The Echelon Vendetta

by David Stone

  The question—unexpected, and for Dalton a very pointed and painful one—made him flinch visibly.

  “No. I was once. Not any more.”

  Brancati smiled apologetically. “I am sorry. A personal question. But you are like me. We are the new Holy Roman Church. The not-any-more Catholics. Allora, Father Jacopo is here for the chapel. Paolo wishes him to say some prayers for the release of spirits from

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  this place. Before he will open up San Nicolò to the people again.

  Paolo is very superstitious.” “Spirits?” Brancati sighed, raised his palms. “Myself, I am from Sansepolcro,

  a town famous for death. But these Cortona people. They are not like the rest of Tuscany. Cortona folk believe that ghosts fly around the mountaintop like clouds of swifts. They think the old fortezza is crowded with spirits that clutch at you as you pass, hissing spells and curses in your ears. Three thousand years they make here a cult of the dead. The whole mountain is a tomb. The Etruscans built it. The Carthaginians besieged it. Then came the Romans. Then the Medici. One cannot resist the weight, the force of such ancient customs. We do not try. Paolo believes the people need the priest to release the chapel. So the priest will say some words. Paolo will be happy. The parishioners will be happy. No harm is done. Tell me, Mister Dalton, how do you come to know the victim?”

  “I’m not sure I do know him. I haven’t seen him yet.” Brancati pulled an English passport out of his breast pocket. He

  handed it to Dalton. Dalton flipped it open, looked at the photo. “This was with him?” “No. It was in his room.” “He was staying at a hotel here?” Brancati’s expression grew more guarded. His reply was short. “No. In a student hostel. The Strega. On Via Janelli. Down by

  the Palazzo Comunale.” Dalton handed the passport back to Brancati. “That’s Porter Nau-

  mann’s passport, anyway.” “And how do you know Mr. Naumann, Signor Dalton?” “We are both employees of the same company.” “And that is...” “Burke and Single.”

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  “The British bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you are in Italy on business?”

  It begins.

  “No. I was in Berlin on business. My company called me because I was closest to Italy. Actually, we were looking for Mr. Naumann ourselves. He had not been in touch with his office for hours. He had missed an important client meeting yesterday. We were making inquiries. Then you found him. They sent me. I flew in a few hours ago.”

  “Flew in on what?”

  “Burke and Single operate a small fleet of Gulfstream jets.”

  “How pleasant to be rich. And this Gulfstream jet landed where?”

  “Florence.”

  Brancati smiled at him. Dalton did not return the smile. Nor did he fill the silence with elaborations on the theme. The truth was he had spent two hours last night going through Porter Naumann’s hotel suite in Venice before taking the company chopper down to Florence, but the wonderful thing about private jets and private helicopters was that you didn’t have to file detailed flight plans. You could touch and go and most of the time, especially in Italy, the records would be inaccurate. And it was true that the company jet had landed in Florence a few hours ago; Dalton hadn’t been on it. It offended his sense of professionalism to tell this paper-thin excuse for a lie, but there hadn’t been enough time to prepare a more substantial one. Brancati let the silence play out enough to become obvious. That didn’t mean he knew Dalton was lying. It was a device that Dalton knew well, since he often used it himself. Guilty people hated empty silences and tended to fill them up with self-defeating babble.

  “And do you know what brought Mr. Naumann to Italy?”

  “The bank has been building a funding infrastructure for a Chinese trading syndicate seeking a branch in Venice. Naumann is a special

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  ist in international trade. Last time I saw him was two weeks ago. He and I had dinner at a café on the Riva degli Schiavoni. We talked business.”

  “Burke and Single is a British bank. You are American, I think.”

  Another flinch, but this time he managed to suppress it. The line “a hit, a palpable hit” rose in the back of his mind, and for a moment he wondered how much Brancati actually knew about him.

  Nothing, he decided.

  “I was born in Boston. I’m not an American citizen any more. I’m a British subject. I haven’t been an American citizen for several years.”

  “But you are from Boston? Good. I approve of Boston. In Boston the streets make Italian sense. A perfect assassin’s tangle, just like in Florence. You know what Vespa means in Italian? It means ‘wasp.’ Florence is a stone hive buzzing with wasps. It is made for love affairs. Have you ever tried to follow someone in Florence? In Naples, even, or in Venice? It cannot be done. This is deliberate. This is the Italian way. I was also in Washington—”

  “Where the streets do not make Italian sense?”

  “A Frenchman did them. It’s the only thing they can do well. They make straight streets. Perhaps the French are afraid of being followed. God knows why. They never go anywhere interesting and they make love with their faces. They are a crazy people. Napoleon made them crazy. Which café?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “On the Riva degli Schiavoni. Where you had dinner with your friend two weeks ago. What was it called?”

  “Carovita.”

  “I know this café. Wonderful risotto. The owners, not so nice. But the food—perfetto. And you stayed . . . how long?”

  “Until the bell in the campanile rang at midnight. Porter wanted to walk. He liked Venice best late at night. I went back to our hotel.”

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  “The Savoia, yes?” “Yes. Burke and Single keeps a suite there.” “Why not at the Danieli? It’s right next door.” “Have you ever stayed there?” “Yes. Very tired. Although once a beauty.” “Yes. That’s why.” “And Mr. Naumann?” “The same hotel. Savoia e Jolanda. The company suite. It belongs

  to Mr. Naumann. Occasionally I stay there, if I’m in town.” “How long was Mr. Naumann assigned to Venice?” “As long as it took. He’s been there since August.” “Has he a family?” “Yes. In London. A wife. Two teenaged daughters. They have a

  town house in Belgravia.” “You have spoken to them? Your firm?” “Not yet. We wanted to ...know more.” There was a silence. Dalton thought about Porter Naumann’s wife

  and kids. The teenagers were a pair of hard-eyed foulmouthed club girls, pale-skinned, blue-lipped, with crystal meth sizzling through their veins. It wouldn’t have surprised Dalton to find out they slept hanging upside down in a belfry. Joanne Naumann, once a Wellesley stunner, cordially loathed the little thugs and passed her days getting herself gracefully outside Baccarat flutes of Cristal. Brancati, who had been quietly turning the problem of Micah Dalton over in his mind, seemed finally to arrive at a decision.

  “Allora, Signor Dalton. I tell you what we have learned. We have made our inquiries, as the English say. Mr. Naumann liked this Carovita café, because his credit card says he had dinner there again the night before last. The owner says he dined alone. He did not go back to his room at the Savoia e Jolanda that night. So after his dinner at Carovita, Mr. Naumann disappears. Yesterday morning he

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  pays cash for a room in the Strega hostel on Via Janelli and does not identify himself. Now the puzzle. Something terrible takes place. What, we do not yet know. The verger finds him here.”

  Dalton said nothing. Brancati’s smile became a centimeter less warm. “Maybe you can think of some useful observations?” “I have nothing to suggest.” “Anything would be welcome. Please. Try.” Dalton pretended to try. He had no intention of saying anything

  useful about Porter Naumann’s life and times. That wasn’t his job. “I’m sorry. Nothing in Porter’s life explains any of this. Have you

&nb
sp; looked at his room in this hostel?” “We have.” “And?” “And it reveals little. Mr. Naumann bought a bottle of Chianti and

  some cigarillos. He smoked the cigarillos and drank the Chianti and slept on top of the bed. At one point he smashed an old pot filled with morning glories, and then he made a fire in the wastepaper basket—”

  “He started a fire?”

  “Yes. It set off the smoke alarm. The clerk went up. Mr. Naumann did not open the door. He said it was only a cigarette. He was very apologetic. The clerk went away.”

  “He broke a flowerpot?”

  “Yes. It was full of morning glories. My wife, Luna, calls them moonflowers. She loves them because they are nocturnal, as she is. They flower only at night. They were in one of those tall round cilindri, like you put would put white wine bottles into. Terra-cotta. To keep them cool.”

  “Was anybody with him?” “As I said, Mr. Naumann did not open the door, so the clerk

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  could not see. Mr. Naumann made no calls and received no calls. The girls in the next room heard some talking. The walls are very thin. They heard two people, a man’s voice, very low, and another. A conversation. Not angry. The second person they said had a strange voice. They cannot recall what time.”

  “Strange? What does that mean?” Brancati made a face, drew on his cigarillo. “They said it was droning, like a bee. But very loud. Neither male

  nor female. More... come si dice ? Like a bear growls?” “Guttural?” “Guttural? What an ugly word. But that is what they said.” “But it means someone was in the room with Porter?” “According to the clerk, who guards the door all night, no one

  came in to see him. The hostel has many young girls there and they keep order because of it. Guests are always observed and announced. No one came for him. Therefore we must assume that Mr. Naumann was alone.”

  “What? Talking to himself ?” Brancati shrugged. “Unless it was someone who was already in the hostel.” “The guests have been interviewed. Mr. Naumann would have

  had nothing to say to any of them. They are all these traveling blatte. These cockroaches. Americans. Canadians. Swedes. These backpackers.” Brancati made the phrase sound like a risky sexual deviance.

  “Did this desk clerk see Porter leave?” “He says he did not.” “I don’t believe him.” “He is a reliable man, a cousin to one of my men. It is a puzzle.” “Damn straight it’s a puzzle. Somebody’s lying to you. On what

  floor was Porter’s room?” “The third.”

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  “Was there a fire escape? Outside stairs?” “Fire escape? The buildings on Via Janelli are the oldest in Cortona.

  From the twelfth century. They do not have these ‘fire escapes.’ ” “Then how did he get out?” Brancati shrugged again, palms raised as if in divine supplication.

  “We do not know.” “On the face of it, if I were you, I’d take that desk clerk apart and I’d talk to everyone who was in that hostel. Somebody is lying.”

  Brancati studied Dalton’s face for a time. Young, late thirties, perhaps as old as forty; tall, slightly tanned, with long white-blond hair swept back from his forehead like a Renaissance princeling. He had the scarred face of a gentleman boxer, with strong nose knocked slightly out of true and flattened at the bridge; a hard, fit frame under his blue cashmere topcoat and his dark gray pinstripe, his pristine collar and the gold bar under his pearl-gray silk tie.

  His pale, almost colorless eyes were wide-set. There was something in his face that was not quite right, as if it had been badly damaged, perhaps in an accident, and then expensively repaired by someone who was an artist at the work. Dalton waited out the appraisal in an uneasy silence.

  “You interest me, Signor Dalton. Were you ever in the military?” “Never.” “Polizia, maybe? Or the government?” Dalton shook his head. “I would not take you for a banker. Maybe a fencer. Do you fence,

  Signor Dalton? In the army, I was a fencing instructor. You have

  the eye.” “No. I box a little. I don’t fence.” “You ask good police questions, Signor Dalton. For a banker.” “Thank you.” “You think well. You ask clear questions, like a policeman would.

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  You are observant and intelligent. You are his friend, his colleague. You meet for drinks and dinner. You know his family. And yet you tell me you have no idea why he would leave his suite at the hotel, leave all his clothes, even his shaving things, all his papers save his passport, and drive down to Cortona to hide himself in a student hostel on the Via Janelli? Then to come up here and die in this outrageous way in the courtyard of San Nicolò? Do you not even wonder about such things?”

  “Of course I do. So what? I have no standing. These are your problems. We’ll let you handle them. Naturally we’ll provide whatever assistance you require. But our policy in situations such as this is to leave the inquiries to the professionals.”

  “Burke and Single has a policy about employees who die like this?”

  “No. It’s a policy about not interfering with official investigations.”

  Brancati looked as if he had more to say and then decided not to say it.

  “Okay. Basta. Time is running. Come with me. We will do this.”

  A rising wind was whipping the material of the tent and a cold rain lashed at their faces as they crossed the gravel courtyard. Father Jacopo stepped into their path as they walked, gently brushing aside Brancati’s intervening arm, his dark face fixed on Dalton.

  “You are Micah Dalton?”

  “I am.”

  “You must forgive me. I have something to say to you. I do not mean to offend. It may sound ridiculous. Ma . . . It is ridiculous. But Paolo has begged me to speak to you. You will permit?”

  “Please, Father.”

  “Paolo says you stand in darkness, Signor Dalton. Paolo says a man calls for you along the Via Margherita. Paolo wants me to say that if you see this man or hear him call out to you, you should turn away. He says this man is a ghost, a spirit, and he has been standing

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  there for almost a full year now. Paolo says the ghost has been calling out a name. The name of an inglese. The name Paolo heard was Micah. I know this is absurd. But when Paolo heard your name from the police, heard that you were coming here, he came to me and told me. I said this is godless. Mere superstition. But Paolo was determined. So I felt I should say something. And this I have done. Forgive my intrusion. You are going into the tent now. To see your dead friend. May I give you the blessing of Our Lady?”

  Dalton glanced at Brancati, whose face was unreadable. “I would be grateful, Father.”

  The priest made the sign of the cross in the air between them, uttered a few unintelligible words in low but sacred tones, and then held out his hand, his face solemn, his dark eyes intense.

  “I wish you grace, Signor Dalton. If you wish to confess later, I will open the chiesa and hear you. Good bye, now. God be with you.”

  The priest withdrew, and after a long silence—puzzled and vaguely uneasy on Dalton’s part, simply exasperated for Brancati—the major reached out, unzipped the closure, and pulled the flap back. Then he stood aside and opened it to Dalton.

  Dalton stepped into the tent, and Brancati followed him inside, moving around what was on the ground in front of them until he could watch Dalton’s face. Dalton looked at the figure on the ground, its back up against the heavy wooden doors of the chapel; it took a while to make sense of what he was seeing. When he finally put it together with the smell of fresh blood and intestinal fluids, a rush of hot acid flowed up into the back of his throat and a chilly sweat came out on his cheeks. He swallowed with difficulty and opened his mouth to take in shallow breaths so the smell wouldn’t overpower him. He swallowed twice more and shoved his hands into the pockets of his Burberry coat. Brancati said nothing for a time and then crouched down beside the body, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

 
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  “This person has been very badly damaged. As you see. So it is very hard to make the identity. I regret asking this, but you must try.”

  Brancati pulled out a Streamlight and shone the beam directly onto what remained of the face. Dalton had to make himself concentrate on seeing any remnant of an old and familiar friend in shredded flesh and torn muscle, in a face that was no longer being ruled by the mind and the emotions that had made it live. Even a death mask has a shadow of the living spirit in it; this was barely human.

  “Yes,” he said, after a minute. “That’s him.” “You must name him, Signor Dalton. For the record.” “That’s Porter Naumann.” “You’re sure.” “I think so. Yes. I’m sure. What ...?” “What happened to him? We think he came up here wearing only

  what you see, the bottom of his...” Brancati hunted the word. “Pajamas.” “Yes. Pajamas. And barefoot. Look here.” He indicated the soles

  of the corpse’s feet, where the flesh was torn and bruised. “He ran all the way from the hostel, it seems. People on the Via Berrettini say they heard a man running last night. Around midnight. They heard him saying something. But not screaming. More like a prayer, or simply talking out loud. But it was raining very hard. No one went to the balcony to look. Bits of the gravel outside we find also in the skin of his feet. See, here, he fell once at least. You see the gashes on the palms. He fell hard onto the gravel. He gets up, stumbles, finally he reaches the doors of the cappella.”

  Brancati aimed the light at the wooden doors of the chapel.

  “See here the marks. His palms were bloody and he struck the doors. Several times, from the smears here . . . and here . . . struck them hard.”

  “No one heard?” “Paolo lives two streets away. And the wind was high all night.

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  The rain washed a lot of things away. Anyway, so far, no one has

  come to us.” “Do they know? The people around?” Brancati gave him a disdainful look. “The whole of Cortona

  knows. Cortona is not Napoli.” “What happened to his belly?” Brancati sighed. “It is speculation only. But we think maybe the