Where Dead Men Meet

by Mark Mills

  Wise advice, as always, from Elena. By God, he missed her. Not a day passed when he wasn’t at some point left breathless by her absence. He had been living half a life ever since she had been gathered from him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about that thing I mentioned the other day. I’ve decided I’m going to step down, resign from the board.”

  Albrizzi Marittima had gone from strength to strength over the past twenty-five years, and it had taken Vittorio almost as long to accept that he had played a secondary role in the company’s burgeoning fortunes. Yes, he had piloted the ship safely through the tricky shoals of the Great War, but ever since, Benedetto had been the one with the quietly commanding hand on the wheel.

  Vittorio was immensely proud of his son. It was impossible to fault his instincts, or his art of subtle persuasion when it came to nudging others toward his way of thinking. As a child, he had been doggedly determined but always self-deprecating, never confrontational, and he had managed to carry that same disarming mix of qualities over into adulthood.

  Back in 1925, a few years after Mussolini’s rise to power, Vittorio had proposed a diversification of the company’s interests into the lucrative transatlantic passenger market fueled by the mass migration of Italians. Benedetto had praised his thinking before slowly, respectfully chipping away at it. He had somehow managed to get his hands on confidential papers pointing to an overinvestment by the three leading Italian companies in the field, and this at a time when the first tremors of a possible financial downturn were being felt in the United States. Moreover, he had it on good authority that Congress would soon move to limit immigration into the country.

  In the first real challenge to his authority, the board of Albrizzi Marittima had persuaded Vittorio to abandon his dream and stick to what the company had always done best: shipping cargo. Thank goodness, for they would have lost their shirts on the venture.

  It was around that time that Benedetto had begun making regular trips to Rome, cultivating relationships at the Ministry of Communications, which handled all matters relating to merchant shipping. Government contracts began to roll in, and in such numbers that the company barely faltered with the financial crash of 1929. The country’s leading passenger carriers—NGI, Lloyd Sabaudo, and Cosulich—hadn’t fared so well. Brought to their knees, they had found themselves nationalized by Mussolini.

  Benedetto had grasped from the first what the rest of them had failed to see: that Il Duce was no flash in the pan. He was here to stay, and for all his strutting bombast, all his talk of mare nostrum, he fully intended to follow through on his grandiose plans to restore the nation’s lost maritime glory. This would mean rich pickings for those who forged close ties with the regime.

  It was a dirty business. It meant bribes and kickbacks to a variety of unsavory officials, the kind of men Vittorio’s father would have refused to deal with as a matter of principle. While Vittorio accepted such practices as a necessary evil in a rapidly changing world, he had always harbored misgivings about binding the company’s fortunes too tightly to those of a dictator haunted by imperialist visions.

  Morally—for him, at least—there had been a hefty price to pay for the vast profits of the past few years. Albrizzi Marittima had grown rich on the back of the war against Abyssinia, supplying the Italian army with everything from boots to bullets and helping bring to life Mussolini’s dream of a colony in East Africa. How many innocent Abyssinians had lost their lives in the conflict? And how many were still dying under the occupation of their homeland? Reports varied, but even the low estimates were enough to chill the blood. The same was true of the civil war in Spain, where General Franco and his Nationalists were beginning to turn the tide against the Republicans, thanks in no small part to Mussolini’s material assistance, which found its way across the Mediterranean on company ships.

  Vittorio had made his feelings known, and Benedetto had countered his concerns with the same seductive rhetoric employed by Mussolini in his innumerable speeches and printed articles, falling back on phrases such as “the civilizing mission of Rome” and “the universal heritage of antiquity.”

  There was a time some years ago when Vittorio could have made a stand, imposed his will. And if Elena had still been around to support him, he might well have done so. But that moment had passed. He was too old and too weary now to challenge his son. And to what end? No scales were suddenly going to fall from Benedetto’s eyes. His friends and associates were good Fascists to a man (and woman), and he would never allow anything to jeopardize his hard-won standing among them.

  Benedetto’s marriage to Giovanna—a Morisini—might have opened the door, but it had taken considerably more initiative than that to earn the acceptance of those who looked down on the union as just another pairing of old money with new. Benedetto had shown humility, patience, and, most importantly, respect to the people who regarded themselves as his betters. In private, he had studied hard in all the areas that mattered to them—art, languages, literature, theater, opera, classical music, cinema—until he wore the cloak of culture as nonchalantly as they. And when he sat at their dinner tables, he let his knowledge leak out in ways that never threatened or challenged, but only entertained.

  Vittorio had seen all this with his own eyes, for he had been drawn along in the slipstream of Benedetto’s carefully managed metamorphosis, invited by association to the many balls, dinners, and cocktail parties that accompanied the relentless drumbeat of feast days and festivals that the city had always moved to.

  Last year, they had even been allocated an annual slot in the cluttered calendar: hosting a ball the night of the Redentore, once the fireworks were over. It was the ultimate seal of approval and, for Benedetto personally, an honor matched only by the invitation from Giuseppe Volpi himself to join the committee of next year’s Biennale.

  It was easy to sneer, somewhat harder to face the truth: that Vittorio might have led the family back across the Adriatic to the city of their forebears, but it was Benedetto who had settled them here, stitching them into the fabric of Venetian society so deftly that almost no signs of the repair remained. The dynasty was safe, its future assured for the next generation.

  It had never been in question that Salvatore would join the company after graduating from university, and in two weeks, Vittorio’s eldest grandchild would do just that. It would be a first for the family: three generations of Albrizzi under one roof, both at home and at work. The occasion demanded to be marked in some way, possibly with a bonus to all the company’s employees, from captain all the way down to stoker. And at the party—this being Venice, there would have to be one—Vittorio would announce his retirement, to the surprise of all (and the ill-disguised relief of Giovanna, no doubt).

  “Anyway, my darling, that’s what I’ve decided to do,” said Vittorio. “My mind is made up. I think it’s time. In fact, I should probably have done it well before now. Benedetto will make an excellent president; that’s been clear for some years now.”

  He laid his palm on the marble, hoping for something, anything, but all he felt was a faint quiver of heat stored away in the stone by the young sun.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As soon as the operator had made the connection and disappeared, a voice said, “You’re in Padova already?”

  “We drove through the night,” Petrovic replied.

  Outside the soundproofed telephone booth, Jestin loitered in the main hall of the post office, smoking and looking disgruntled, which was hardly surprising: they should have been back in France by now, not traveling through Italy in quite the opposite direction.

  “That’s good. It means you’ll be in Venice well before them.” A second voice, distinguishable from the first only by its undertone of malice. Josip Karaman’s younger brother, Petar, was also on the line.

  “Assuming they’re headed there,” Petrovic countered.

  “Where else are th
ey going to go?”

  “How is your shoulder?” asked Josip.

  “Sore as hell.”

  He had bound the wound inflicted by Borodin’s sword cane, but it would need cleaning and stitching up as soon as they got to Venice. Only time would heal his left eye, reduced to an ugly gash by the swelling that even now was pressing against the lens of his sunglasses.

  “We’ve made some enquiries,” said Petar. “Your story checks out.”

  “Not that we didn’t believe you,” added Josip.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Ignore my brother. He’s not in the best of moods.”

  “I can’t think why,” growled Petar.

  “We are where we are,” Josip replied with deliberation. “Let’s just remain calm and take stock of the situation.”

  Through a contact in Zurich, they had learned since last night that there were two victims of the gunfire in Hirschenplatz, both of them German—possibly brothers, if their identity papers were anything to go by. The first had been shot twice in the heart by a young woman who then fled the scene. The second had been shot once by an unidentified man leaving the café, or possibly by a policeman. The witnesses couldn’t agree on this point. It was clear, however, that the policeman had then left the square in the company of two men, one of them wounded, and had not been seen or heard of since, suggesting that he was a plant of Borodin’s. Their contact was chasing down a rumor that the three men had subsequently been spotted driving off in the company of the young woman.

  When Petrovic had called from Austria late last night, he all but accused them of assigning an additional team to the job, for why else had the situation in Hirschenplatz spun so violently out of control? They had assured him this wasn’t the case, and Josip reiterated the point now.

  “I can promise you the two Germans had nothing to do with us, and since they are both dead, we can dismiss them from the picture and stick to what we do know—or can safely surmise.”

  Borodin had evidently undergone a last-minute change of heart, or else he would not have exposed Hamilton to the potential danger of a meeting with Petrovic. They could assume that the Englishman was no longer in the dark about his identity. This was an unfortunate development, undeniably, but it also played in their favor, for Hamilton would feel compelled to confirm what he had discovered from Borodin. What were his alternatives? To return to his former life? A death sentence. To hide and stay hidden for good, never knowing the truth? Out of the question. No, he would show himself before long, and they would be waiting for him when he did.

  “Do you have a pen?” asked Josip.

  “Yes.”

  “Write this number down.”

  Petrovic uncapped the fountain pen with his teeth and scrawled the number on his forearm.

  “Call it as soon as you get to Venice. He won’t be happy to hear from you, but we’ll do our best to appease him beforehand.”

  “Does he have a name?” asked Petrovic.

  “Of course he has a name!”

  “Petar, please …”

  There was a weary edge to the brotherly reprimand, and a brief pause before Josip spoke once more to Petrovic.

  “What you’re about to hear stays with you. No one must ever know. No one.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Luke woke from his dream with a start to find Pippi standing over him, her hand on his shoulder.

  “We’re almost there. Venice Mestre. The station.”

  The train was crawling along, the sunlight slanting through the window of their compartment and splashing the seats. It was coming back to him now.

  “Oh. Right.”

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and hauled their suitcases from the steel-and-string rack.

  “Where were you?” she asked.

  “Fishing … on Wicken Fen.”

  “Did you catch anything?”

  “No, but I was about to.”

  Pippi smiled. “Sorry.”

  He didn’t tell her that he had just hooked a car—their car, the Citroën they had abandoned on a back street behind Bergamo station a few hours ago.

  They had no difficulty finding a taxi in front of the station building, and from there it was a short ride to a dock and a water taxi operated by their driver’s cousin, a stout man with a silver furze of close-cropped hair and a face tanned to a deep mahogany. His name was Gregorio, and he seemed puzzled, almost offended, when Pippi didn’t haggle over the fare.

  A network of drab waterways trimmed with wharves and warehouses finally gave way to the lagoon and a first glimpse of Venice. It lay far off, a low mass on the horizon, identifiable at this distance only by the long and rather ungainly bridge connecting it to the mainland. Gregorio opened the throttle, and as they skimmed across the glassy surface, the city gradually began to take shape: tall towers and spires stabbing the sky, the domes of churches rising above the rooftops. Pippi abandoned Gregorio at the wheel and joined Luke on the bench seat at the back of the boat.

  “He says the best hotels are full. There’s a film festival happening.”

  “We need something more discreet anyway, somewhere off the beaten track.”

  “That’s what I told him. He says he knows a place.”

  Gregorio was surprised when they exchanged the open air for the low cabin at the front of the taxi. They couldn’t hope to keep their faces hidden at all times, but placing them on full display as they cruised down the Grand Canal was an unnecessary risk and best avoided. Besides, they still had a good view of the colorful pageant unfolding around them. The teeming traffic—everything from freight barges to gondolas—moved against a backdrop of ancient edifices lining the canal.

  Luke had imagined an island, a city set well above the waterline, but the buildings seemed to rise directly out of the murky green waters, as though the place had been struck by a terrible flood that would never retreat. When not hurling greetings at other boatmen, Gregorio called down to them, pointing out sights, and when they passed beneath the Rialto Bridge, he let out a loud yell that echoed off the arched underside.

  Not long afterward, he guided the taxi off the Grand Canal into a narrow waterway barely wide enough for two boats to pass. The laundry strung from clotheslines overhead offered some welcome splashes of color to a gloomy world that was airless, malodorous, untouched by the sun. A dog barked; a woman laughed; some thin strains of jazz came through briefly above the low thrum of the boat’s engine. Luke was beginning to feel unnerved, claustrophobic, when the buildings on their left fell suddenly away to reveal a sun-drenched square.

  Gregorio tied up at some steps, told them to stay put, then hurried off to check availability at the hotel (and negotiate his fee for bringing the place some trade, Pippi speculated). She declined a cigarette, and Luke lit one for himself.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Undeniably. Diners were finishing their lunch at a couple of cafés, and the marble facade of the church filling one side of the small square shone with a ghostly linen brilliance. It was flawless, all of it, and yet, he struggled to engage with the scene.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied.

  Pippi must have sensed his hesitation. “You’ll feel better when we have a room and you’ve heard my plan.”

  “Another plan?”

  Pippi smiled. “Even better than the last one.”

  Gregorio returned triumphant and insisted on carrying their suitcases to the San Barnaba Hotel, a tall stucco building on the far side of the square. They got a warm greeting from the concierge, a young man named Foscolo, trim and spruce and absurdly handsome, who turned out to be Gregorio’s nephew. Pippi explained this to Luke once a grateful Gregorio had disappeared with his generous tip and Foscolo was showing them upstairs to their room.

  It was on the second floor, with two large windows overlooking the square. More than sat
isfied with it, Pippi disappeared back downstairs with their passports to register.

  Luke splashed his face with water in the bathroom, then went in search of a hiding place for the money they had received from Borodin. The sagging mattress of the double bed was an option, if a little obvious, and it would require a knife to make an incision. He made a tour of the room, testing the floorboards with his foot, but they were nailed down solidly. The dressing table and the chest of drawers offered nothing, but the wardrobe did. A modern affair in bird’s-eye maple, it had no feet, just a solid base that sat directly on the floor. He edged it away from the wall, then tilted it back, his fingers groping beneath the base till they found a hollow space. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

  When Pippi returned to the room, she had a map of the city in her hand. She spread it out on the bed and they took their bearings.

  “We’re here, Campo di San Barnaba. And this is where we’re going: Campo San Polo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where the library is.”

  They took a water taxi. It was safer than tramping the streets, and time was against them. The driver got them as close as he could, but they had to travel the last few hundred yards on foot. As instructed by Borodin, they put some distance between each other: Luke up ahead, just another tourist in hat and sunglasses and with a camera around his neck; Pippi shadowing him. They both were armed and vigilant.

  Campo San Polo was a good deal larger than San Barnaba—a vast sweep of flagstones big enough to stage a football match. The buildings trimming the square had a neglected air that spoke of past glories unlikely ever to be revisited.

  They identified the library easily enough: biblioteca was carved in large letters into the stone lintel above the entrance doors.