Where Dead Men Meet

by Mark Mills

  “No.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  Benedetto bowed and shook his head. “No.”

  Vittorio had told himself he wouldn’t lose his temper, but he hurled his flute into the fireplace, where it shattered across the tiled hearth. “At least ten, from what I’ve been told, and it’s not over yet!”

  Drawn by the noise, Giorgio came hurrying into the drawing room with two men at his shoulder. Vittorio nodded at them and they retired warily.

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Benedetto.

  “You’ll see.”

  “None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for him. If he hadn’t fired at the crowd.”

  “Don’t you dare seek an excuse for your actions. You should have come to me when the Karamans approached you.” Vittorio crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “What are you going to do?” Benedetto asked in a quavering voice.

  “Bury it—along with the Karamans. And you’re going to help me. You won’t be joining your family in Asolo anytime soon.”

  “What do I tell Giovanna?”

  “That something has come up, that you can’t get away. Or you can tell her the truth if you like: that I’ve decided to sell the company.”

  “Sell it? You can’t.”

  “I think you’ll find I can. We have a number of suitors, as you know, and I don’t like the direction you’ve taken it in.”

  “We’re doing better than ever,” Benedetto whined.

  “For how long? I don’t have the same blind faith in Mussolini that you and your friends do. There’s a war coming, and something tells me we’re going to be on the wrong side of it this time. What do you think Albrizzi Marittima is going to be worth after that?”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “I’ve made my decision. If you fight it, you’ll fight from prison.”

  Benedetto seemed to weigh the threat. “And if I don’t fight it?”

  “You’ll receive a portion of the proceeds from the sale—less than you would like, but more than you deserve—enough to get started, though not in Italy, not even in Europe. Far away. You will present your departure as your own decision, one taken in anger against a father who sold your life’s work out from under you—a father you never wish to see or speak to again.”

  Benedetto nodded several times. “Is this what you want?”

  “No, I want my only son back. I want it to be like it was before, but that’s not possible.” Vittorio took a moment to steady himself. “Back to my first question: Do you have a telephone number for the Karamans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because you’re going to call them and tell them exactly what I tell you to say.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Petrovic knew the symptoms because he had broken ribs in the past. Every intake of breath was a dagger in his chest. The aspirins had taken the edge off the bruising around his shoulders, back, and thighs, but he was going to need something stronger for the ribs.

  Curled up on the mattress, groaning, it was hard to think of himself as a lucky man, but he knew he was. He had come within seconds of death last night. Hamilton had been ready to kill him, and if he had broken off, it could only be to look for the gun to finish the job. Summoning every last scrap of strength, Petrovic had slithered into the water and swum silently away, around the corner into a narrow canal. He had hidden in the dark, tight space between two moored boats, shivering and listening, before finally hauling himself over a gunwale, too battered and exhausted to do anything but lie beneath a piece of tarpaulin until daybreak.

  His clothes had all but dried off in the morning sunshine during the walk back to the hotel, and he had checked out immediately, decamping by water taxi to another hotel—one closer to the station, closer to the car. The Karamans had been surprisingly sanguine about last night’s debacle, possibly because he had come so tantalizingly close to completing the mission. Watching Hamilton and Jestin thrashing around in the water, he had assumed it was as good as done. Two birds with one stone: Hamilton dead and Jestin silenced. How had he gone from that to writhing on a bed, with at least two broken ribs?

  The pain was getting worse. He needed to get to a pharmacy before the shops closed. A bottle or two of cough syrup should do the trick—something with an opiate in it. He was dressing himself with difficulty when the phone rang.

  It was Josip Karaman.

  “Albrizzi just called. He heard what happened at the hotel. He’s happy as a king.”

  It didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no sign of Hamilton. He thinks you have dealt with the problem.”

  “I will,” said Petrovic. “You have my word.”

  “I don’t want your word. I want you to call Albrizzi and arrange to pick up the last payment. He has the cash ready.”

  “And Hamilton?” he asked.

  “Long gone by now, if he has any sense.”

  “I’m not finished with him yet.”

  “You think we are?” said Josip. “You’ll have your fun when we find him. For now, the money comes first. You’ll drive it to Monfalcone, then head back to Paris. We need you to put our house in order there. The vultures are already circling.”

  The ringing phone cut through the nervous silence in the drawing room.

  “Remember, you’re delighted with the outcome,” said Vittorio. “Don’t forget to thank him.”

  Benedetto tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette and rose to his feet. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Of course he did, Vittorio mused. He had shown himself to be a master of deceit.

  Benedetto crossed the room and raised the receiver to his ear.

  “Albrizzi,” he said.

  A couple of hours ago, Petrovic reflected, he wouldn’t have been able to climb into the boat, let alone row the damn thing. Two bottles of foul-tasting cough syrup had worked wonders. He felt almost nothing—just a dull throb in his side, and a giddy sense of well-being. Emboldened, he even toyed with the thought of keeping the money for himself. Where would he go? And how long would it be before the Karamans tracked him down? No, he would take his chances with Monfalcone, and take precautions when he got there.

  When he reached the Grand Canal, he guided the rowing boat to the left, counting off the palazzos as he passed them. There it was: a pinprick of light—the lantern Albrizzi had said he would hang in the boathouse. He stopped briefly to place his pistol in his lap as he maneuvered past the wooden pilings and beneath the arch. The lantern cast a dim, eerie light around the vaulted space, and the water lapped lazily against the narrow quay where the big launch was moored. He waited, allowing his eyes to adjust fully before clambering out of the boat. Then he waited some more. No hurry. Better to be safe.

  He almost felt sorry for Albrizzi. If he thought this was the end of it, he was sorely mistaken. He would be doing business with the Karamans for the rest of his days. Now that they had a hold over him, his ships would be running their contraband before he knew it. That was where they made the real money: ensnaring wealthy, respectable, influential types like Albrizzi and folding them into the organization.

  He pulled the flashlight from his jacket pocket and ran it over the launch, firing the beam through the windows of the low cabin. A leather bag sat on the table, exactly where Albrizzi had said it would be. He stepped warily aboard, avoiding the coil of heavy chain on the rear deck, and peered into the cabin before entering. He was reaching for the bag when something hit him so hard across the shins that he fell on his face before he could put his hands down.

  There was a brief moment of dazed consciousness, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, then nothing.

  The sound of a motor. The slight pitch and roll of a boat. He breathed in and gagged. Blood in his throat. From his nose. He tried to reach for it, but his hand
s were bound fast to his side. No, not bound, exactly. He was wrapped in chain, cocooned like a chrysalis, lying on the deck.

  “Help!” he shouted in Italian. “Help!”

  “No one can hear you,” said a voice in the language of his youth.

  A man at the wheel of the boat, no more than a dark mass.

  “Who are you?” he asked, the terrible reality beginning to dawn on him. The whole thing had been a setup by the Karamans in order to get rid of him. Why else was this man speaking Serbo-Croat? “You work for them, don’t you? You work for the Karamans.”

  The man chuckled at the thought. “No, but I’ll be seeing them very soon, and I’ll be sure to convey your respects.”

  Petrovic struggled, but it was useless under the crushing weight of the chain. He couldn’t even roll onto his side.

  “Wriggle all you like, little worm; you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Here,” said the man, cutting the boat’s motor. The sudden silence was disturbing.

  “Where are we?”

  “Out beyond the lagoon, beyond the Lido.”

  “The sea?”

  “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

  The man seized him by the shoulders and hauled him across the deck.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing what I started.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Work it out for yourself.”

  He found himself hoisted up until his head was hanging over the side of the boat. “No, don’t, please, I beg you!”

  “How did you think you would die? Peacefully in your sleep? A heart attack while gardening?” The man put his mouth close to Petrovic’s ear. “You beat a nun to death, and now you’re going to pay for it.”

  Petrovic felt his feet being raised, and he began to sob. “For the love of God, don’t! I have money. I have a lot of money. It’s yours.”

  “What, no apology?”

  “I’m sorry. They made me do it to her. I didn’t want to do it.”

  “Do you even know her name?”

  “Her name? No. Yes.” Hamilton had mentioned it last night. What was it? “Wait. Yes—”

  “Her name was Agnes.”

  He’s just trying to scare me. He’ll haul me back out. That was his first thought as his head plunged beneath the surface.

  The speed of his descent was what struck him next. Then the drop in temperature, the black cold closing around him, calling to him.

  He opened his mouth and screamed back at it in anger.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  They were finishing breakfast on the terrace when Vittorio appeared, alone and unannounced. Monsignor Ruspoli soon made himself scarce.

  “He knows what I am going to say, and he does not want to hear it. Petrovic is dead.”

  So, it was done, as Borodin had insisted it must be. Pippi poured a cup of black coffee and slid it across the table toward Vittorio.

  “Thank you, cara.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied.

  “Things are moving quickly. It is time for you to leave Italy.”

  “How?” asked Luke. “They’ll be looking for us at the border.”

  “They won’t find you. You will fly from Trieste on a private plane. No one will check your passports. It has been arranged.”

  “You can do that?” asked Luke.

  “Transport is my business.”

  “Where are we going?” Pippi asked.

  “Paris.” Vittorio turned to Luke. “You have to make things right with your own people. I have spoken to a man I know in London, in the Foreign Office. He will help you from his end.”

  Luke glanced at Pippi. “There’s something we need to do first—a promise we made to Borodin. I’d like to keep it if possible.”

  “Tell me,” said Vittorio. “I’ll see what we can do.”

  Monsignor Ruspoli accompanied them through the grounds of the monastery to the harbor. He brushed aside Luke’s and Pippi’s thanks, then hugged them both, wished them well, and shooed them on their way.

  Luke was standing beside his grandfather as the launch nosed out of the harbor.

  “Benedetto wants to meet you,” said Vittorio.

  “Why?”

  “To apologize.”

  “I don’t want his apology.”

  “I told him you would say that. I also told him I would give you this.”

  He produced a letter from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Luke. A single word was written in a neat cursive hand on the envelope: Vincenzo. Luke was tempted to toss it over the side, but he folded it and slipped it into his hip pocket.

  Croatia

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The shadows cast by the smattering of clouds high above them spotted the blue-green waters of the Adriatic far below, like lily pads on a pond.

  It was Giorgio’s second time in an airplane. The first had been almost thirty years ago: the flight from Spalato to Venice with Luke’s grandfather. He had hated the experience then, and he hated it more now. He sat rigidly upright in the leather seat, his big hands throttling the armrests with every creak, groan, and lurch of the aircraft.

  The letter had been in Luke’s pocket since morning, awaiting its fate. He opened it now and read the two pages of densely packed handwriting. When he had finished, he handed it to Pippi, seated just in front of him.

  “It’s better than nothing,” she said when she was done.

  “You think?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I think they’re just words, from a man who got caught.”

  Vittorio returned to his seat from the cockpit. “I told the captain you are a pilot. He is happy for you to …” He gestured toward the cockpit.

  “It’s a bit bigger than I’m used to.” The seaplane was, in fact, considerably larger than any aircraft he had ever flown.

  “But the principle is the same, no? It would give me great pleasure for my grandson to fly me home to Dalmatia.”

  Luke rose from his seat. “Just don’t ask me to land the thing.”

  The first officer vacated his seat. Luke took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls; then the captain took his hands from the wheel, and the seaplane was his. Compared to the nimble little Hawker Harts of India, it handled like a pregnant sow, bleeding speed in even a gentle turn, but it felt good to be flying again. More than good.

  The rugged Croatian coastline was littered with islands of all shapes and sizes, from long strips of sea-girt woodland to mere pinpricks of rock. Vis lay near the southern end of this sprawling archipelago, and on the captain’s instructions Luke descended to three thousand feet. He leveled off, then made way for the first officer.

  They came in low over the sea, heading for the large bay at the western end of the island—a giant bite taken out of the wooded hills. The captain overflew the waters he intended to land on, checking for boats before banking steeply over the headland to the north and coming around for their final approach.

  Giorgio let out a strangled cry when the hull of the aircraft hit the water, but soon he was beaming with relief and applauding the captain for not killing them. The town of Komiža was small, not much more than a stone jetty, a fortified watchtower, and a cluster of attractive stone houses topped with red clay tiles. A gaily painted fishing boat came out to meet the seaplane. Pippi was the first to be helped aboard, Luke the last. The man who assisted them was tall and ruggedly handsome. He looked at Luke, shaking his head as if in disbelief, before smothering him in a big bear hug.

  “This is your mother’s brother,” said Vittorio. “Your uncle Baltazar.”

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  Vittorio shrugged. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  A pack of skinny,
bronzed children abandoned their sport of leaping off the jetty and collected on the quayside to greet them as they docked. It was unlikely that any of them had ever seen a flying boat before. They had questions, and Baltazar had a question for them in return. They stabbed their fingers at the mouth of an alleyway, then insisted on following. Baltazar’s efforts to get rid of them got results only when he took a fistful of change from his pocket and flung the coins out into the harbor.

  The house was a humble two-story affair with a postage-stamp lawn out front. Vittorio knocked on the door. It was opened by a young woman with a child on her hip and a guarded look in her eye. Luke searched her face unsuccessfully for signs of Borodin, and it took a fair degree of persuasion on Vittorio’s part before she finally relented and invited them in. Giorgio and Baltazar remained outside.

  The discussion that took place around the pine table in the kitchen was lost on Luke and Pippi, not that they required a working knowledge of Serbo-Croat to grasp that Simona Lasic was unmoved by Vittorio’s words. When he took the leather bag from Luke and revealed its contents to her, she shook her head and said something.

  “She doesn’t want bad money in her house,” explained Vittorio.

  It was a life-changing sum. She must have really hated him.

  “Maybe her husband will think differently.”

  “She says it is her decision.”

  “Tell her the money has been washed clean by her father’s actions.” Vittorio translated, but Simona said nothing. “I don’t know what sort of man he used to be, but I know what he became at the end.”

  This time she replied.

  “She is not interested,” said Vittorio.

  “He gave his life for me, a stranger, so you see, I have to tell her what he was really like, whether she wants me to or not.”

  Vittorio translated. Simona’s eyes swung around and locked on to Luke’s.

  “Please. For me,” he said softly.

  Vittorio offered no translation, and none was needed.