by Zoë Archer
That word curled through his mind again. The one he couldn’t think in English, because it was too real. Too concrete. Amore.
Gesú, was this really happening to him?
The station at Siena was just outside the old city. As they disembarked, regret stabbed him. He wished he could show her the wonders of Siena, for it was unlike any other city, and she’d appreciate its labyrinthine marvels. She even cast a longing glance up the hill toward where the medieval town perched. But she didn’t ask to see it, and he couldn’t indulge her if she did. Time was costly.
A few carriages stood lined up outside the station. Marco walked up to the driver of one, a man with canny eyes and a particularly adept way of holding the reins.
“Got a wife? A family?” Marco asked in Italian.
“Planning on murdering me and stealing my cab?” the driver shot back.
“We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” Marco answered. “Hate to think of your pasta growing cold at home.”
“Signore, if your money’s good, that pasta can turn to ice.” He glanced over at where Bronwyn waited with the luggage. “Don’t much care what happens in my cab during the journey, either.”
The idea had occurred to Marco, but like hell would he let the cab man entertain those thoughts about her. “Just drive.”
“What was that about?” she asked, once they were in the carriage and en route.
“He wondered if we wanted to see the sights,” Marco replied.
The route he gave the driver was just as indirect as their train travel. They left Siena and headed southward, along a rutted road that bounced the carriage like a child’s toy. Away from the train tracks, the early spring green hills engulfed them, dotted with vineyards, patches of forests, and farms as timeless as the land itself. Churches roosted like stone birds offering salvation, and minuscule walled villages perched on hillcrests, looking identical to their embroidered tapestry counterparts.
They didn’t go straight to Montepulciano, but bounced from village to village like a skipped stone. Marco had the driver circle and pass through one little town three times before moving on. Giovanni had placed his faith in him—that faith wasn’t misdirected.
Finally, after hours of travel, they neared Montepulciano. Like the other small towns they’d passed, it sat atop a steep limestone ridge, with a domed church peering up from the base of the hill, and a stately crenellated palace at the very top. Once within the town walls, they passed palazzos and piazzas—all on a miniature scale compared to what they’d seen in Florence. More red-tiled buildings crowded close along the winding streets, with tiny balconies and windows with their shutters thrown open to let in the last of the day’s light.
But the carriage could only travel so far before the streets grew too narrow, and leading the driver straight to Bertrand’s door would’ve been the kind of mistake a junior agent made. So Marco paid the man handsomely before he and Bronwyn disembarked.
The cab trundled away for the long ride back to Siena. But Marco made sure the trip had been worth the driver’s while. He paid for his silence, as well.
Taking up their bags, they proceeded along the narrow cobbled streets, passing wine shops, salumieri, and curious citizens. Marco followed the instructions Giovanni had verbally given him—nothing could be in writing—heading off the main avenue and down several steep alleys, where a few curious dogs sniffed at their heels but kept a respectful distance.
Finally, they reached an utterly anonymous door that didn’t even have a number marking it.
“How to get inside,” he murmured. “It’d be a simple matter to pick the lock.”
“Assuming the door even is locked,” Bronwyn pointed out. “Seems as though the crime rate here might be rather low.”
“Other citizens of Montepulciano might not lock their doors,” Marco noted. “Bertrand certainly does.” He stepped back and looked up. “Could climb up to that second story window. Doubtless I’d find a parlor, and Bertrand in it.”
Her eyes widened. “You could climb this?” She patted the wall, which was comprised of golden stone. “It’s old and craggy, yes, but hardly the kind of surface that would make for easy scaling.”
Well, he wasn’t above a little showing off. Especially in front of her. So he set their cases down. Took a few running steps, then jumped up to the opposite wall. He pushed off using the strength of his legs, caroming toward the open window in another home. He gripped the sill for a moment, but didn’t linger. Instead, he dropped lightly back down to the ground, landing in an easy crouch.
When he stood, he faced Bronwyn, who wore a wry smile. “Am I supposed to be impressed by that display?”
He shrugged.
She smiled. “It worked. You’re the next evolution in mankind. Felis sapiens.” But her smile faded. “I don’t think any of those options are going to inspire confidence in Bertrand, however.”
“Agreed. A man in hiding doesn’t take well to having someone pick the lock to his home or suddenly appear in his window. Might wind up with a gunshot to the face.”
She shuddered. “Don’t make light of that.”
“I’m not. This is the best course.” He raised his fist and knocked.
Several moments passed. Marco heard a man moving slowly on the stairs. But Bertrand said nothing. Instead, the door unlocked and opened just a crack. The barrel of a pistol edged out, pointing right at Marco.
Bronwyn fought a gasp, but Marco only raised his hands.
“What do you want?” a guttural voice demanded in broken Italian.
“Just to talk,” Marco answered in French.
“Who are you?” the man asked, also in French.
“Les Grillons is our mutual enemy,” Marco answered calmly. “Giovanni is our mutual friend. He sent us.”
The door opened a little more. It would’ve been too easy to disarm Bertrand and shove into his home—this Grillons man was no trained assassin, but had to have served the syndicate some other way.
“What do you want?” Bertrand pressed.
“Your help,” Bronwyn said, stepping forward. “Les Grillons took something from me, and you’re my best hope of getting it back. Please, monsieur.” She gave him an imploring look.
Marco had to admire her audacity. She’d never once resorted to her feminine wiles to get what she was after, but here she was making a strategic use of them. What man could resist a lovely young woman asking him to play the hero?
God knew, Marco couldn’t. Not where she was concerned.
“What’s the weather in Paris right now?” Bertrand demanded.
“A hint of mist in the air,” Marco answered. “The cold sun comes out in the afternoon.”
“And London?” The man was unrelenting.
“Never any sun,” Bronwyn said.
A moment passed. Then another. And then, finally, the barrel of the gun lowered and the door opened wider, revealing the man who held the key to Bronwyn’s fortune.
He was a soft man, his belly filling out his waistcoat, his eyes small and pale. Despite the Italian sun, his skin remained white, as if he hadn’t ventured outside in a good while. But for all his seclusion, he wasn’t starving to death.
“Inside,” he said in a low voice. “Quickly.”
Marco grabbed their bags and stepped in first. The door opened to a stairwell that led to another story. The doorway at the top might conceal a hidden enemy, but Bertrand didn’t act like a man with reinforcements.
“Upstairs,” Bertrand said once Bronwyn had entered the narrow foyer.
They climbed the stairs to a small set of rooms, each opening on to the other. Visible from the parlor was a little table and cupboard, and a bedroom beyond that. The paint on the walls peeled, and the rooms smelled vinegary, as though wine had been spilled.
“I’m Bronwyn,” she said as their reluctant host lowered himself heavily into an upholstered chair—not much of a stickler for the rules of society, this Grillons man. The chair was the only one in the room. He didn�
�t let anyone into his home. “And this is Marco.”
They both received a grunt in response.
“Giovanni shouldn’t have told you where to find me,” Bertrand muttered.
“He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t think I’d keep you safe,” Marco answered.
“And if the cause wasn’t just,” Bronwyn added, giving him that same pretty, imploring look. “He knew that only one man could come to my rescue—and that man is you.”
What a natural, Marco thought. She was working him like a baker rolling out dough. Making him smooth and elastic, pliable to her will.
Bertrand cast a dubious glance at Marco, and he couldn’t quite blame the man for his skepticism. Between the two of them, a casual observer would likely put their faith in Marco long before they entrusted themselves to Bertrand.
“It’s true,” Marco added. “In this, I’m helpless as a babe.”
“I don’t know what I can do.” Bertrand spread his hands. “Les Grillons think I’m dead, and I aim to keep it that way.”
“But you aren’t,” Bronwyn pointed out. “You’re very much alive, and the possessor of knowledge no one has. That must mean you’re very clever, to get away as you did, and know what you know.”
The Frenchman’s cheeks turned ruddy. “Had some help,” he said gruffly. “But,” he added, “you’re right. There are things about Les Grillons only I know. I’m the one who had his hand on their purse strings. Me. The biggest, richest group of crooks looked to me to keep all their pretty francs in a row.”
Marco couldn’t have planned it better, especially not when Bronwyn crossed the parlor to kneel beside Bertrand’s chair. She laid her hands on the armrest and looked up at him beseechingly.
“Then you are the man I need,” she said. “They took my fortune, leaving me destitute.”
Bertrand snorted. “Can’t help you. Once they get their talons into someone’s money, there’s no getting it back.”
“But, monsieur, if I don’t get even a little of my fortune back, I’ll be penniless, cast out into the cold. You don’t want that, do you? Me, all alone, without a single friend.” Her voice clogged, as if fighting back tears.
He realized that in all the time they’d spent together, she’d never cried because of her circumstances. No, this was for Bertrand, a petty man who needed his pride flattered.
Marco kept silent throughout her performance. Bertrand would only see him as a threat. Yet some of the most successful and capable agents were women, and most of them had never had to use a weapon other than their charm. They didn’t even have to take a potential target to bed to get the information they desired. Men were such easily manipulated beasts.
Bertrand proved no exception. “I…”
“Yes?” she pressed, rising.
He pushed himself to standing, groaning during the process. Trundling over to a corner of the parlor, he pulled up the rug, revealing the floorboards. Marco spotted the loose boards right away, and it came as no surprise when Bertrand lifted them away to reveal a compartment beneath the floor. He pulled out a small strongbox, which he set on a table. From the cupboard, he retrieved a canister of coffee, then fished out a key from the coffee grounds. He unlocked the strongbox and held up several notebooks.
“My insurance,” he said. “If Grillons ever came looking for me.”
Though Marco wanted to pull the ledgers out of Bertrand’s hands, he forcibly kept himself still.
“See here.” Bertrand flipped one of the notebooks open. “Private bank account numbers for two of the Grillons commanders. They keep funds set aside in Switzerland for contingencies. They’re separate accounts from the organization. The syndicate can’t touch them. You’ve got access to these, you can funnel money away from them and line your own pockets.”
“And if we wanted insurance of our own?” Marco said. “In case they don’t look kindly on us liberating some of their francs.”
Bertrand’s round shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. You’d be on your own.”
“I’d wager there’s something in those notebooks that might assist us,” Marco noted. He held out his hand.
When Bertrand looked dubious about giving the notebooks over, Bronwyn said, “Those are financial ledgers you kept for Les Grillons, correct?” At his nod, she continued, “You must have been a very thorough record keeper. I can tell you’re a man who lets no detail slip past him. Not even the smallest trifle.”
The man reddened again at her lavish praise. “I was very attentive. They picked me for the job because of it.”
“Doubtless there has to be a word or two in those ledgers that will give us some added protection,” she explained. “There must be, if you kept them.”
Bertrand handed her, not Marco, the ledgers.
* * *
As Bertrand sat in his chair and steadily drank, Marco and Bronwyn ensconced themselves on the floor and pored over the ledgers. Maybe at one time, the Grillons man took better care of himself, for his handwriting was neat and precise, and easy for Marco to read. Columns and columns of numbers and names were arranged carefully, each marking loans and payments from different people.
“Les Grillons is a criminal syndicate,” Bronwyn murmured, too low for Bertrand to hear. “Why do they keep books as precisely as Lloyds of London?”
“Not much difference between Lloyds and a crime organization,” Marco answered quietly. “They’re both businesses. Both rely on income from their clients—or victims—to stay in the black.”
She shook her head. “I can’t say which appalls me more. The fact that Les Grillons is like the world’s most powerful insurer, or that Lloyds is basically a criminal consortium.”
“Every business is.” He flipped through more pages. “One of the reasons why I never joined the world of commerce. Much to my father’s dismay.”
She looked up from a notebook. “He’s a man of business.”
“Vulcanized rubber. I saw a future of board meetings, factory tours, and ledgers just like this one. Couldn’t stomach the idea.”
She was silent for a long while, but she wasn’t studying the book in front of her. Instead, she studied him. “Is he proud of you?”
“Don’t know. I never asked.”
“He must know the good you do.”
Marco snorted. “My father doesn’t know about any of it. Not my work for British Intelligence, and sure as hell he doesn’t know about Nemesis. He thinks I shuffle papers for some obscure government bureau.”
“And your mother?”
“I can’t tell her. About any of it. For her safety.” He caught the note of regret in his voice, and it startled him. Then he realized he’d been talking about himself for several minutes. But instead of a sense of panic, he felt … not comfortable, exactly, but he liked the idea about this part of him being revealed to her. She had the hands of a violinist—delicate but strong—and she could hold this piece of him as carefully as she held her instrument.
“That must be hard,” she said. “You seem close with her.”
“Don’t see her often, and I don’t have time to write much.”
Bronwyn smiled sadly. “I miss my mother, too.”
They gazed at each other for a moment, each absorbing the connection between them, until Bertrand called out from the other side of the room, “Find anything yet? If not, get out.”
“Time,” Marco threw over his shoulder. “We need more of it.”
“You’ve got fifteen more minutes,” Bertrand grumbled.
“But, monsieur—” Bronwyn pleaded.
“I am sorry, madame,” the Grillons man replied. “But I’ve got my own hide to worry about. Longer you’re here, the more I’m sticking my neck out, and I don’t want some Grillons blade slitting it.”
In this, Bertrand seemed intransigent, so Marco and Bronwyn returned to their study of the ledgers, conscious all the while of the clock ticking, marking the minutes until they were shoved out into the street with their best lead just on the other
side of the door. Marco could forcibly take the ledgers from Bertrand, but it might entail a spot of violence—something he didn’t want Bronwyn to witness more of. There was always theft, too. Yet that meant consigning Bertrand to a life of even greater fear. The former Grillons bookkeeper might not be Marco’s favorite person, but he didn’t want to make the man suffer more than he already did.
Besides, Giovanni was taking a risk for Marco and Bronwyn. To steal from or hurt Bertrand would be a betrayal.
So he combed over the notebook, searching for patterns.
“I’m seeing payments from someone named Olivier Maslin,” he said to both Bronwyn and Bertrand. “They go on for a long time—from ’78 to the end of last year. And then they suddenly stop. Why?”
“Maybe this Maslin paid off his debt,” Bronwyn suggested.
But Bertrand, his shirt now stained with spilled wine, shook his head. “Government man, Maslin. Worked in the treasury bureau. High level.”
“Not the sort of man who’d need a loan from Les Grillons,” Bronwyn said.
“All kinds of people take out loans to pay off their dirty habits,” answered Marco. “Like our late friend Devere. Maslin could’ve had the same gambling problem. Or maybe he had a taste for something else, something expensive, like morphine.”
“He had a taste, all right,” Bertrand said, his words starting to slur. “For pricey whores. But he’d more than enough to pay for them.”
“Then why pay Les Grillons?” asked Bronwyn.
“Because they found out about Maslin’s whoring. And that he liked to dress in the whore’s clothes and get spanked like a schoolgirl.”
“Ah…” Bronwyn said faintly.
Marco kept forgetting that, even after everything she’d survived and witnessed, there were still elements of the world with which she was unfamiliar. Including government officials’ unusual sexual preferences.
“Les Grillons was able to get some photographs of Maslin playing dress-up,” Bertrand continued. “Threatened him. Said they’d take the pictures to his superiors and his wife.”