“I can’t say I’m sorry to finally leave this abysmal place but I’d far rather be sitting snug in my country house about now,” Rupert commented once Evan had left, “feet up by the fire, maybe a good book in hand. Meanwhile, Phoebe, what else do you remember saying?”
But I wasn’t listening. I was thinking, my eyes cast down on the shadowy floor. I got to my feet, picked up the design volume along with the two pictures, and headed out the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“What? Wait! Where are you going?”
To the kitchen, with its superior light source, oblivious to anything else but chasing a hunch. When I entered, Sloane was across the room speaking on a phone and Evan could be seen sitting in an adjoining room busy on a laptop.
Setting the book on the kitchen table with the painting photos on either side, I fished out my phone and opened up my photos to the close-ups I’d taken. Then I orientated the spotlight so that it blazed over all and began turning the pages to study the earliest entries.
Bartolo had painted the wedding scene in approximately 1441 and the Continis had begun keeping records of their textile designs about a decade earlier. The earliest design recorded was a simple vine and floral motif set against red velvet with a gold embossed ground—all recorded in the journal with paint over ink, illuminated-manuscript-style. A few threads of the original fabric clung to a space next to the illustration. Other samples from the same period showed variations of similar designs in colors predominantly red, gold, and blue, all faded, all lovely, but not particularly extraordinary.
However, when I slipped over several pages to the later mid-1500s, the designs showed a subtle shift. The motifs became more complex—flowers inside of flowers, layers of detail so rich that the thick curving vines had sprouted curlicues with filigreed centers and extraordinary birds cavorting amid the branches. I pulled away to use my phone as a magnifying app and returned to study one particularly detailed motif: a silk cut voided velvet with what looked to be three pile warps and gold brocaded wefts depicting pomegranates and peacocks, the vines forming a knotted design like interlacing stars. A border ran along one side of the illustration depicting blues vivid enough to glow after all these years. The sample piece had apparently been removed. I opened my photos and stared at the Bartolo carpet.
“Where was that place in Morocco that the Continis owned?” I asked no one in particular.
“Why, in Marrakech.”
Turning, I found that Rupert had shuffled into the kitchen and plonked himself into a chair.
“Do you know anything about it, like where exactly in Marrakech or how long the family owned it?” I asked.
“Of course,” Rupert puffed. “Maria and I were going to bolt there for our honeymoon, since it was virtually uninhabited at the time…but for a couple of caretakers Papa Contini left in situ. We thought we could buy some time…at least until we could decide exactly where we would live for the rest of our lives.”
“How long has it been in the family?”
“Oh, forever, I believe. It was very old and tucked away in the medieval part of the medina…and apparently had been in the family for…centuries. The Continis never parted with a thing, you see—not daughters, not paintings, not properties—”
“Do you remember what it was called?” I interrupted.
“Well, no, not exactly. Phoebe, what are you thinking?”
I pointed to the design journal. “At approximately the same time as the Bartolo wedding commemorative was painted, the designs in the Contini factory began to change with the work becoming more complex, the dyes more varied, and with certain reoccurring motifs appearing with interlacing designs, including a few geometric features that have echoes of Berber combined with extraordinary florals such as that one.” I tapped the painting of the bride’s dress.
Rupert leaned over and peered at my phone. “My word, are you saying what I believe I’m hearing?”
Evan stepped out from the side room. “So, the bride’s family came from Marrakech!”
I swung toward him. “And it makes perfect sense. Morocco has a rich textile tradition dating back thousands of years with influences from all over Africa and the East and the Jews were moving all over the continent at the time. That must have included Morocco.”
“And aspects of the Moroccan flag actually form a star,” Evan pointed out, bringing up the country’s flag on his phone.
“Does it?” I marveled. “So supposing that a family living in Marrakech was making exquisite textiles for the sultans at the time but because of religious persecution felt compelled to leave the area?”
“And supposing they managed to strike up a friendship with an Italian merchant trader in the same business as they, one whom, for the exchange of some secret—” Evan added, picking up the story.
“Like the recipes for special dyes or weaving techniques—” I chimed in excitedly.
“—decided to form an extraordinary contract to bind their two houses and businesses?”
“But,” I said, striding up to him, “what if the Jewish Moroccan family needed to further seal the deal in the tradition of a dowry, an incredibly rich dowry, considering the risks to the groom’s family?”
“Possibly one too valuable to transport by horseback along with the bride, at least not immediately. Morocco was fraught with war at the time, I believe, with factious elements in a power struggle. So if traveling across Europe wasn’t dangerous enough, carrying a fortune in some kind of unknown wealth within a country at civil war would be.” Evan was at least as caught up with the story as I was.
“So,” I said, tapping him on the chest with my one good hand because I couldn’t help myself, “the wealthy Moroccan family wrapped the location of this dowry in a cipher and had Bartolo paint it into the commemorative painting to keep it safe until it could be transported to Venice. Both parties knew of the location at the time but agreed not to retrieve it until times were safer.”
“But time and life intervened. Perhaps the parties died or for whatever reason it became impossible to retrieve the dowry.”
“Maybe because of the plague or smallpox or something?” I suggested.
He grabbed my hand and held it tight. “Or some other calamity befell the parties until all the individuals who could unlock the cipher were dead and the secret lost forever.”
“Until now,” I whispered, pulling my hand away not because it didn’t feel good but because it felt too good. “It’s got to be in Morocco, which explains this.”
Returning to the table, I picked up Crivelli’s Annunciation. “All this time I couldn’t figure out what the first painting had to do with the Bartolo but now I think I understand: it was meant to be added as another clue but not necessarily related to the marriage painting. If you look in the background to where the landscape rises to meet the blue sky, you’ll see something very strange for Italian Renaissance art—palm trees. It’s not that they didn’t exist in Italy at the time—I think they did—but they rarely appear in ecclesiastical art.”
“Also, there is very little else that is green amid the foliage, also atypical for the period since we know how the Renaissance artists loved to ground their work with local flora and fauna,” Rupert added, donning a pair of glasses from his pajama pocket. “Look at this and tell me if this doesn’t rather look like an abundance of sand?”
I’d already reached the same conclusion. “Sand, yes, and that light seems very desert-like to me, though at first I thought it Tuscan.”
“So what else does this tell us besides that this Jewish bride may have come from Morocco?” Rupert peered up at me, his spectacles slipping down his nose.
“That I need to go to Marrakech immediately, obviously,” I said.
The usual flurry of protests erupted from my self-appointed male protection squad. I waited until they subsided before restating my position, even hearing out each of the supposedly logical points that Rupert and Evan posed as if I seriously considered them. Finally. Foxy wheezed himself
into a coughing fit.
After he recovered, I began: “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen—really, I mean it—but as you’ve already pointed out, nobody here is able to go with me. Rupert’s too ill; Evan must protect Rupert; and we can’t even alert Nicolina and Seraphina to my plans in case it tips off the mole. So, who’s left?”
“Ms. Phoebe,” Evan began, “I—”
I held up my hand. “Enough. Look, somebody has to go to Marrakech and trace these clues to the source and there’s nobody able to do it but me apparently. Who else is there?”
“But it is exceedingly dangerous!” Rupert spewed. “You can’t—” (deep shaky breath) “—go alone!”
“I’m not planning on going alone exactly. Is it possible to get me on a flight out of Venice to Marrakech before dawn?” I asked Evan.
“If not before dawn, then possibly first thing in the morning,” he said, frowning. “I would suggest you travel under an assumed name, which takes some time to organize—”
“Evan!” Rupert croaked, shooting him a baleful glance.
“What’s the riad called?” I asked him. “Seraphina said it was now an Airbnb.”
“I don’t recall,” Rupert gasped, hastily downing an inch of cold tea while Sloane poured him a glass of water from a bottle.
“More like you don’t want to tell me,” I said. “Do I have to call Nicolina to find out?”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” Evan said. “We have no idea if we’ve located all the bugs yet.”
“So it would be much safer if Rupert just told me, wouldn’t it, Rupert?”
Rupert glowered at me from over his glass. “Phoebe, we will not be there to protect you but if you insist—”
“I do.”
“Very well.” Rupert sighed. “The riad is called—”
“La Maison Oasis Bleu,” Evan intercepted. “I took the liberty of checking it out some days ago. You must try to limit speaking, sir.”
“A French name?” I asked.
But Rupert was not a man easily silenced. “I believe that Signore Contini thought a French name more fitting…for the tourist trade considering…that most of the visitors are either British or French, Morocco having…”
“Morocco having once been a French protectorate,” Evan finished for him, “but I believe the riad has gone through many manifestations over the centuries.”
“Makes sense.” I nodded, eager just to get going before I changed my mind.
“I will make your bookings under an assumed name, madam—er, Ms. Phoebe—”
“Try ‘Phoebe.’ It escaped your lips at least once tonight.”
He chose not to acknowledge that remark. “—and arrange your travel documents accordingly. Meanwhile, there is much to do. Excuse me.” With that Evan dashed back into his anteroom, which, I had decided, must have been some sort of pantry.
Sloane stepped forward. “Sir, I suggest that you return to your bed immediately. In fact, I must insist. Indeed, you will need to recoup your strength for the long night ahead. I will return to assist you to dress once the arrangements are made.”
“Shall I help Rupert back to his bed so you can get to work?” I asked, offering Rupert one arm while tucking the design compendium under the other.
Sloane rewarded me with a slight incline of the head. “Very much appreciated indeed, Ms. Phoebe.”
“Come along, Rupe. Your staff have their hands full so it’s best to keep out of the way.”
Rupert bristled but allowed me to lead him back into the ballroom. “This is so unsettling…so upsetting,” he wheezed.
“Yes, I know—to be sick when there’s so much going on.”
“I was not…referring to that, but yes, I’m usually…more in control than this.”
“Of course you are,” I soothed, “and you will be again once you’ve recovered. Everybody gets sick once in a while, Rupert. Why are you so shocked that it happened to you?”
“Poor timing,” he sighed. “Just very, very poor timing. I feel that this is—”
“Right. Stop talking.”
“—part of my history, my story, perhaps.” He took a deep breath. “Maria and I…it was very long ago but it is…part of who I am…yet here I am, too weak to do much.”
“Sometimes you just have to allow others to tell parts of our stories for you. Maybe it will be a slightly different perspective, but it’s still part of the tale. In the meantime, try to just sit back and let the rest of us take up the reins, all right?”
Once I had him sitting on the edge of the bed, he gazed up at me. “Since when did you become so…bossy?”
I wanted to laugh but I couldn’t quite pull it off. “It’s part of my personal growth continuum. Everybody changes, Rupert. Besides, if we don’t change, we may as well be dead.”
“Don’t say the ‘D’ word around here, please.” He shot a quick glance around the shadows while taking a deep breath through a gurgling chest. “What about Noel? You haven’t even…mentioned the lad.” He kicked off his slippers and lay back while I covered him with a blanket.
“And I don’t intend to except to say that’s over,” I said briskly.
“You can’t…mean that.”
“Yes, I can, and I do mean it absolutely. It took a long time for me to figure out what I want in life and to realize that he can’t be part of it. You haven’t been in contact with him, have you?” I studied his face.
“No, of course not. Since Jamaica, he’s disappeared from the radar but…” He closed his eyes. “He used to always…look out for you and…he may be doing so now. You must watch for him.”
“I hope he doesn’t show, but if he does, I’ll be ready for him. Besides, he’d be better off looking after himself. Once Interpol catches up with him, they’ll be putting him away for a long, long time. Sparks flew between us, I admit. It wasn’t a relationship so much as a string of steamy events under heightened circumstances. That’s not what I want.”
“I hope you mean that,” he rasped.
“I do. Now get some rest.”
Wait, there is…something I need to tell you. Should have…told you sooner…”
“Just stop. Rest. You can tell me later.”
I left him dozing while I plucked my phone from my bag and in seconds had fired off a couple of quick emails. That didn’t mean that I had time to answer any, though I noticed three from Max and two from Serena.
Minutes later, I was sitting across the kitchen table from Evan, listening intently to the details of my emerging escape plan. He had the preliminaries mapped out and now all that was needed was confirmation from a couple of his contacts. I was given a prepaid Visa card and told that someone would meet me at the airport with a package of credentials for my new identity— Penelope Martin, fiction writer, researching for my new book.
“Fiction authors have unlimited scope for investigating unusual and arcane matters,” Evan explained. “By the time you arrive in Marrakech, Penelope will have two books in a series for a genre known as romantic historical suspense available on Amazon. The books are bogus, of course, but since they aren’t advertised, no one will ever purchase them before they are taken down. They are there only to bolster your disguise in Marrakech.”
Ask why this surprised me. “Is that legal?” Stupid question, I know, but it just came out.
His restrained smile was strangely regretful, maybe a little sad that two people who believed they stood for the forces of good—at least one of them did, anyway—now resorted to the tools of the enemy. But that’s just my interpretation. He was probably thinking something totally different. “Nothing we are doing here is strictly legal, madam—”
“Phoebe.”
“Ms. Phoebe, but we employ whatever strategies and tools are available as a means to an end in a world seething in crime and violence.”
I couldn’t let it go. “But you used to be MI6. Your entire modus operandi was to defend Britain, presumably working as an agent on the right side of the law, and now you work for
Rupert, who is…less than honest,” I finished limply. For some reason I could not openly call the man before me a crook, not when I saw him as so solidly dependable, incredibly talented, and worthy of a better descriptor.
He studied me in the half-light of the lamp, the little quirk quirking away. What was he thinking, what was he restraining himself from saying? “Perhaps there is more going on here than you know.”
“What a shock that would be.”
And then he stood up. “Now perhaps we had best return to our preparations. Excuse me. Oh, one more thing: I have written out a set of instructions for working the features on your phone. Please put them safely into your bag.”
“Sure,” I said. I took the wad of paper from the table and mindlessly stuffed it into my carpetbag. That left me sitting at the table awash in a knot of feelings I couldn’t begin to untangle. Meanwhile, I could see Sloane busy making reservations across the room. Apparently they were putting Rupert up at the Cipriani since they believed the danger to his health more of a threat than any assassination attempt, especially now that Nicolina and Seraphina had called off the hunt. Or had they? At least nobody had attempted to follow us here—yet, anyway.
A boat was to pick me up for a ride to the airport at 5:00 a.m., a bit earlier than necessary considering that my flight left at 7:00, but the household was exiting for the hotel at the same time.
Clearly, I needed rest. At last, I tucked myself into a shadowy corner and pulled on my still-damp bra, gathered all my things together in one spot, and took up Sloane’s offer to catch a few z’s on a foldout cot. The next thing I knew, the butler was shaking me awake, dosing me with strong coffee, and urging me toward a waiting vaporetto for a flight on Air France to Paris de Gaulle and then on to Marrakech. I agreed that the roundabout route made for a good diversionary tactic in case anyone followed but it also made for a long day. And I was traveling ridiculously light, even for me, and even for what was supposed to be a three-day trip. I tried to take the design compendium along but Evan suggested that I leave that with him, which I reluctantly did.
The Carpet Cipher Page 17