I said in my jauntiest tone, “I see you’ve ditched the Phantom of the Opera meets the Lone Ranger look.” Today he dressed like himself in a turtleneck under a chocolate-colored leather jacket with jeans and a version of those peaked hats he preferred. The man was very good-looking, if you liked that square-jawed brawny type. Not me, of course. I preferred them lean, swarthy, and perpetually missing in action apparently.
He smiled. “Most conflicting interests already know that Sir Rupert and I are in town and that you and I are colleagues of a sort. Doubtless we have attracted attention, not all of it friendly.”
Was that what we were—colleagues? Well, I suppose we were. “I’m beginning to think we may have attracted significant interest.”
His mouth formed a grim line when I told him about the surveillance on the roof. “Things may have intensified sooner than I anticipated,” he remarked.
“What if we’re tracked to Rupert’s hideout?”
“Sir Rupert is thoroughly fortified in his current location and I have sentries watching from all possible directions. I’ve also taken precautions regarding Seraphina’s tracking devices. The enhanced phone I provided detects interference and records fingerprints.”
“I figured out the fingerprints.”
He pulled down the throttle and began a slow putter down the canal with a self-satisfied smile on his fine lips. “Please open it now, Ms. Phoebe. I sent you another message explaining the details.”
I did exactly that, grimacing at him for the “Ms. Phoebe” bit before skimming the message quickly. I looked over at him. “You sent her to St. Mark’s Square?”
“That’s where she thinks you’ve gone. Whether or not she follows you there is left to be seen. Just know that she will be unable to track you using her rudimentary tracking devices and thus you are free to move around Venice at your leisure, at least to roam without her particular scrutiny. Obviously you may have attracted other interests.”
I cocked my head at him. “Do I detect a note of pride?”
His lips quirked. “A smidgen, admittedly. Since Seraphina has long been in competition with me so naturally there is a touch of rivalry between us.”
“I know that you are former MI6 but is Seraphina a former agent, too?”
“She did belong to the equivalent of the Italian secret service once, out of Rome, I believe.”
“I haven’t been keeping up with my who’s-who of ex-intelligence agents apparently.”
And Seraphina seemed as devoted to Nicolina as Evan was to Rupert. The things that money can buy. I wanted to ask him what his life was like in Rupert’s employ but now wasn’t the time and maybe that time would never come. Evan had always been a very private man, and though the barriers between us were lowering, I didn’t want to presume too much. Our colleagueship was only at the beginning, after all. “Are we off to see Rupert now?”
“Not until tonight, mada—Ms. Phoebe—after Sloane has finished attacking the building with his bleach and mousetraps. Every dust bunny appears to him like a dragon lurking in the corners so it’s best we don’t annoy him further by our presence.”
I laughed. “How’s Rupert doing, anyway?”
“Much better now that a steady stream of tea and scones have been directed to his bedside. His mood, at least, has improved. I’m afraid I’ve been much too busy with security duty to attend him in the manner to which he’s become accustomed.”
Why was he opening up to me like this? He had never shared so much delightful detail or commentary before. He had always acted as a mouthpiece for Rupert with a wall of tedious formality raised like a force field between us. Now he was revealing himself as a person. “What do you have in mind today, then?"
“I suggest we put our heads together to compare the facts we have gathered so far and see if we can work out next steps.”
“Sounds good. We’ll need a quiet spot for that, preferably one where dust bunnies have already been banished and I can have a decent breakfast.”
He grinned. “I have just the place.”
And so we zoomed down the waterways under blue sky with me feeling more relaxed than I had in days. I didn’t care where we were going at first, content to let him take me there. Still, when we suddenly jetted off across the lagoon, I was intrigued. “Where are we going?” I called above the slap of waves against the bow.
“Torcello.”
Torcello. I had never heard of it. I knew of Murano and I knew of Burano, where I had gone as part of a tour group long ago. I sat back and waited for Torcello to come into view, which it did twenty minutes later by way of a central tower stabbing the blue sky.
As Evan slowed the boat at our approach, he said: “This island was one of the first to be populated after the Veneti fled the invaders, and in 638, Torcello became the bishop’s seat; hence the building of the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta and the central tower you see ahead. Impressive Byzantine mosaics are in there and I do wish we had time for a tour. In any case, in the tenth century, it was more important than Venice as a trading center.”
“What happened to cause its demise?”
“The plague, malaria, and marshes that eventually devoured the harbor is the short story. Today it’s mostly ruins, which has left it with kind of a haunting quality like a dismembered saint—”
And the man had a poetic turn…a dismembered saint. “I always find saintly relics sad—the toe, the knuckle, the supposed skull of Saint So-and-so separated from its body to be stared at and revered forevermore. Whole mummified bodies under glass are particularly gruesome.”
“And yet, as you know, it is part of Italian Catholic culture and revered as a result. Catholicism leaves a deep, lasting mark on its citizens even among the disbelievers, especially in Italy.”
So perhaps he had been raised Catholic? Whatever the case, he appeared to have some strange affinity to this little island. Stranger and stranger.
“For Torcello, sadder still is the way in which the Venetians plundered this island by absconding the stone with which to
build their own structures yonder. The island has been picked apart.”
We entered a short canal with a wharf at one end and boats tied up along the bank. We secured the boat among others of varying shapes and sizes and strolled down a bush-lined lane as quiet as any country path. Though a few people ambled around, the sense of space was remarkable compared to the press of bodies across the lagoon.
The buildings here were mostly shabby and crumbled with paint-scabbed shutters and mottled terra-cotta walls. Of course, this being Italy, every deteriorating inch was artlessly beautiful. I gazed down at the ground beneath our feet—primarily gravel and beaten earth—making me think that the Venetians had plundered even the cobblestones.
Soon I was gaping at a white granite stone seat positioned like a throne along one of the paths that wandered through the remains of the town when Evan stopped. “They call it Atilla’s Throne but it was more likely where the bishop held court and preformed judiciary functions. Pardon me.” He took out his phone and tapped a quick message. “Excellent. She is ready for us.”
“She?”
“Sophia, my friend. She has agreed to provide us a quiet place to talk and breakfast also. Come, Ms. Phoebe.”
Ms. Phoebe followed him to a lovely salmon-colored stucco house with green shutters hanging on by rusting hinges. I’d love to knit or paint that one day but my attention was diverted to the open door. We stepped into a kitchen as humble and charming as anything I have ever seen with an open shutter blowing a warm breeze through lace curtains and an Italian breakfast waiting at a linen-covered table.
An extraordinarily pretty woman greeted us dressed in a sweater and a full patterned skirt. I estimated her to be in her thirties, her face free of makeup and her smile wide and welcoming. “Evan, you have brought your friend. I am Sophia and you must be Phoebe.” She grasped both my hands and pulled me toward her for a brief air kiss.
“Hi, Sophia. Thank you for the welcome and the breakfast. I haven’t eaten properly in days.”
The Carpet Cipher Page 10