The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  “A pick gun…” she murmured. “Of course.” If the Cat had been carrying a gun with tranquilizer darts, no doubt he’d have subdued Medina’s guard and escaped over the roof.

  But why had the Cat not been armed? He might have been breaking into a home with light security, but if he had known that in advance, how come he had not known about the guard? According to Medina, his guard had been around almost every time he went out. The Cat would never have missed such a critical detail. Kate was confused. She was missing something.

  He must not have scouted out the place himself before the theft, she decided. Then why had he done it? He was not Mr. Jade Dragon, he was not the one personally affected by something in the manuscript, so why had he relied upon shoddy secondhand surveillance information to steal it? He usually stole objects of far greater value with less risk. It made no sense.

  Unless he was a friend of Jade Dragon, Kate thought. Maybe his pal J.D. had called him in a panic, requesting an urgent favor. Maybe J.D. had done the half-assed surveillance himself, then told the Cat it was more thorough than it was, because he was too eager to get his hands onThe Anatomy of Secrets to care about the welfare of his friend. If that was the case, then in a sense, J.D. had killed the Cat. In addition to Andrew Rutherford. And the attempt on Medina.

  Hiding the pick gun in a jacket she was leaving at the Connaught, Kate’s hands shook with anger.

  SIDIBOUSAID—2:48P.M.

  Connor Black’s hands were perfectly steady. Standing in a winding, cobbled alley near the cliff’s edge in Sidi Bou Said, he was holding what appeared to be a long-lensed camera and had it trained on the coastline below. Using the device’s thermal imaging feature, he saw one guard sitting inside the villa, in his usual spot near the front door. The other two were playing some kind of board game on the first-floor balcony. Directly above them, the young girl—the nurse he and his colleagues were calling Mrs. Nightingale—was standing on the upper balcony, gazing out at the gulf’s perpetually calm turquoise waters.

  It was the first time Connor had seen her as more than a red shape within the house. “She’s stunning,” he murmured, magnifying the image of her profile. Tall and slim, she had dark South Asian skin, black hair to her waist, and the kind of face poets ran out of ink over.

  Lowering the cameralike device, he glanced behind him. He was alone. “Revere, how’s it coming?”

  “Good,” came the reply over his earpiece, from the man whose first name really was Paul. “Lover Two rented a sixteen-footer down in the marina. We’re preparing the cooler as we speak…”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Me, too,” Revere responded. He was going to their regular café to take over monitoring the coast.

  Entering his and Jason Avera’s hotel room, Connor saw that the gear they’d need later that night had been fully loaded into the cooler. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing one of the handles. Hauling it through town during the day would appear perfectly natural. At night, eyebrows might rise and questions could be asked.

  Wearing shorts and sunglasses, they headed to the marina. For the sake of appearances, they were going to take a brief trip up the coast.

  “Lover One,” Connor heard from his earpiece. It was the Woodsman, still sitting amidst the trees across from the villa’s front door. “Something’s happening.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The bodies have been fading. I saw Mrs. Nightingale come back in, but now she and her man have all but disappeared. Couple of flickers. I still hear her, but…”

  “Binocular problem, you think, or a security measure?” Connor asked. He knew that if the guards wanted to disguise their movements, they could shut off the villa’s air conditioning. Given the intense North African heat, the interior would then be too close to body temperature for thermal imaging to function.

  “Hard to say,” the Woodsman replied. “Oh, wait a minute. Van pulled up. Majid’s Cooling Services? Looks like the A.C. broke, accidentally.”

  “Stay on it. Make sure no one leaves. Revere’s got the beach.”

  “Will do.”

  ROME—6:35P.M.

  The palazzo was pale yellow, with heavy wooden doors, stone-lined arched windows, and pots of red begonias on its small second-floor balcony. Scooters were parked in the cobbled alley out front, along with a few cars that in America would resemble children’s toys. Though the building had seen better days—the paint was fading in patches, and graffiti marred its façade at street level—to Kate, it was perfect.

  “Giuseppe, ciao!” she said, hugging the hotel’s elderly owner.

  “You have a new boyfriend. I guess it’s time for me to—how do you say—throw the towel?”

  “Never. I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

  “Katy.” With a playfully stern look, he reached behind his desk and handed her a small bag. Its design was familiar. Her favorite local candy shop. “He knows your chocolates.”

  “Oh, my new client,” she said, glancing at the card—Medina thanking her for that morning.

  “Client…mmm.” Shaking his head, Giuseppe gave her a key. “Before you leave tonight, we will have a drink on the roof?”

  “Absolutely. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Four flights up, Kate pushed her door open, set down her bags, and turned on hot water for a shower. As she untied her sneakers, Medina called.

  “Hi. Thank you. So what else did Max tell you?” she asked, knowing Medina had to have contacted Max to facilitate the delivery.

  “That you can’t stop thinking about me.”

  “Shit, howcould he?”

  “Kate, about tomorrow, I have a dinner meeting, but afterward…”

  “You’ll try to interrupt my work?”

  “Well, I thought it likely I could convince you to go out with me, what with…”

  “This morning’s…?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “But that was just a pity kiss. You’d been hurt. Didn’t mean anything.”

  “Liar.”

  “Did you say something? My phone just cut out,” Kate teased.

  “Say what you like. As soon as you’re back here—”

  “I’ll be able to tell you about that final Marlowe report I mentioned, maybe the rest of the pages, too. After my work thing tonight, I’m going to stay at it until—”

  “Wait. You cracked the final page?”

  “Not yet but soon. It’s more complex than I thought, so I sent it to Max. He’s better with numbers and decryption. He won’t be long. Hey, what happened with Sergeant Davies? Any luck ID-ing your attacker?”

  “Still working on it. He was wearing gloves and a baseball cap when he came in. Ducked his head, too. The cameras didn’t get a full picture. Davies had me work with a sketch artist. May lead to a driver’s license or something. The blighter was at least twenty.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately he probably never met the man who hired him. Also, I’d imagine Jade Dragon might have chosen someone who’d be hard to trace—in England illegally maybe.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Common knife, right?”

  “Fairly. A Gerber Expedition IIB.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow? Hopefully with some answers.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Stepping out of the shower ten minutes later, Kate pulled a few items from her suitcase and shoulder bag. Nothin’ says nonthreatening like flowers and glasses, she thought to herself, slipping into a floor-length black silk skirt with a blue and green floral print. The studious-looking black glasses she put on, however, hopefullywere threatening…to de Tolomei, at least. She’d picked them up at the local Slade’s office on her way in from the airport. They contained an iris scanner. Kate then fastened an underwire bra she reserved for occasions like this. It looked like an ordinary Victoria’s Secret cleavage enhancer, but the original wiring had been removed and audio recording equipment built in. The tiny battery could provide only three minutes of power, but it was more than enough to get a trac
eable voiceprint.

  Pulling on a fitted black sweater, she looked in the mirror. Hair down, definitely, she decided. Gold hoop earrings.And you’re there. Betsy Johnson goes to the library. No way he’ll be suspicious of me.

  THEBORGO, ROME—7:53P.M.

  “Paolo!” a small boy shouted, racing across the cobbles. Seconds later, a soccer ball zoomed toward him. He faked right, then careened past an opponent, but a motor scooter roaring by interrupted his dash to the makeshift goal.“Vaffanculo!” he cried.

  Turning around, he came face-to-face with Kate.

  She laughed. The boy had ordered the scooter driver to go take it in his ass.

  A blush colored his indignant expression.

  “You play for Lazio?” she asked in Italian, attempting to flatter him. Lazio, she knew, was one of Italy’s top teams.

  “Mai! Manco morto!”

  Not on his life?

  “Forza Roma!”he exlaimed with a disgusted roll of his eyes.

  Oops, wrong team. Damn, Kate. Dissed by a ten-year-old. Nice work.

  Maneuvering between tables covered with rosaries and a group of nuns carrying bags of produce, Kate continued on her way through the Borgo, a lively neighborhood that had been catering to Catholic pilgrims and Vatican staffers for centuries. Catching a glimpse of St. Peter’s Square—framed by laundry overhead and tacky hotel signs on either side—her thoughts returned to Luca de Tolomei. He wanted her help in finding a piece of art he’d been after for years, he’d said, and he was also up to something that had Slade more agitated than Max had ever seen him.

  The first made sense to her; de Tolomei was a successful art dealer, someone who hired people like her to handle the frequently tedious detective work involved in tracking down lost or stolen art. But the second—the mysterious crate now in Tunisia—what was that about? According to Max, de Tolomei dealt in secrets as well as art, but what kind of secret was transported in a wooden crate? And what, other than a weapon, could Slade find so threatening?

  Then Kate remembered the odd feeling she’d gotten at the Sotheby’s auction, that de Tolomei had been playing along with her ploy, as if he’d already known who she was. That was impossible, wasn’t it? She’d just gotten the assignment days before and had only discussed him in the secure environment of her office and in a discreet manner with Edward Cherry. Could de Tolomei know she was investigating him?

  Nearing the office of theVigilanza, Vatican City’s police force, it occurred to Kate that a professional blackmailer like de Tolomei would be enormously interested inThe Anatomy of Secrets. Had he somehow learned of Medina’s discovery? Could that be why he had changed his plans, deciding to attend the Sotheby’s auction at the last minute? He’d said that he’d like her help in tracking down not a painting but “another form of art.” Was Phelippes’s manuscript the item for which he’d been searching for more than a decade? No, her two cases could not possibly be converging like that, Kate decided. It would be too much of a coincidence.

  “I’m here for the art tour, sir,” she told the officer behind the desk, handing over her passport.

  Turning its pages and scrutinizing her face, he checked a list in front of him, made a call, nodded, then handed her a form and a pen. After she filled it out, he wrote her a pass and pointed her toward the Apostolic Palace. “They’re waiting by Bernini’s doors,signorina.”

  With that, Kate entered the world’s smallest state, which, as someone had once told her, was about an eighth of the size of Central Park. Passing a troupe of altar boys, she caught sight of the group. Cardinals in black cassocks and scarlet zucchettos were mingling with businessmen in expensive suits, while a cluster of more casually dressed men and women struck Kate as journalists and off-duty policemen.

  According to Edward Cherry, this event was intended to celebrate an upcoming excavation being funded by a group of bankers—the suits, no doubt, Kate figured. But the evening was also a perk for certain people who did favors for Vatican higher-ups. De Tolomei could be their main art dealer, she thought. Vatican City possessed a collection so vast that only a fraction was ever on display, and rumor had it that a number of works in storage had been obtained improperly during World War II. A black marketer like de Tolomei could be arranging quiet sales here and there, helping the Holy See avoid further negative publicity. She scanned the crowd, but he had not yet shown up.

  Glancing up at the statues lining Bernini’s elaborate colonnade—backlit by the pope’s private offices, glowing just beyond—Kate approached the Swiss Guard standing before the palace’s main entrance. With his poofy pants, yellow and blue striped sleeves and boots, black cape, and beret, he resembled a court jester, but the sword at his side and six-foot halberd in hand—part pike, part battle axe—suggested he was not there to amuse. The tour would begin at the beginning, he told her, with the excavations beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, move through selected rooms in two of the museums, then conclude with a reception in the palace.

  Spotting an elderly nun standing alone, Kate introduced herself. The woman, she learned, oversaw tapestry restoration. Moments later, a curator welcomed everyone and the tour began.

  Luca de Tolomei was choosing a tie. He flicked through a few, then settled on a red paisley Dolce & Gabbana. The pattern seemed appropriate: serpentine. Devilish. Turning to his full-length gilt mirror, he tightened it carefully.

  Tonight would be the preview. An unexpected but most welcome pleasure.

  What a curious twist that Morgan’s daughter was trying to land him as a client, de Tolomei thought. He found her charming, he had to admit—felt a vague reluctance, even—but he would still destroy her. Too much was at stake.

  VATICANCITY—8:26P.M.

  The long cramped tunnel was dank. Electric candles glowing from sconces barely nudged the darkness. Step-by-step, Kate descended through layers of Roman history, the tapestry restorer clutching her right elbow.

  At the bottom, a pale bluish light beckoned. Reverent, the group entered the ancient burial site in silence, passing tombstones and cremation urns set deep in hollowed-out niches. Mosaic tiles glittered from the ceiling, and fresco fragments lingered upon the walls, pagan and Christian symbols intermingling—a delirious Bacchus raised his cup, Latin inscriptions abounded, and an Apollo figure cruised overhead in a chariot, a crosslike pattern of rays gleaming behind his head.

  Standing by a wall covered with illegible markings, the curator gestured toward a hole hacked into it, at an array of bones set behind glass, believed by some to be the remains of St. Peter. The curator began describing the excavation project, begun in 1939, that had led to the find.

  Never having been to these depths, Kate was fascinated. Even so, her mind kept flitting back to de Tolomei. Slowly the curator’s voice faded to a hazy drone. And then—perhaps on account of the musty air, eerie light, or proximity of the remains of people who’d died in terrible pain—Kate felt a surge of uneasiness ripple through her. She was facing a frescoed image of dancing satyrs, and for a split second they flashed to life before her eyes, taunting her with hateful grins.

  The shroud concealing de Tolomei’s identity was nearly within her grasp—she could almost feel it wisping beneath her fingertips—but why was she suddenly overcome with foreboding? Something she hadn’t experienced since childhood?

  Spikes of adrenaline, the prospect of imminent physical danger—they were not at all unusual for her, butthis —this most certainly was.

  Though night had fallen in Rome, midafternoon sun was still shining in New York City when Connor Black’s call came in on Jeremy Slade’s secure line.

  “We’re on our way,” Connor said. “We’ll stay dark until we hit the beach.”

  Returning the phone to its cradle, Slade found himself praying. To what or to whom, he didn’t know. A very long thirty minutes had begun.

  20

  On Hellespont, guilty of true-love’s blood,

  In view and opposite, two cities stood,

  Sea-borderers, disjoin’d
by Neptune’s might:

  The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.

  —Marlowe’sHero and Leander

  CHISLEHURST,KENT—AFTERNOON,MAY1593

  Marlowe stretched his arms over his head, then leaned back and reached for his clay pipe.

  A fresh sheet of paper lay on the table before him. Looking over at Tom Walsingham’s house, he saw a woman picking herbs from the kitchen garden and a butterfly flitting among the primroses.

  He exhaled a few rings of smoke then penned the opening lines of his new poem.

  The woods were thick. To Robert Poley’s right, distant hills rolled above the treetops. To his left, the wet rushing sound of a waterfall.

  One more mile to go.

  With a gentle kick, he brought his exhausted horse to a canter. Any moment now, a warrant would be issued for Marlowe’s arrest. In fact, it might have happened already. It was widely known that the playmaker had been at Scadbury House for the better part of the past month, and the Council’s men would be coming for him shortly. Poley meant to get there first.

  He had to admit he’d been stunned by Teresa’s revelation. It had never occurred to him that Phelippes—Marlowe’s current employer—was the man trying to bring about his demise.

  If Phelippes was willing to sacrifice one of the most capable intelligencers at his disposal, he must be confident it would prove worthwhile. Had he gotten wind of the counterfeiting operation? It was possible, Poley knew, and if Marlowe were to confess to it…

  Poley shook his head. No doubt it would be damaging, but an admission elicited under torture would not be enough to take down a man of Cecil’s stature. Although if an investigation were launched and the queen’s trust began to erode, even if ever so slightly…

  No matter. It’s my move, now.

  LONDON—AFTERNOON