The Echelon Vendetta (4 page)

“A man would have to be insane to do something like that.”

“And was Mr. Naumann insane? Did he have psychological problems? Was he seeing a therapist, or on any kind of medication?”

“No. At least ...No. If he had a problem, someone at the bank would have known about it.”

“What kind of man was he, Mr. Dalton?”

“Competent. Skilled. A professional. He had a hell of a sense of humor. He liked to eat and drink. Liked the women. He was a gentleman. He danced. Badly, but with joy. Played the trumpet. Played it well. As good as Harry James, when he had enough scotch in him. He used to do ‘Cherry Pink and’—”

Looking at Brancati’s slightly alarmed expression, Dalton realized he was getting a little emotional. He had liked Porter Naumann very much in a professional sort of way, and the manner of his dying was going to sink in deep and stay there for a long time. Brancati sensed the strong emotion in Dalton and said nothing. There was tight silence in the tent. In a moment, Dalton spoke again.

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“So your theory is that he killed himself with his own hands?”

Brancati shook his head slowly, looking doubtful. “He tore at himself, yes. But his heart killed him.”

“Loss of blood? Shock? Catastrophic pressure drop?”

Brancati shrugged.

“Shock perhaps. He still has much of his blood inside him. The work of his hands may have only taken a few seconds. No damage was done to the carotids, the heart, the lungs. The belly, I cannot say. But even if the dogs came before he was dead ...Men die from being disemboweled, but it takes a very long time. That is why it was so popular with the Inquisition. Many men have survived even such wounds. It can take hours for a man with wounds such as these to die. But Mr. Naumann died almost at once. I am no specialist, but I believe something stopped his heart.”

“Like what?”

Brancati shrugged. “For a man to tear at himself this way, and for his heart to stop . . . It seems possible that he was in a state of great fear. Perhaps a hallucination. That is the only answer I can think of. Some kind of drug. A powerful psychotropic drug. In rare cases, this is the kind of thing you see when things go very bad. A terrible hallucination could make a man tear at himself, and some people have been known to die from fear. Not often. But it is known.”

“I’ve told you. Porter Naumann didn’t take drugs. Nor was he insane.”

“As far as you know. There may be much about Mr. Naumann that you do not know. For instance, whether or not he had been a soldier.”

“You’re saying this was a suicide? Is that it?”

“Technically, no. I do not believe it was suicide. Under our laws, for it to be self-murder, the man must have been in his right mind. Clearly Mr. Naumann was not. When one dies as a result of a drug overdose—”

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“He didn’t—”

“—do drugs. As you keep reminding me. But if, and I say only if, drugs played a part here, or even a passing madness, then there is no intent. No culpability. It is a death by misadventure. By accident. You understand? Was Mr. Naumann a Christian man?”

“Christian? Yes, he was. At least, he was an Episcopalian. That may not be the same thing as being a Christian.”

“And what is this ‘Episcopalian’ faith?”

“Like an Anglican. High Anglican. Church of England.”

Brancati smiled, savoring the new word. “An Episcopalian. Still, a Christian. So here is the important point. If we can say he was not a suicide, then it is still possible for Mr. Naumann to be buried in consecrated ground. To go to his Episcopalian heaven. Otherwise...”

Brancati made a vee of his joined hands and pointed to the ground.

To hell.

“Is that where this case is going?”

Brancati made a broad gesture, taking in the ruined corpse, the wooden gates with the bloody palm smears, the wind-rippled tent walls.

“What brings a sane man to this terrible end? There is no sign of any other party involved—”

“What about the second voice? The droning voice like a bear? The girls in the hostel heard two voices. Someone was with him.”

Brancati shook his head slowly, his expression sympathetic. “The clerk at the Strega is certain no one came in. And I have told you already that he is a reliable man, and known to us. The hostel has many pretty young college girls, tourists, travelers. The management intends that nothing bad shall happen to these silly children while they are staying at the Strega. You have to buzz at the barred gate to get in. Also there is a camera, which we are told showed nothing unusual. The testimony of the clerk is clear. Other than a nursing sister

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who went to see one of the girls, nobody went in or out. Mr. Nau

mann had no visitors. He was alone in his room.”

“This clerk, he never left his post? Not once?”

“There is a small privy off the reception area. He of course made use of this from time to time. He admits this. But he insists that he saw no stranger arrive, no one he did not recognize. He is a reliable man.”

“Someone who was already inside the hostel, then.”

“We’ve discussed that. In these matters, I am sorry to say, it is often true that the most simple explanation is also the correct one. I believe Mr. Naumann died in the middle of some kind of psychotic episode. Perhaps triggered by a powerful drug. How else could a man come to this?”

Dalton could think of no other answer. A sudden blast of wind rattled the tent walls and rain pattered against the roof. Brancati pulled his collar up around his neck.

“Enough, Mr. Dalton. We will interrogate the hostel clerk, as you suggest. We will interview the residents again. We will be vigorous.
Allegro vigoroso.
On Mr. Naumann, blood tests will be done. Eventually we will get our answers and we will both have to live with them. Let us come away. We will get the blood off our shoes and the stink of this place out of our noses. And maybe we will sit in a nice warm café and talk a little more about Porter Naumann.”

“I would like to come along. Observe.”

“I thought your policy was to let the officials conduct the investigations? Now you want to . . . observe?”

“I put it badly. I’m asking permission to come along and do whatever I can to help in the investigation. I’d like to see his room at the hostel. I know this is irregular—”

“It is ridiculous. And you tell me you are only a banker.”

“But if you come across something anomalous—”

“Come? Non capisco.”

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“Something that doesn’t fit with Porter’s life. I’ll know it.” Brancati’s face showed a stony kind of amusement. “Anomalous? Perhaps. But when you know it, will you tell
me?
” “You have my word on it.” “The word of a banker is not the word of a soldier.” Brancati’s hard eyes were on him, but Dalton had nothing to say.

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monday, october 8 riva degli schiavoni, venice 11:00 a.m. local time

alton was sitting at the sunlit café outside the Savoia & Jolanda, his coat pulled tight against a biting wind off the Adriatic, a glass of
vino bianco
at his left hand and a Toscano cigarillo in his right, watching a long-legged, tight-skirted, black-haired young tour guide striding briskly east along the stone quay of the Riva. The girl was holding aloft a large plastic daisy taped to the end of a pool cue. She had a gaggle of elderly Hindu tourists waddling along behind her and absolutely mystical thighs. Dalton, who hadn’t had sex in years, watched her passing with cool clinical detachment. No doubt they were headed for the Piazza San Marco, where they would pose with verminous pigeons on their heads and more verminous pigeons on their outstretched arms. Beyond the shuffling column of tourists the great basin of Saint Mark was busy with droning work boats and burbling mahogany cruisers. A lemon-yellow sun glittered on the churning surface of the green water, filling the basin with a clean, pure light. Across the basin the Palladian façade of San Giorgio Maggiore glowed with the pale pastel tints of fall in Venice. Rain was gathering in the east. Winter was coming in low out of the rising sun; he could feel its breath on the side of his neck. The tour guide was using a bullhorn to bellow something brightly misinformative about the Bridge of Sighs when the cell phone on the linen-covered tabletop shrilled at him.

“Micah Dalton.” “Micah. Stallworth. What did you get?” Jack Stallworth, the section chief of Dalton’s Cleaners Unit out

of Langley. Stallworth was a great intelligence tactician, but he was also a short, sharp, bullet-headed hard-nosed razorback hog with all the languid charm of a quick knee to the jaw.

“Jack.
Lovely
to hear from you. How
are
you?” “Forget that butterscotch bullshit, Micah. How bad is it?” “I went through his rooms before they got there.” “I know that. And ...?” “And we’re okay. I sent you a memo.” “I got the memo. I need reassurances. No company stuff ? No

records, papers—nothing that caught your attention?” “You have something specific in mind, Jack?” “No.
Specific?
Hell no. Specific! Why ask me that?” “No reason. You sound worried. Anything I should know?” “No. Not a thing. But you’re sure he’s clean. You didn’t miss

anything? You went through it all and nothing stood out?” “Naumann was a pro, Jack.” “Yeah. He was. And you went in low? If they figure out you went

through his room before his body was found? That’s heat, Micah.

Heavy heat.” “You mean serious. Or major. Not heavy.” “Serious what? Major what?”

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“You can’t have heavy heat.” “Don’t jerk me around, Micah, I’m not in the mood.” “If I’d been made, Brancati wouldn’t have let me leave Cortona.” “What about this hostel Naumann stayed in? In Cortona? The

Strega?” “I tried to get a look at it again last night. They’ve got two cops

on the entrance. I can’t get anywhere near it until they release it.” “And when will that be?” “Tomorrow, I think.” “You in Venice now?” “Yes.” “Why not wait in Cortona?” “Brancati. The cop. He wanted me to go. I went.” “Why did he want you to get out of Cortona?” “I made the mistake of asking him if I could help out.” There was plenty of dead air in his earpiece now, so he managed

a quick pull at his wineglass. He even had time to light another cig

arette. “You did
what
?” “Yeah. I know. Thing is, he’s going to lay this down as a drug-

related accidental death. I think partly so Naumann can get into

Heaven.” “You’re kidding.” “No. He asked me if Naumann was a Christian.” “He was an Episcopalian. They don’t believe in God. If it wasn’t

a suicide, then what are they calling it?” “Death by misadventure. An accidental overdose or some sort of psychotic episode. They’re going to look for a brain lesion too.”

“They’re doing an autopsy, they’re gonna see those old bullet holes in Naumann. And I hear he got marked up pretty good last year in Syria.”

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“Brancati’s already seen that stuff. Naumann was pretty much naked at the scene. Brancati was military too. He even made Nau-mann’s Air Assault tattoo. So all in all we’re lucky he’s playing it for a simple OD.”

“Okay. No murder. Drug overdose. What’s wrong with that?”

“Naumann didn’t do drugs,” said Dalton with a resigned sigh.

“As far as you know. Anyway, what do you care? Your job is to clean up after our field guys. Not figure out what the hell happened to make them go out on the high side. We lose field guys to drugs or suicide all the time, and when we do, we send in a cleaner. We’ve
already
looked into the backstory and nobody here thinks that anybody in our game had a reason to kill him. Turn him, maybe. Or pay him off. But taking him out in the way you saw? No, it wasn’t company business. You stick to cleaning, Micah. That’s what you do. Field operators lead complicated lives. Now and then they lose it and take themselves out. Naumann’s domestic life was a swamp. I’ve heard all about his zombie-bitch daughters. And you knew he had prostate surgery two years ago?”