by R P Nathan
“Throw her over!”
No time for fear now.
“I said OK! I’ll tell you.”
A pause. All silent. Just the rain coming down on me.
“Terraferma.”
There was a cry from him. The leader. And then suddenly I was being dragged back inside. Hurt the girl, he had said. Now it would start. Whatever they had in mind. Fear swept through me.
“Come sono stato cosi cieco?” Definitely Italian. “Come non l’avrei indovinato per tutti questi anni?” Desperate for some escape my mind translated. “How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed it all these years?”
I was forced to my knees and then there were shouts below, from downstairs and frantic steps on the stairs. “Dobbiamo affretarci. Una macchina èd arrivata fuori.” We must hurry. A car has drawn up outside.
“OK. Kill them and let’s get out of here.”
“But Count Loredan you know the Capo’s orders.”
“The Capo is soft. Who’s in charge here?”
“You of course. But we have what we need. They are not a threat—”
“We need to go, Count. Now!”
There was a bellow of frustration from him, the one in charge. “Very well!”
“Quickly Count. Down the fire escape.”
The hands gripping my arms were suddenly released. I reached immediately for my face to loosen the cruelly tight scarf which bound me around the temples. Oh the relief to have it fall from my eyes.
Patrick was on the floor nearby, leant against the bookcase, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. I turned my head and saw him, tall, dressed in black. There were two others leading the way onto the balcony but he was unquestionably the leader.
“How did you find me?” Patrick called after them.
The leader paused a moment in the doorway. Lighting flashed, illuminating his handsome face. “That is what we do.” He laughed and with his hand he drew an X in the air, unmistakeable, and then he was gone.
The door to the room burst open and John appeared.
“What—?” His hand going to his face as he saw us, hesitating as to which one to attend to first.
“The balcony!” shouted Patrick. “They’re going down the fire escape—”
John ran out into the teeming rain, right to the parapet, peering over, but then was back within a few moments, already soaked through. “They’re gone.”
“Thank God,” I said. “The leader wanted to kill us.”
“Jesus.” John came over to me and helped me upright, his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on me. He touched my face with the back of his hand, an action of such gentleness after the violence that I began to cry. But I didn’t want him to see me like that so I shrugged out of his embrace and got to my feet, unsteadily, holding onto the back of the sofa for support. “Who the hell are they Patrick? What did they want?”
“They wanted the key,” said Patrick. “I had to tell them.” His voice was high pitched, his eyes bulging. He stared from me to John. “I knew they would come for it. I said they would.”
“But you don’t know the key,” said John.
“Of course I do.”
“But…” John looked at him dismayed. “I didn’t realise you’d cracked the code…”
“Well I haven’t exactly. But I worked out the keyword so the decipherment should be easy. It’s a letter you see. Though it’ll be in Italian—”
“Did you tell Julius the key?”
“It was in the notes I gave him.”
“Then they could be headed over there as well. Or maybe they went there before and they’ve got to Julius already.”
“But who are they?” I asked, my head and body aching.
“I thought I recognised the leader,” said Patrick.
“You did,” said John, but before we could ask him any more he had sprinted to the door. “I’ll explain on the way to Julius’s.”
◆◆◆
The rain lashed us as we drove, heavy drops beating down too fast for the wipers to cope, the windscreen a constant film of water, smearing the brake lights and headlights of the cars ahead into daubs of violent colour. I sat in the back. Patrick was in the passenger seat.
“The leader’s name,” said John gripping the steering wheel, his eyes on the blurred road ahead, “is Count Pietro Loredan. And Patrick and I have seen him before. On our last day in Venice. He came to get Polidoro’s journal back. But the police arrived before he could make his move. We thought the police were after us. But they weren’t. They were after him.”
“But who is he?” asked Patrick punching numbers into his mobile phone.
“He’s from one of Venice’s oldest families, a descendant of a Doge of Venice. He’s also a terrorist. The Italian police have been after him for more than fifteen years. He’s part of a group called the Lega de Dieci who want Venice to break away from Italy and become an independent republic again.”
The winged lion, I thought and shuddered.
“He was responsible for a bombing campaign in Venice in the late 80s and early 90s. He targeted foreign shops and government offices. No one was killed but that was down to luck more than anything.”
“But why was he after Patrick?”
“He wanted the key to Polidoro’s code.”
“But why?”
“Because the Cross of St Peter and Paul is a potent symbol of Venice and he evidently believes the code will lead him to it.”
“No one’s answering,” said Patrick, the phone to his ear. “Julius was definitely meant to be back from Oxford today, right?”
I nodded and then immediately regretted it as my neck spasmed with pain. I massaged the back of it, rocking my head gently from side to side.
John eyed me in the rear view mirror. “You OK?”
“OK enough.” I was feeling nauseous but I knew we had to get to Julius’s. “How do you know all this stuff about Loredan?”
“I saw his name in a newspaper article a few years ago when I was… researching something… and I remembered him from that day in Venice. He’s not been active for years, had kind of disappeared from view. He must have been hunting the books. But I don’t understand why he chose this moment to get to Patrick – we’d have been easy enough to track down. He could have done it years ago. It’s like he knew somehow that Patrick had cracked the code…”
“But I’ve given him the key,” said Patrick. “That should be it shouldn’t it? There’s no reason for him to go after Julius as well?”
“Maybe,” said John grimly. “But I reckon Loredan would want Polidoro’s journal back as well.”
◆◆◆
We pulled up in front of Julius’s building in Primrose Hill and bundled out into the crashing rain. We sprinted across the street to the front door and were wet by the time we got there. Patrick stabbed repeatedly at the buzzer but there was nothing, no sound at all above the continual throb of the rain around us.
“Come on Julius!” he yelled desperately and hit it again, one last time then drew a long breath and looked from John to me. “What do we do now—?”
“Hello?” The intercom squawked into life.
“Hello,” said Patrick excitedly.
“Who is that?” An angry electric female voice.
“It’s Patrick: Julius’s friend. That’s Madeleine isn’t it?”
“Patrick? What are you doing here?”
“We wanted to see—”
“I can’t hear a thing through this. Come up.” An abrupt click and a buzzer sounded. We pushed on the door and ran up three flights of stairs. Julius’s girlfriend was standing in the doorway dressed in a bathrobe, her hair up.
“Well if I’d known we were having a party…” she said sardonically as she saw the three of us, out of breath, dripping water onto the sisal matting in the hallway. “I was in the bath,” she said. “Looks like you were too…”
“Is Julius OK?” Patrick panted.
She raised an eyebrow. “Fine I should imagin
e.” Then she squinted at him, at the dried blood on his face; at me, the bruising on my cheek. “What happened to you two?”
“Nothing,” said Patrick impatiently. “Where’s Julius?”
She stepped aside and indicated the interior of the small flat. “Not here. He’s not back yet.”
“From Oxford?”
She looked puzzled. “What makes you think he’s in Oxford?”
“He said he was going there this weekend.”
“Well I don’t know why he told you that. He’s gone on holiday. Back in a few days. Though precisely when is a bit too much detail for me apparently.”
“Where’s he gone?” asked John.
Madeleine appraised him carefully as she crossed one bare leg in front of the other, leaning herself against the door frame. “I don’t know you do I?”
“I’m John,” he said briskly. “Where’s Julius gone on holid—?”
“I know you of course,” she said turning to me, fixing me with a smile that was icy its pearly whiteness.
I smiled politely back at her. “I didn’t know you two were living together now.”
She frowned and shrugged. “As good as. I have a key. So practically living together. And while he’s away…”
“Away where?” John persisted.
“Ah yes,” she said dreamily. I saw through the open door a half-finished bottle of wine and a single glass on the coffee table. “He’s gone to Cyprus.”
The colour drained from John’s face.
“There must be some mistake.” Patrick looked like he was going to be sick. “He told us he was going to Oxford to get a book carbon dated.”
“Then Julius has clearly told you a bigger load of boloney than he normally tells me,” said Madeleine bemused.
“When did he leave?” asked John. His voice was utterly expressionless.
“He headed off Saturday lunchtime. And don’t ask me why Cyprus: I have no idea. It came out of the blue, but is certainly in keeping with everything else at the moment. This place has been a complete madhouse the last couple of days. First of all this Italian book chappy from Julius’s work turns up – on a Sunday for Pete’s sake – I mean why whatever it was couldn’t just wait till Monday? – and when I tell him that Julius isn’t around he says he needs to talk to the cleaner – of all people. Who then turns up. Did I mention it was a Sunday? And they start whispering like they’ve got some great secret. And then I go out and come back and find that nosy bitch going through Julius’s things: brazen as you like. She doesn’t even pretend she isn’t. Just because he’s screwing her she thinks she can take liberties.”
She stared at me, challenging me to say something. In what? Sympathy? Empathy? Or maybe she thought he was screwing me too.
“But anyway,” she continued, “I wasn’t standing for that. So I fired her. At which she laughs and says she has what she needs anyway. So I make her turn out her pockets as I was certain she’d been thieving and then kick her out. But then this afternoon the book guy comes back with three more Italians who wanted to know where she was. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they turned out to be her pimps. And even while I’m standing there they launch into a blazing row – Italian being yelled to the rafters and then the book guy storms off and the pimps storm off and I say to hell with the lot of them.”
“And what time was this?” asked John.
“About five. Six maybe.”
“So they did come here first, Patrick. They must have known Julius had obtained the key to the code: his cleaning lady was clearly keeping an eye out for them. But when they came to pay him a visit he’d already gone. So they went after you instead.”
“Lucky for Julius then,” I said, “that he decided to go on holiday when he did.”
“Lucky, yes,” said John darkly. “But he’s not on holiday.”
“As fascinating as this conversation undoubtedly is,” said Madeleine yawning loudly, pointedly. “My part in it seems to be over so I’m going back to my bath. I assume you can let yourselves out.”
We walked downstairs. The rain was still lashing down so we stood in the hallway with the front door open waiting for a suitable moment to make the dash to the car. My body was feeling achy now, not pain, more like I’d been sleeping in a funny position. But my head was cloudy and befuddled. And I still didn’t understand what was going on. “What did you mean Julius isn’t on holiday?”
“He meant that Julius lied to us,” said Patrick. “He’s gone to Cyprus to look for the cross.”
“But Loredan must be heading to Cyprus too,” I said anxiously.
“Exactly,” said Patrick. “Julius doesn’t know what he’s got himself into.”
John shrugged. “If they catch up with him then Julius only has himself to blame.”
“But we can’t just wash our hands of it.”
“I’m not washing my hands of anything,” he snapped. “Julius double crossed us and now he’s going to get what he deserves.”
“But we can’t do nothing.” I frowned as I felt a searing pain in my left temple. I closed my eyes for a second against it and saw Loredan wreathed in lightning, a winged lion perched behind him. I said, flustered, “Whatever Julius has done we’ve got to help him.”
John looked at me straight in the eyes, unblinking, emotion-free, this face which was capable of such kindness, such humanity, which seemed to be capable of love, even; this face which was now cold and angry and hard.
Then he suddenly smiled; not a nice smile. At all. “OK,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re not too late.”
“Not too late for what?” I asked him suspiciously.
“To help Julius. He only left for Cyprus on Saturday and Loredan at the earliest can only leave tonight. We’ve still got time to get out there as well.”
“Yes!” said Patrick. “Yes! That’s what we need to do. We need to go to Cyprus to warn him. If you help some—”
“Hang on!” I said. “What I meant was we should call the police.”
“The police won’t do anything,” said Patrick. “They’ll never believe us for starters.”
“Loredan wanted to kill me,” I said affronted. “Of course they’ll believe us.”
“Well good luck with that. But even if they do they’re hardly going to send anyone to Cyprus are they?”
“So what would you suggest?”
“We go out there.”
“But how do you even know where to go? Have you decoded this letter of Polidoro’s?”
John opened his mouth to say something but Patrick cut in before he could speak. “No. But that’s fine. I have the key. And you speak Italian—”
“No. No.” I put my hands to my head. “Patrick this is all wrong. It’s the code which caused your breakdown in the first place. You mustn’t get involved in this again.”
“Don’t patronise me. We haven’t got time for that. Julius is in danger.”
“I know he’s in danger but the best way we can help him is to go to the police. If John is right about Loredan then wouldn’t they be able to stop him travelling? Isn’t that what the police do? Circulate his description or something?”
“It would take too long,” said John coolly and Patrick nodded. “The only way is to go out there.”
“Why on earth are you so keen to go out there? Loredan’s guys are serious about this. They tried to kill us. And for what? A cross that doesn’t even exist.”
“It does exist!” John’s eyes blazed. “Of course it exists.”
“Oh yes. I forgot you were a believer too. Well I’ve got news for you: your precious Cross of St Peter and Paul is a figment of the imagination—”
“The Cross of St Peter and Paul is buried in the sand where Bragadino left it.”
“Based on Polidoro’s diary?”
“Based on everything, goddamn it. It’s there.”
“Of course,” I said, suddenly seeing it. “That’s why you want to go to Cyprus isn’t it? You don’t give a stuff for Julius or
Loredan or anyone. You just want to be the first to the cross.”
“And you think your precious Julius is any different?”
“No, I’m sure Julius is just the same. But at least he’s consistent. I can’t read you at all.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“Well I was just starting to wasn’t I? Christ, I was even starting to like you.”
“Oh well. What a fucking honour.”
I stared at him absolutely furious with him; with myself. He sneered back at me.
“What a one hundred per cent, copper-bottomed honour for you to decide to like someone.” His voice dripped sarcasm and I wanted to slap him. I stepped forward but stopped myself. I hugged my arms about me.
“It’s pointless. I can’t talk to you.”
“I don’t want you to talk to me.”
I looked at him with tears in my eyes. Tears of frustration and anger and... My voice dropped and I sighed. “John, you’re such a nice guy. How did you ever get so obsessed?”
He didn’t answer this time. He just stared at me for a moment, his face and eyes hard to me, and then blinked and looked away.
There was silence for seconds that seemed like minutes. And then Patrick said, “So… What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to go back to your house and get the police round like I said.”
“But—”
“But nothing. We’ll call the police and give them the information we’ve got.”
“And if they don’t believe us?” said Patrick. “Or won’t do anything?”
“They will,” I said briskly now. “They have to.” I looked at John. “Are you coming with us?”
There was a flicker in his eyes and the tiniest shake of his head.
“Fine.” I wasn’t surprised. “Fine.”
“But I can drive you there if you want.”
“That’s quite all right.” I was trying my hardest to stay polite. “We’ll call a cab.”
“Suit yourself.” And with that he walked out into the still pouring rain.
“Whatever.” I fumbled in my handbag for my purse and pulled out a minicab card from it; handed it to Patrick. “These guys are usually pretty quick. Let’s get back over to your place and call the police from there.”