The Eighth Day (14 page)

“More coffee, Signore Cray?”

Danny looked up. Nodded. “Please.”

The waiter refilled Danny’s cup, inclined his head, and withdrew.

On the other hand . . .
he could bag the truth-and-beauty biz and go over to the dark side—not forever, of course, but long enough to savor a world of private jets and swank hotels with Belgian chocolates on the pillows. That’s what Belzer was offering him—a chance to “live large.”

Which was tempting. But the temptation—and it was obviously as much a question of temptation as “opportunity”—raised questions. For instance: that business about “the dark side.” In his (admittedly limited) experience, it was seldom the rich who fought the good fight. This was simply a fact of life.

And this thing with Belzer, he had no way of knowing who was right and wrong—or even what the issues were, really. The question was: Did he really
care
whose side he was on? He thought he did, but in the face of Belzer’s offer he was beginning to worry that whatever virtue he had owed less to integrity than to a lack of options. Maybe he wasn’t the good guy that he’d always imagined—just a bad guy waiting for a chance to get started.

Danny sipped his coffee. Admired the creamy porcelain cup. The thing was: This business with Terio and Belzer—it was
unlucky
somehow. He could feel it. The peacocks, the violence, it was all so weird. It made him want to cross himself, which was—

Jesus,
Danny thought,
I’m losing it.
Impatient with his conscience, he signed for the check and went up to his room.

Retrieving Terio’s laptop from under the bed, Danny sat down on the sofa and turned it on.
Maybe there’s something on it that will help me decide. Something about Terio or Zebek—

But there wasn’t.

What there was, was nothing.

Zero. Zip. Niente
.

Danny stared. The monitor was a wall of white-hot pixels. For a second, he thought it must be broken—but no, it had worked for Belzer. Just yesterday. He shut it off and turned it on again. Same thing.

He sat for what seemed like a long while on the edge of the sofa, with the computer in his lap. He remembered Belzer sitting across from him in the library, studying the monitor. After a while, the lawyer had put a CD in the drive—so he could copy the files. Or so Danny thought. One of the drives had started to grind. And now . . .

Suddenly he understood. Belzer hadn’t been copying the files. He’d reformatted the hard disk, and overwritten it with DiscWipe or some other program. That’s what the CD was for.

Danny felt blindsided. And when he thought about it, the meaning of what Belzer had done began to expand. For the first time, he knew for sure which side he was on—the
wrong
side. Destroying the files put a whole new spin on Belzer and on “the investigation” he’d commissioned. This wasn’t an investigation—it was a cover-up. It wasn’t about Terio spreading false information, because then Belzer would have
copied
the files before giving the computer back to Danny. They were evidence of what Terio had done. Instead the lawyer had wiped them out.

So now Danny knew. He wasn’t a good guy
or
a bad guy. He was a just another dupe, a stooge. The lawyer wasn’t paying Danny for his smarts—Fellner Associates was
smart
. Belzer was paying him for his naÏveté. Because Fellner would have seen through Belzer’s scheme. With all the resources of the firm, the first thing they would have done was run a Nexis search on the smears against Zebek. Then they’d have had the results translated. And if it turned out that there weren’t any hits, they’d have realized that the client was lying to them—and they would have walked away from the case.

Which left Danny flushed with anger. He was an easygoing guy, for the most part, but he had an Irish temper—and when it went off it was a good idea to get out of the way. His mother worried about it.
You’re like a broken hammer, Danny! You fly off the handle, and I don’t think you care who gets hit.

Actually, he did. He cared very much. Right now, he wanted to hit Belzer—and no one else would do. But hitting Belzer wasn’t an option. Not really. So he set the computer aside, fell back on the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
Now what?
Danny wondered.

The answer came back in an instant:
Get paid.

Confronting Belzer would accomplish nothing. The thing to do was play along, collect the money that he was owed, and walk away on good terms:
Thanks for the offer, Mr. Belzer—it’s been wayyyy interesting—but I’ve got an exhibition to put together. Ciao!

And, in the meantime, he’d fuck him. He’d restore the files to the computer, using the backup that he’d made. Belzer didn’t know about the backup—and there was no way he’d ever find out. The priest would get whatever there was to get, whatever it was that Terio had
wanted
him to get—if there
was
anything. Maybe the computer was not some kind of message in a bottle. Maybe—as Inzaghi thought—Terio simply sent the Thinkpad as a gift to his friend and that was it. In which case the priest could repeat Belzer’s actions and strip all of Terio’s files off the machine.

But there must have been something on the computer, or Belzer wouldn’t have wiped the disk. That was another thing Danny didn’t know, why Belzer wanted the files erased. Didn’t know. Didn’t
want
to know. Danny Cray would deliver the Thinkpad—files restored—to the priest. And feel a whole lot better about the whole thing. After that—let the wind take it.

It wasn’t quite that easy. Belzer had reformatted the hard disk, destroying not only Terio’s text files but the Windows operating system as well. The first task, then, was to restore the operating system—something Danny had never done or ever wanted to do. Obviously, he needed a geek—but where to find one?

As it happened, one of the advantages of staying in a great hotel is the great concierge who comes with it. Giorgio’s job was to take care of his guests—to get them whatever they wanted. Tickets, reservations, information, introductions—whatever, whenever, however. After explaining the problem to the concierge, Danny returned to his rooms, leaving the elderly Giorgio to work the phones. Which he did, and successfully. After an hour or so, a young man came to the door with a battered CD jewel box. Inside was a pirated copy of the Windows 98 operating system.

It didn’t take the kid long to install it—a little more than half an hour. When the job was done, Danny gave him the equivalent of one hundred dollars and showed him to the door. Then he sat down with the laptop and, one by one, restored the text files that Belzer had deleted. The process took about two minutes and, when the job was done, he telephoned Inzaghi.

“That was fast,” the priest said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I thought you’d want to keep it for days.”

“There was nothing on it we were looking for,” Danny explained. “So! How do I get it to you? I’m leaving tomorrow. I guess I could FedEx it.”

Inzaghi hesitated. “That’s okay, but—where are you off to? Back to the States?”

“Actually, I’m going to Siena.”

“For the Palio! Of course! A beautiful city—I envy you. Don’t miss the cathedral. Even after St. Peter’s, it’s spectacular!”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

The priest paused, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “And how are you traveling?”

“Looks like I’m taking the train.”

“Well, in that case,” Inzaghi exclaimed, “I’m going to Frascati in the morning—I could meet you at the Termini.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. There’s an information board in the main concourse. It’s massive—you can’t miss it. When’s your train?”

“Ten thirty-two.”

“Then I’ll see you at, say, nine forty-five. Just . . .”

“What?” Danny asked.

“Watch out for the children,” the priest told him.

“What children?”

“The gypsy children. They’re adorable, but they’ll pick you clean.”

NINE

Crowds and dust and noise.

Danny and the priest were sitting on straight-backed chairs in the Termini Cafe, just inside the entrance to the train station. Inzaghi was across the table from him, with the strap of the Thinkpad’s case looped around his arm—a precaution against the child-thieves who trawled the station in search of open purses and unattended luggage. He took a tentative sip of espresso and winced. “Not so good.”

Danny nodded, not really listening. He was in a kind of future-oriented reverie, only remotely aware of the man across from him and the hubbub of the station. He’d surged past this meeting, the trip to Siena, the Palio, and whatever thanks-but-no-thanks discussion he was going to have with Belzer. He was thousands of miles away, spending money on video equipment at a store in Lower Manhattan.

“Any petrol station in the provinces can do better than this, Detective,” Inzaghi was saying. “I’m ashamed to be Italian.”

Danny shrugged.
Detective.
The word brought him back to the present, back to Italy. He looked up at the priest. “Listen,” he said. “There’s something I ought to tell you.”

Inzaghi frowned. Obviously the detective hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Yes?”

“It’s that . . . well, I’m not actually a detective. I’m . . . an investigator.”

Inzaghi nodded. So what?

“A
private
investigator,” Danny added.

The priest’s eyes flickered, suddenly curious.

“I don’t work for Fairfax County,” Danny elaborated.

“But . . .” Now Inzaghi was really confused. His hands fluttered, then settled back down. “Your identification—I saw it. Fairfax County.” He frowned. “
Virginia
. And then—you brought me this.” He tapped the computer with the back of his hand.

Danny nodded. “I know, but . . . my name’s Danny Cray. And I’m really an artist, a sculptor. This investigative work, it’s just a way to pay the bills. Sometimes there are pretexts, and . . . I’m sorry.”

Inzaghi looked surprised, but there wasn’t any anger in him. After a moment, he asked, “So who hired you?”

It was an obvious question, and it was equally obvious that Danny didn’t want to answer it. But he did. He told Inzaghi about Belzer and Zebek. And then, when he was done, he rolled a forefinger in the air beside his head. “It was
Ka-ching, ka-ching
. All I could hear was the cash register. Next thing I know, Belzer has me in his web and I’m ‘Detective Muller.’ ”

Inzaghi leaned back in his chair, frowned, drummed his fingers on the little table. “It’s like the gypsies. Using children.”

“How’s that?”

“The way they exploit innocence.”

Embarrassed, Danny looked down at his hands. “I knew what I was doing. It was a lot of money. So I wouldn’t say I was all that ‘innocent.’ ”

The priest smiled. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.”

Danny’s embarrassment deepened. After a moment, he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said, starting to get up.

The priest laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not upset. The important thing is, you’ve told the truth—and I have the computer. Don’t worry about it.”

Danny relaxed. Sat back in his chair. “Thanks,” he said, a little uncertainly. Inzaghi was giving him the benefit of the doubt, and he wasn’t sure that he deserved it.

The priest pressed his hands together. “Though, actually,” he said, “maybe you
should
worry about it.”

Danny looked at him.

Inzaghi leaned forward. “I mean, you should be careful,” he said.

Danny shrugged. “I’m going home soon—”

“No. You’re going to Siena soon. Home is later.” He hesitated. “What I’m saying is: Be careful in Siena.”

“All right.”

“Let me ask you something,” Inzaghi said. “This Zebek—how much do you know about him?”

“Not much.”

“That’s what I thought,” the priest told him. “I think he must be a very private person. Because you could read all the major newspapers and you wouldn’t see his name in a year. Except in passing, maybe, and on lists.”

“What ‘lists’?”

“The richest. The most powerful. The most this, the most that. He’s always right up there: Agnelli, Berlusconi, Zebek. And this man—he’s not even Italian.”

“He’s not?”

The priest shook his head. “He’s a Turk—though he’s lived in Italy for many, many years.”

Danny wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, and his face showed it.

Inzaghi saw his uncertainty. “The point is: There was no smear campaign against Zerevan Zebek.”

“You’re sure?”

The priest nodded. “Absolutely. There’s almost nothing published about him—in Italy or anywhere else. I remember a picture in
Oggi
. A party in Milan. Gucci, or an AIDS ball. The lists. That’s about it.”

Danny looked skeptical. “If he’s so rich, you’d think—”

“He’s famously litigious. Which might explain a lot. Of course, so might other things.”

“Such as what?” Danny did not want to be curious—he wanted to be done with this business—but he couldn’t help himself.

The priest pursed his lips. “Perhaps he’s connected to the Mafia.”

Danny blanched.

“Or worse,” the priest said.

“Worse? What could be worse?”

Inzaghi made a gesture. “He’s Turkish. Almost anything is possible.”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked.

“I mean . . . the country is run by the army and by certain clans. Together they own banks and poppy fields, munitions factories and trucking companies. On one level, it’s all quite respectable—with Western corporations as their partners. But I think if you go deeper, you’ll come across arrangements with Lebanese militias on both sides of what used to be called ‘the Green Line.’ Bulgarian gangs. Political factions in Armenia and Iraq, in Iran and Syria. There’s a lot of smuggling. By comparison, our Mafia is a provincial institution.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I read
Le Monde
.”

“And you think Zebek—”

The priest shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Zebek—except how much I
don’t
know. Mr. Zebek is a mystery. But so are you.”

Danny raised his hands as if to fend off an accusation. “Not anymore I’m not.”

“Oh, but you are. I still don’t know why you were paid to get the computer.”

“Belzer wanted to erase the files,” Danny told him. “And he
did
erase the files.”

The priest’s face sagged with disappointment. “When Chris told me that he was making me a gift of the laptop, he said he’d left some of his preliminary work on the machine for me to read. I thought maybe I could do something for him. You know, perhaps some posthumous publication of his recent work, his research for the book. Now I guess not; I—”

“Don’t worry,” Danny interrupted. “I made a backup, a floppy—Belzer didn’t know about it. I put the files back for you. So whatever
was
there . . .” He shrugged.

The corners of Inzaghi’s mouth lifted for a moment and then flat-lined. “That was very kind of you. But now I’m sure of it. You shouldn’t go to Siena.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “It’s payday, Padre. I am definitely on that train.”

And so he was. Arriving in the city in the early afternoon, Danny found himself unprepared for the beauty of Tuscany’s crown jewel. The city was an urban gem inset in a golden landscape, with farms and olive groves surrounding a collage of palaces and towers draped across three softly rolling hills.

He found a taxi—a battered Fiat—outside the railway terminus and sat back as the driver embarked on a hair-raising drive along a narrow road that wound its way through the hills, corkscrewing higher and higher. Girded by ancient stone walls, Siena strobed in and out of view as the taxi climbed through the hills in the shimmering heat of summer.

“You come for the Palio, no?” The driver was a short dark man with a bright silk scarf around his neck—an improbable accessory that looked strange against his faded polo shirt and gray pants. The scarf itself was magenta and green, and Danny saw that a gold dragon peeked from its folds.

“Yeah, right!” Danny said, raising his voice above the straining engine. “The Palio!”

The driver pinched the point of the scarf’s fabric and pulled it out, away from him. “Drago,” he announced, looking into the cracked rearview mirror to see if Danny understood.

Danny acknowledged the display by tugging lightly at the collar of his shirt and declaring his own allegiance: “USA.”

The driver laughed, then swung the wheel to the right and back to the left, as a black Renault sent the taxi sliding onto the gravel shoulder. A string of curses followed as the cabbie turned in his seat, punishing the offending car with a stare.

Then it was Danny’s turn to swear as an oncoming truck bore down upon them from around a curve. Reluctantly the driver returned his gaze to the road and applied the brakes.

“In English, the Dragon,” the driver said. Slowly the car returned to its excessive speed as the driver continued the conversation in a nonchalant tone. “We going to win, I think. I’m seeing the horse.” He removed a hand from the steering wheel and kissed the bouquet of his fingers. He removed his other hand from the wheel and made an expansive gesture. “This horse, he’s a good mover.”

Danny willed the man’s hands back to the steering wheel. His relief when they careened into the pebble courtyard of the hotel translated itself into a big tip, despite the fact that the ride had included, as was normal in Italy, two near-death experiences. It was an integral part of Danny’s system of superstition that generous tips kept disaster at bay.

The hotel stood on a hillside above an olive grove in one of the most romantic settings he’d ever seen. Checking in, he found that, once again, a suite had been reserved for him. It was off to itself in a quiet courtyard whose walls were plastered with climbing roses. Bees swayed in the air, drowsing, and then shot off into the sun. Birds sang. Water burbled. Terra-cotta pots stood everywhere, spilling flowers and trailing vines. Clinging to everything was the scent of roses and lavender.

Danny’s own rooms were pleasantly cool and cheerfully decorated, with beamed ceilings of dark wood, a corner fireplace, and a marble bathroom. He thought about heading into town—Siena was a city he was itching to explore—but decided to have a drink on the terrace first.

He was halfway through his second Campari-soda, eyes resting on the olive groves below, when Paulina Pastorini sashayed into view. Seeing him, she gave a little wave and crossed the terrace with a lacquered walk so sensual it might easily have been designated a road hazard.

She was wearing a tangerine halter-top dress and white sandals with high heels, her eyes hidden behind a pair of expensive sunglasses. With her café-au-lait skin and chestnut hair the effect was heart-stopping. A voice in the back of his head insisted that he was not happy to see her there, that it would be better to be alone, that she was an accident waiting to happen. But it didn’t work. Not for a second. The woman was a thrill.

“Ah,
there
you are,” she said, with a flash of teeth. She tossed back her gleaming hair. “May I join you?” she asked, and, without waiting for an answer, pulled out a chair and sat down.

The waiter appeared out of nowhere. “Signorina?”

She fired away in Italian. The waiter nodded and withdrew. With a soft smile, she lowered her chin and looked at Danny over the tops of her sunglasses.

Bambi eyes,
he thought.

“Have you been very, very good?” she asked.

Danny shifted in his seat. Searched desperately for something witty to say: “I guess.”

She laughed.

“Are you here for the Palio?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m here for
you
,” she told him. Paused. “To show you around Siena, translate—whatever you need.” Her elegant shoulders lifted in a shrug.

A moment later, the waiter returned with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses. Angling the bottle toward Paulina, he awaited her approval. When she nodded in assent, he opened the bottle expertly and poured her a small amount. When she tasted the wine and smacked her lips in comic delight, the waiter laughed. And so did Danny.

It was all very leisurely, entirely in keeping with the somnolent glory of the afternoon.
This is what it’s like to be rich,
Danny thought.
This is what you write when you write your own ticket: P-a-u-l-i-n-a.

When the wine was almost gone, they summoned Paulina’s car—a white Lancia—and drove down the hill toward town. She was a good driver, a hundred times better than the cabbie, easing the car through one gear after another, turn after turn. Danny found himself looking at her legs and pulled his eyes away.

“I’m told you’re an artist,” she said.

He nodded.

“Signore Belzer says you’re good. A real Picasso!”

Danny chuckled. “Rii-ight—that’s me. ‘A real Picasso!’ ”

“That’s what he
said
,” she told him. “I’m just reporting. Anyway, I thought we’d see some art. I can show you things that will knock your eyes off.”

He didn’t know what she meant for a moment. Then he understood. “ ‘Your socks,’ ” he told her.

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘Your socks.’ It’s your socks that get knocked off—not your eyes.”

She glanced at him. “Really? Not your eyes? Your
socks
?” Her laugh was pure magic, but there was something in it that made him think she’d deliberately muddled the idiom—that she was being “cute” for him. “Why does that make sense?” she asked. “I, myself, don’t wear socks. Fortunately, you do. So maybe we can knock them off.”

In between masterpieces—the famous frescoes of Good and Bad Government in the Palazzo Publico, the cathedral with its baptistry and Donatello’s reliefs, an exquisitely inlaid marble pavement—she told him about the Palio.

“Siena—it’s not such a big town, you know? Maybe sixty thousand people in seventeen
contrade
.” She looked at him. “You know what a
contrada
is?”

He nodded. “It’s like a neighborhood.”

She looked impressed. “That’s amazing,” she told him. “Americans almost never know.” She paused, then continued. “Well, then you know that each of the
contrade
has its own borders within the city—its own chapel, museum, and social club, its own patron saint, flag, and totem.”