Book of Stolen Tales (34 page)

Thirty-Four

T
he offer came late that night with a knock on his hotel room door. It arrived more quickly than Shaheen expected. The man who stepped over the threshold reminded him of Leonard Best. Nondescript. The kind of mid-level bureaucrat who toiled away behind some office partition, ticking off the days until retirement.

Shaheen listened carefully to what the man had to say. Mancini's name didn't once cross his lips. Shaheen accepted the blank card with a cell number and bank account printed on it. Predictably, the phone number was untraceable; Shaheen made sure of that the minute the man left. The proposal was enticing, no question, and after taking some time to consider it, he answered the man in the affirmative.

What the fellow had to say was short and to the point. That if, in the course of his investigation, Shaheen was willing to share what he'd learned, he'd be well compensated. The amount of money offered made his eyes pop. It was understood his participation wouldn't include any military knowledge that might compromise his mission or any aspect of the war effort.

Mancini, both in character and behavior, was the kind of man Shaheen detested. But Shaheen believed Mancini knew much more than he'd revealed and that prying this knowledge out of him could turn out to be fundamental. Given the enormous repercussions should an outbreak occur, Shaheen couldn't afford high-handed morality when choosing allies. He'd crossed that line in similar ways more often than he cared to remember over the past three years.

In intelligence circles, rumors about what Shaheen had done and what was necessary to achieve it caused some to fear him. Deep trust from his mates, essential to his job, was often missing. More than once this came close to causing a catastrophe.

He had a lot of Arab blood on his hands, literally, not all of it justified. One time, in the baking heat of the desert, he'd gone without water for days after an operation. The blood had dried on his skin like a stubborn stain. He'd spent hours picking off the dry flakes. Those memories caused Shaheen much worse pain than the jagged nerve endings in his spine and he hated them. His contract was up in another year and he'd sworn that would be the end. Shaheen had total confidence the money Mancini offered him would be impossible to trace. Start-up funds for when he was free of the job. He could do worse than that.

The second proposition presented a more troubling concern. Shaheen wouldn't be required to take any action, just stay out of the way when they dealt with Madison. That would happen when Madison ceased being useful. Nothing more than venal retribution on Mancini's part, Shaheen thought. He liked Madison and thought the man had courage. Judged within the wide parameters of such an important mission, even good men were expendable. It was the devil's hand he was holding, but he'd shaken that hand a few times before.

Thirty-Five

November 27, 2003

En route to Naples

W
hile I waited at the airport for the flight to Rome, my cell chirped. Dina's clear tones came on the line. “John, is that you?”

“It is. Are you still at Renard's?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I recalled her hurtful words. “You said you never wanted to see me again.”

“You don't really think I meant that? We were right outside the dining-room door, John. Renard was listening to every word we said. It was the only way to convince him.”

“And the point of going through that charade was?”

“I knew if I was alone with him I could persuade him to let me see the book. And I was right.”

“He just let you go freely? He was totally obsessed with you.”

“Quite frankly, I wanted to stay there. Renard was an entertaining companion. I loved the estate. He became very upset when he heard I wanted to go but kept his word and didn't force me to stay. I told him I'd return in a few days.”

“Is that your plan?”

She didn't answer me directly and said instead, “Where are you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You said you were planning to meet the bookseller in Naples—right? I want to go with you.”

“No, I didn't, Dina. You never told me about Naso. I had to discover that one on my own. We haven't had the most fortuitous time together so far. Going our separate ways makes more sense at this point. Why would you even consider returning to Naples? I thought you were afraid to go anywhere near Mancini again.”

“I couldn't pick a better time. I'm in touch with one of our staff who told me he's still in Ghent dealing with the house and Katharina's death. The last place they'll expect either me or you to turn up is Naples. Anyway, I thought you needed to see Renard's book?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“How were you planning to get to Naples?”

“By train.”

“I'm in Rome now. I'll get on the train with you—which one are you taking? I've got Renard's book with me.”

She'd been stringing out information bit by bit and I didn't have the patience for it anymore. “Email me photos of Renard's book. If I get them before I reach Rome, I'll agree to go to Naples with you.”

There was a pause on the line while she thought about what I asked and I heard her sigh. “Very well. But you'd better be there.”

“Why didn't you tell me about Katharina?”

“If I said anything, you might not go to see her. And of course I couldn't cross her doorstep. She used an intermediary to buy her volume but Ewan managed to learn her name. I knew it was her.”

“Are you aware of what's happened to her?”

“Yes. It's front-page news. In all the newspapers and on TV. The blaze started in the day room. They think she used some kind of starter fuel and put too much on. When the flames leapt up her clothing caught fire. It must have happened rapidly. Maybe some fuel spilled—I don't know. She toppled into the hearth. That's what they're saying.”

A distant image flickered in my mind but I ignored it, too intent on unwinding the rest of the story. “The reports say she tried to light a fire in the middle of the night?”

“You'll never hear what really happened through the media,” Dina said. “Mancini killed her. It had to be him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Either Alessio did it or one of his other men.”

“And you know this—how?”

“Because he wanted to clear the way to be with me—officially. Divorce isn't possible because they're both Catholic. He'd grown tired of her accusations and complaints. Said she'd become too expensive. That's another reason I made up my mind to leave him.”

With divorce out of the question Dina was right; only a partner's death could pave the way for a new marriage. And yet the whole thing struck me as false. I met men like Mancini regularly in my line of work. Wealthy, elite alpha males. Keeping up a good front, maintaining at least the appearance of a marriage, especially with a family, was the norm. A gorgeous mistress—sure. But those men didn't tend to trade their wives in for one. Married with a mistress on the side was practically expected as proof of manhood.

“Katharina had harsh things to say about you.”

“Let me guess. She said I seduced Lorenzo and destroyed her marriage.”

“You've got the gist of it.”

“The woman was insanely jealous.”

“If Katharina hated you so much, why keep that portrait? It looks so much like you.”

“He makes her do it. He owns the Ghent property and she's totally dependent on him for income.”

That tallied with the fury I'd seen on Katharina's face. Jealousy bottled up could drive people to extremes and actions they'd normally never contemplate.

“Six months ago he separated us, forcing her to stay at the house in Ghent, keeping me with him. You can imagine how she reacted to that. White-hot hatred. That made her bitterness even worse. I'm glad she's dead. She enabled him.”

“She said you encouraged his attentions.”

“She
would
lie about it. To save face.”

The boarding call for my flight pealed throughout the airport. I had to make a decision. I told her which train to get on at Rome for the trip south and we agreed to meet at the ticket counter.

In Rome I found a café right outside the railway station. I checked my phone and was glad to see that Dina sent the photos of the pages from Renard's volume. I ordered a bite to eat and found the restroom.

Shaving off my beard felt like a travesty, something equivalent to cutting off my right arm. But it had to be done because it was my most recognizable feature. Not only did I like the look of it, my beard hid the birthmark on my jaw. With it gone my face looked painfully naked and years younger. The birthmark appeared even redder, a strange Q-shaped blight.

Much more alarming, the marks on my neck were a little larger than when I last looked and felt sore. The marks worried me. I'd have to find a doctor soon.

In a nearby menswear shop I picked up a replacement denim jacket and a black tuque. My knapsack completed the ensemble. I hoped people would take me for a college kid on a low-budget European trek.

While I waited for my train, I called Evelyn. She wanted to know when I'd be home. “Soon, Evie,” I said, with no real conviction that would be the case.

Despite holding off until the very last minute, I saw no sign of Dina and had to race to catch the Naples train. Thinking she'd already boarded and I'd somehow missed her, I searched through all the cars without finding her.

Had Mancini's people caught up with her in Rome after all? Or did she simply change her mind? If the latter, why bother to send me the photos of Renard's book? Surely not out of the goodness of her heart. If she'd been taken by Mancini's thugs, chances were good they'd brought her back to Naples. But how could I break through Mancini's phalanx of men to find her? I was sure he had a much worse fate in store for her than a locked bedroom door. I thought of contacting the Naples police and then remembered Dina saying they wouldn't intrude on Mancini's affairs, especially concerning an internal family matter. Maybe another solution would come to me.

I mulled over Katharina's revelations as the train sped south. I firmly sided with Dina. She was too young when she first entered the Mancini household to be anything but a victim. Katharina's obsession with her was as sick as Mancini's. The strange portrait and mirror in the upstairs room fascinated me. What was that all about? According to Katharina, the mirror came from a place called Lohr. Had I remembered this correctly? I looked up Lohr on my phone browser and was surprised to find an image of a mirror very similar to the elaborately enameled beauty in Katharina's octagonal room.