by Ewan, Chris
‘Not if we do something to prevent it.’
‘Like what?’ I said. ‘I really don’t see that there’s much we can do. I’m not a trained bodyguard, Vic. And I’m not exactly innocent in this whole scenario, either, so don’t even think of suggesting the police.’
‘Why not? Charlie, this is a man’s life we’re talking about.’
‘The police already know he’s at risk, Vic. We saw teams of them collecting the evidence from the bomb attack. If they’re competent, they’ll protect him. And if they’re not, nothing I say will change any of that.’
‘But you can warn them who to look out for. An anonymous tip describing Graziella.’
‘No way.’
‘Don’t “no way” me,’ she said, aping my speech-mark gesture. ‘You can do it. You know that you can.’ She bit down on her digestive with a triumphant crunch, as if she’d just constructed an irrefutable argument. I was beginning to fear she may have done precisely that.
‘Say I do call them,’ I said, standing from my chair. ‘Say I tell them everything I can. We don’t know what the people Graziella mentioned are capable of. They might hurt her. I get the impression she’s afraid of them. In some kind of fix.’
Victoria gave me a caustic look. ‘I don’t mean to sound heartless, but I’m not sure I care. She’s trouble, Charlie.’
‘Then how about this? They may have a mole at the police station. And if they do, it would be simple enough for them to work out that the information came from me.’
‘Christ, Charlie,’ she said, snapping her biscuit in half and dunking it in her tea. ‘That sounds positively paranoid. Who do you think we’re dealing with here? The Mafia?’
I pouted. ‘They have weapons, Vic. Explosives. Who does that sound like to you?’
‘Oh good grief. You have the Mob on the brain.’ She shook her biscuit irritably. ‘There’s far too much of it in your book, by the way. This ridiculous character you created – Don Giovanni – he’s totally unbelievable.’
I felt my eyes boggle. ‘You really think now’s a good time for literary criticism?’
‘No. But I do think an anonymous tip is feasible.’
‘Well, I think it’s risible.’
Victoria eyed me for a moment, then eyed her second biscuit. It wasn’t long before she picked the little fellow up and acquainted it with her brew. Dunk, dunk, chomp.
‘You want my opinion?’ I asked, then proceeded to give it before she could offer me a tart response. ‘If we leave, the Count dies. If we stay, the Count dies. The outcome is exactly the same, except for one thing. If we hang around in Venice beyond 9 o’clock tonight and the Count’s not dead, we may very well die too.’
That got her thinking. To be honest, I would have been alarmed if it hadn’t. It’s not every day you find yourself confronted with your own mortality – at least not by a talented break-in artist with the means and the motivation to put a bullet in your brain.
‘What about the chunky guy who followed us?’ Victoria asked me. ‘Did you mention him to Graziella?’
‘Of course not. I didn’t want her thinking that I’d compromised her in any way.’
‘He could be part of her organisation. One of the people she mentioned.’
‘He could be, yes. Or he might have some other connection altogether.’
‘It would be helpful if we knew. If we could speak to him, even.’
‘Yeah, well,’ I said, throwing up my hands, ‘I can think of a lot of things that would be helpful. Including a train ticket out of here.’
Victoria raised her teacup to her lips. It seemed it was time for her to sample the wondrous elixir. I still hadn’t touched my own. My nerves were jangling, but I wanted them that way. It kept me sharp. God willing, it would keep me alive, too.
‘Just for argument’s sake,’ Victoria said to me, ‘let’s say we don’t flee, but we don’t call the police, either. What does that leave us with?’
‘An insurmountable problem?’
‘But you mustn’t think that way, Charlie. There has to be another option. Faulks would certainly find it, so you should be capable of doing the same.’
I smacked my lips and worked a glum smile. ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Vic. I suppose there are some leads we could consider. The bookbinding business, for instance. Perhaps you could try speaking to the owner.’
‘But it doesn’t really feel right. And I don’t see it solving our problem quickly enough. I still reckon we’re overlooking something. Some really proactive step we could take, perhaps even a way of extending Graziella’s deadline.’
Victoria cupped her chin and pressed her fingertips against her lips, looking away towards her reflection in the window Graziella had escaped from just two days before. I had a feeling she wasn’t listening to me any more, that instead of paying attention to what I had to say, she was sorting through that clean, orderly space in her mind, searching for the most elegant solution to the brainteaser she’d composed for us. I didn’t think she’d find it – to my mind, the only answer was to run – and I didn’t exactly welcome the way she appeared to have tuned me out.
‘Perhaps you were right about the beardy guy who followed us,’ I said, trying to interest her again. ‘I have no idea how to track him down, but I don’t suppose it would hurt to go back to where he found us. You know, the view of the palazzo from across the Grand Canal?’
Nothing. Not the slightest reaction. I suppose I should have respected what she was trying to do, but I was feeling pretty miffed. I firmly believed we needed to be on our way. But if we were going to waste time brainstorming, the very least she could do was listen to my input.
‘Damn it, Victoria, did you hear what I said?’
I kicked the steamer trunk with my toe. Not hard, but loud enough to snap her out of her reverie. Her head whirled around and she peered at my foot. Her eyes narrowed and then widened. A smile crept across her lips. I’d seen her look that way before and experience told me it wasn’t a good sign.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Charlie, I’ve got it! I know what we should do!’
And that’s when Victoria told me her big idea. And even though her scheme was audacious and moronic in equal measure, somehow, in that particular moment, whether due to some inexplicable weakness on my part, or some spellbinding powers of persuasion on hers, it seemed against all odds to make complete and irresistible sense.
TWENTY-FOUR
Returning to Palazzo Borelli hadn’t been at the top of my list of things to do that day. Then again, I hadn’t made plans to loiter around the backstreets of the San Polo region, waiting for a delivery man to abandon an empty handcart so that I could nab it, and neither had I intended to take a vaporetto as far as the Arsenale and wander the canals of the Castello until I found an unattended boat that happened to have the characteristics I required. If I’m honest, car theft has never been my bag, but I can’t pretend I’m ignorant of the principles behind the vocation, and I’d been willing enough to apply them on water. As it happens, the Venetians are a trusting lot, and the flat-bottomed motor launch that caught my eye and transported me home had been moored with a key in the ignition. It had plenty of diesel too – or rather, it had enough to cover a quick boating lesson for Victoria and a trip along the Grand Canal as far as the Rio del Santi Apostoli, just a short stroll from my destination.
It was approaching 8 p.m. by the time Victoria scraped the hull alongside the brick canal wall and I fed a rope through a metal mooring ring. That was the easy part. My sea legs were still shaky, at best, and hauling the handcart onto the canal bank without toppling into the water was a real challenge. So was acting inconspicuous while I heaved at the steamer trunk we’d transported from my living room and fixed it to the cart with bungee cords.
The handcart had a metal frame fitted with large rubber wheels at the rear and small plastic wheels on the front, a design that enabled delivery men to lever the carts up over the stepped bridges of the city. Fortunately for me,
there were no bridges on my route, and I had only to roll through a residential square before rounding the nearby church and joining the main tourist thoroughfare that linked to the forgotten channel of Ramo Dragan.
Abandoning my cart just shy of the garden gate and the intruder light fitted above it, I removed my winter coat and mittens, then slipped a pair of my customised plastic gloves on over my bare hands and taped fingers before poking my head inside my balaclava. My balaclava smelled of the washing detergent Victoria had cleaned it with. Once I had the eyeholes positioned just right, I checked the contents of my bumbag.
Well, I say my bumbag, but in truth it was an item Victoria had purchased for me from a market stall. I have to admit that I was wearing it with some reluctance. Not only was it bright blue and branded with the word Italia in a memorable red, white and green script, it also ruined the lines of my outfit. Still, I’d been forced to concede that my trusty spectacles case couldn’t possibly contain all the equipment I needed to carry for the task ahead. Yes, I could cut down on my picks, since I was familiar with the locks I might be tackling, but I also needed room for the handgun Graziella had so generously loaned me, plus one or two additions from Victoria’s spy kit.
So, as I say, I checked my bumbag and verified that there wasn’t anything I’d forgotten. Then I removed my torch, popped it into my mouth and clambered onto the trunk.
The way I saw things, and in spite of Graziella’s carefree assurances, security could well have been stepped up since the bomb attack. Even if the Count really had banished the police from his property, he might have hired some personal bodyguards in their place. Graziella hadn’t said so, which suggested I might be worrying unnecessarily, but I wanted to remain undetected for as long as possible, and it struck me that triggering the security light might be a bad way of achieving that. Stacked upright, the steamer trunk was almost as high as my chin, and by scrambling onto the thing I was able to scale the garden wall without any need to open the gate.
Naturally, I got scratched to hell by whatever variety of prickly shrub had been planted by the Count’s ancestors, but I’m pleased to report that there was no barbed wire or broken glass to add to my fun. And, on balance, when I dropped down onto the lawn and stalked through the darkness on my way towards the courtyard, I thought a few cuts and scrapes were a fair bargain in return for remaining wholly undetected.
Since it wasn’t raining for once, I was almost sorry that I couldn’t linger and enjoy the solitude of the garden. It might have been winter, but there were still plenty of scents and aromas in the air, and as someone who’d been living in Venice for close to a year, I couldn’t entirely ignore the novelty of grass. I did, though, have a job to do and a timeframe to do it in, and so I moved onto the cobblestones of the courtyard and crouched behind the old well-head to assess the scene above.
There were lights on in the upper floors again. In fact, I thought they were probably the exact same lights that had been on during my previous visit. The mighty front door was closed just as it had been before, and the external brick staircase leading up to it was temptingly shadowed. I knew the lock was a cinch, and I also knew the layout, but I didn’t like the idea of repeating myself. I was inclined to believe that I hadn’t left any telltale signs to indicate how I’d got in with the bomb, but since I couldn’t be certain, a new route seemed sensible.
After checking the windows one last time, just to be sure nobody was looking out at that particular moment, I bent at the waist and scurried beneath the arched entranceway to the dank-smelling storage area. This time, I left the electricity cupboard undisturbed. If I cut the supply, the Count and anyone who happened to be with him would know I was on my way. That was no good. To have any hope of pulling off my assignment, surprise was vital. So was luck.
I guess there was luck in the form of the stone staircase that led up from the storage area to the piano nobile, but I like to think there was an element of skill involved too. After all, if I hadn’t studied the plans Graziella had given me, or checked that they were accurate during my previous visit, I wouldn’t have known that the option existed. As it was, my approach couldn’t have been simpler. There were no locks, let alone any doors. My only challenge was the darkness, but after flashing my torch beam ahead of me for just an instant, I was able to reach out for the rope handrail and edge my way upstairs.
The second flight opened directly onto the impressive reception room I was already familiar with. The terrazzo floor, the ceiling frescoes and the pleated silks were still quite capable of rendering me speechless – which was a good thing, since I was aiming to remain quiet – but second time round, it was a little easier to press on without pausing to carry out a detailed inventory.
I suppose one explanation for my ability to focus on the task at hand was the reluctance I felt to face up to the devastation I’d caused. Care to know what a quick peek revealed? Well all right, it wasn’t pretty. At the far end of the room, a stretch of wall had been screened off with thick plastic sheeting. Even so, I could spy bare patches of render where a pricey artwork or two had once been hanging, and several piles of rubble beside a loaded-down wheelbarrow. The doorway into the room containing the vault was charred and splintered, and the beautiful walnut door was now a collection of very desirable matchsticks. A series of metal stilts and braces had been fitted near the windows, stretching upwards from the floor and looking as if they might be necessary to keep the bowed ceiling from collapsing.
Oops-a-daisy.
Then again, this was no time for a fit of guilt. After all, there were worse crimes yet to be visited upon the palazzo and its poor, unfortunate owner, and I was right in the middle of committing one of them.
With that in mind, I progressed to the thin wooden staircase that climbed steeply towards the floor above. No matter where I stepped, or how daintily I moved, the treads creaked and groaned as if they’d been specifically designed to confound me. I paused and composed myself, then realised just what a dumb move it was to loiter on the stairway. I could hear music coming from above, something operatic (which is about as detailed as my knowledge of classical music gets), so there was definitely someone around. Someone who might head downstairs at any moment.
I took a chance and climbed quickly on, hoping the music would conceal the noise I was making. First one flight, then a small landing, followed by a second flight. And then, at last, the floor I was interested in.
The contrast with the fancy interior downstairs was striking. The layout was the same – a long, central space with side rooms leading off from it – but nearly everything else was different. This was somewhere you could actually live. The huge main room was filled with sagging fabric sofas and aged leather armchairs, and the floor was covered with a patchwork of rugs in various shades of red – like a giant test card for the walls of a bordello. There were standing lamps and table lamps, two portable fan heaters whirring asthmatically away, a boxy television in an imposing cabinet, and a large, dated-looking stereo with multiple green lights twinkling on the front of it. Lines of cabling snaked beneath the rugs from the back of the stereo to connect with a series of black-ash speakers. There were no Renaissance artworks – the walls were papered an inoffensive beige colour, and the ceiling featured darkly stained beams. In most other places, the room would have been terribly imposing, but in the context of the statement piece below, it was really quite modest.
Still, I wasn’t in the business of appraising interior décor. Ordinarily, I was in the business of clearing it – at least when it was worth my while – but I wouldn’t be doing that tonight, either. I have to say, it was more than a shade frustrating. Two clean break-ins to the same richly furnished home, and I hadn’t taken a single item on either occasion. Not a record to boast about.
One thing I could be proud of, however, was that my sense of hearing was back on song, as was a gentleman two rooms down on my left. He was singing along in Italian with the rousing tune on the stereo, and though I’m no expert, I thought he
had a very fine voice.
Flattening myself against the wall and realigning the eyeslits in my balaclava, I stalked as far as the appropriate doorway and peered inside. Turned out the soaring vocals were just one more gift that Count Frederico Borelli had been blessed with.
He was dressed in black tuxedo trousers and a white dress shirt that had obviously been tailored to his exact proportions. A velvet jacket with silk lapels rested on the corner of the large bed beside him, above a pair of pointed black shoes that had been polished to an oily sheen. The man himself was standing in his socks before a full-height mirror, fiddling with his bow tie and entertaining himself with his singing, rising up on his toes and gesticulating with his hand when the tune on the stereo prompted him to give an extra flourish. He grinned at himself, clearly relishing his performance. Good grief. The dope was practically drooling.
His position wasn’t ideal. I didn’t think he could spot me in the mirror – he only had eyes for himself, after all – but once I began to move from my hiding place there was a good chance he’d notice. I supposed I could wait and see if the set-up improved, but I didn’t rate the idea. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. He appeared to be alone – even men with fine voices and bloated egos don’t tend to sing with quite so much gusto in company – and if I could tackle him inside his room, there was less risk of being disturbed by a member of his staff. Speaking of which, I wasn’t all that keen to hang around in the open. Better to take my chances and fail, than never to seize my opportunity. Or so I told myself.
Delving inside the bumbag, my fingers touched upon the hard steel of the gun. With the silencer screwed to the barrel, it had only just fit inside the blue plastic pouch. I’d been very conscious of its weight hanging from my waist as I moved around, but it was still unnerving to look at, especially as I’d discovered that it was most definitely loaded. Twelve bullets, packed inside a magazine that slotted into the butt. I couldn’t tell you the calibre, or whether they happened to be hollow-pointed, but I had no doubt that they were quite deadly, particularly if they were fired at close range.