Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
The Orpheus Deception (13 page)
Mandy Pownall smiled at the compliment.
“Well, not so lucky. Groz is of interest to us.”
Galan chuckled, a deep rumble in his bony chest.
“Stefan Groz is of interest to most of the Intelligence agencies in Europe.”
“Yes,” said Mandy. “My point being, we know the source of this e-mail to Stefan Groz. We have the computer IP address. As a gesture of goodwill, we’re prepared to give you the precise location of this computer.”
“Some Internet café, most likely?”
“Yes. The Café Electro in Campo San Stefano. You know it?”
“Of course.”
“Then find out who used this particular computer at”—she hesitated, recalling the details she had painstakingly memorized under the judgmental consideration of Stennis Corso and Tony Crane—“precisely six minutes and eleven seconds after midnight last night, local time. The IP of the computer is . . . Do you wish to take this down?”
Galan shook his head. Mandy looked around the plaza.
“Issadore, you bounder. You have a mike on us?”
Galan bowed, offered a gnomic smile.
“Yes. We also have a camera in the Café Electro.”
“You do?”
“We have cameras in every Internet café in Italy.”
Mandy thought this over.
“Of course. A reasonable security measure.”
“Yes. Well, this is much appreciated—”
He had started to rise; Mandy placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“Look, Issadore. Do you know about Micah and Porter Naumann?”
“Of course. The bizarre affair of the red-skinned man.”
“Do you know that Porter and I were lovers?”
Galan looked away, not out of any sense of discomfort. Perhaps only to hide a momentary betraying glitter. He had several telephoto shots in his own filing cabinet, surveillance shots of Porter Naumann and this splendid woman in an intense embrace outside a car-rental office in the Piazzale Roma. Galan was no one’s lover and never would be again. Which was why he was living in Venice and had never gone home to his wife in Haifa after the Jordanians traded him back to the Mossad for six of their own spies. Galan had also read the Naumann file. He nodded.
“Then you know that I would never hurt Micah. I give you my word, Issadore. If Micah will only come in . . .”
“This is not a decision that I am qualified to make. Such a determination would have to come from Major Brancati.”
“Is Micah Dalton alive, Issadore?”
There was a look in her face that reached him deep in his desiccated core. Friendship, affection. Love. There was no room for that sort of thing in this business. He knew Mandy Pownall was not a street agent. Tony Crane had sent her because she had a personal stake in Micah Dalton. Crane knew Galan would sense this. He was banking on it. The kindest thing he could do for this splendid woman would be to send her away with her hopes shattered and her loving heart broken. But Micah Dalton had become a card, in an unknown game being played by London Station and therefore by Deacon Cather himself, and for a card to be useful the card must be kept in play.
“Yes, he is alive.”
“Will he come in?”
Galan shook his head.
“Not to London Station.”
“Then where?”
Galan looked up toward a suite of windows in the offices above Florian’s, raised his hand. Then he looked back at Mandy, his black eyes glittering but his expression not unkind. If he had pity in him, he might have been feeling that, but he did not. It was closer to mild regret, and he was very familiar with regrets. He had many of them, but there was room in his damaged heart for a few more.
“He’s here?” said Mandy.
Galan nodded.
“Yes. Come with me.”
AROUND THE SAME
time that Galan was sharing a decanter of icy Chablis with Mandy Pownall, Alessio Brancati was having his marine unit run down the white-over-blue Riva—the name SUBITO on the stern was done in glittering gold letters—the pursuit boat managing to intercept it after a confused, ambiguous, slow-speed, stop-and-start chase on the way to the ship channel north of the Lido. The man at the wheel, a lean, foxlike young man with vaguely Arab features and amazingly clear green eyes, was only too happy to bring his sixty-foot cruiser to a slow crawl—he had long lines in the murky water, running on downriggers. They trailed behind the boat as the marine unit pulled in closer.
time that Galan was sharing a decanter of icy Chablis with Mandy Pownall, Alessio Brancati was having his marine unit run down the white-over-blue Riva—the name SUBITO on the stern was done in glittering gold letters—the pursuit boat managing to intercept it after a confused, ambiguous, slow-speed, stop-and-start chase on the way to the ship channel north of the Lido. The man at the wheel, a lean, foxlike young man with vaguely Arab features and amazingly clear green eyes, was only too happy to bring his sixty-foot cruiser to a slow crawl—he had long lines in the murky water, running on downriggers. They trailed behind the boat as the marine unit pulled in closer.
“I was fishing,” said the man at the wheel—there was something wrong with his radio, it seemed—while the Carabinieri crew in the long mahogany speedboat puttered to the gangway. He stood by the gangway to greet the young officer and his men as they came up the ladder, their faces set and stern, carrying HK MP5s at port arms.
“Papers,” said the young officer, his voice not quite as deep as he would have wished. The young man, very tan, barefoot, in clean white slacks and a powder blue V-necked cashmere sweater with a long indigo scarf tied around his neck, gave the young officer a decidedlycarnal once-over and then led the little boarding party around to the fantail and along into the pilothouse. The boat was obviously expensive, done in brass and teak and hardwoods, uncluttered and elegantly appointed, and the young man—the
owner,
according to his papers, was Kiki Lujac.
“The photographer!”
blurted one of the junior carabiniere.
owner,
according to his papers, was Kiki Lujac.
“The photographer!”
blurted one of the junior carabiniere.
“Yes,” said
the
Kiki Lujac, showing a brilliant smile, his face opening like a sunny dawn. “The same—”
the
Kiki Lujac, showing a brilliant smile, his face opening like a sunny dawn. “The same—”
They searched his ship. They found nothing at all; he was quite alone, fishing idly and without any real desire to catch anything, it seemed, the downriggers still and untended. The officials thought there may have been a girl at some point in the past; the captain detected some lingering female scent in the master cabin—of course, this was only to be expected, as the man had this reputation. At any rate, they left, after many autographs and some chilled prosecco and then much more laughter, pulling away from the long, low, sleek Art Deco cruiser in a purring growl, powering up flamboyantly to impress Kiki, the mahogany chase boat carving a golden arc of spray through the dying glimmer of the setting sun on the broad lagoon, the youngest soldier explaining in detail to his captain just who Kiki Lujac was—the many photo spreads in
Vanity Fair,
the glamorous fashion sessions in Ibiza, seen in Capri with Tom Cruise, seen in Cannes with Lauren Hutton. “Lujac,” he said, in a hushed tone. Kiki Lujac, the globe-trotting, jet-setting nephew of a Montenegrin
Duke.
Kiki Lujac, the world-famous shooter.
Vanity Fair,
the glamorous fashion sessions in Ibiza, seen in Capri with Tom Cruise, seen in Cannes with Lauren Hutton. “Lujac,” he said, in a hushed tone. Kiki Lujac, the globe-trotting, jet-setting nephew of a Montenegrin
Duke.
Kiki Lujac, the world-famous shooter.
GALAN LED MANDY
through the dimly lit, polished wooden labyrinth of Florian’s inner rooms, which smelled of cedar incense and wood polish and garlic, down a long, narrow, seventeenth-century hallway lined with Venetian-glass sconces. He stopped her a few feet short of a private booth, covered by a faded tapestry, turned to look at her in the flickering light of the candle sconces. When he spoke, his voice was low but contained an electric charge.
through the dimly lit, polished wooden labyrinth of Florian’s inner rooms, which smelled of cedar incense and wood polish and garlic, down a long, narrow, seventeenth-century hallway lined with Venetian-glass sconces. He stopped her a few feet short of a private booth, covered by a faded tapestry, turned to look at her in the flickering light of the candle sconces. When he spoke, his voice was low but contained an electric charge.
“Miss Pownall . . .”
“Mandy.”
“Mandy . . . it is very important that you understand one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Dalton has been wounded. He has recovered—he heals like a young dog—but he is not . . . invincible. He is damaged. By the blade, and also by the drug he was exposed to last month. The doctors feel his hallucinations may reoccur without warning. The drug has saturated his limbic system, they tell us. I have no idea what that means, but now he is . . . almost a Venetian himself. He has become close to an old Venetian family, the Vasaris, who have much influence here and in Tuscany. Also, and this is the part you must understand, he enjoys the protection—and remains effectively in the
custody—
of my chief, Major Brancati—”
custody—
of my chief, Major Brancati—”
Mandy began to speak, but Galan held her with a look.
“Major Brancati has objected to this meeting. But he left it to me to decide if you should see Mr. Dalton. So this meeting is happening. Major Brancati has no problem with you personally, and Mr. Dalton says you were a help to him in his last investigation for your agency. But you are connected in this to Mr. Crane, whom, after Milan, we do not now trust, and through Mr. Crane to Mr. Cather, your Director of Clandestine Operations in Langley, and Mr. Cather is well known to anyone in our business, right across Europe and into the east. His reputation is for subtle ruthlessness and for cruel intelligence. So, we—Major Brancati and I—wish to make this known to Mr. Cather—if you would be so kind, Mandy—and the thing to be known is that we—I speak of the Italian Intelligence arms—will resent
very
bitterly any harm that may come to Mr. Dalton as a result of our trusting you this evening. We will not hold you responsible, but Mr. Cather and Mr. Crane may take it as a certitude that in whateverways that may be open to us in the future we will . . . reply . . . to such a perfidy in coin. In coin. Am I understood? Mandy?”
very
bitterly any harm that may come to Mr. Dalton as a result of our trusting you this evening. We will not hold you responsible, but Mr. Cather and Mr. Crane may take it as a certitude that in whateverways that may be open to us in the future we will . . . reply . . . to such a perfidy in coin. In coin. Am I understood? Mandy?”
Standing in this dark hallway and staring into Galan’s small black eyes, Mandy had no trouble at all in understanding and believing everything that Issadore Galan was saying to her.
“You are quite crystalline, Issadore. Now, may I see Micah?”
Galan led them a little farther down the hallway, stopped, and pressed a mother-of-pearl button hidden by a fold of the tapestry. On the other side of the tapestry, he heard a muffled voice. He pulled back the curtain.
Dalton was sitting at a low, round marquetry table, with his back to a banquette padded in golden silk shantung, lit from above by a dark-red-shaded lamp that cast an amber glow on the tabletop, on the silver tray that held a bottle of Bollinger and two tall flutes, on the Murano-glass bowl filled with figs and grapes, on the dull-blue Ruger that lay on its side next to the Murano bowl, on Dalton’s skull-like, deeply shadowed face, his blond hair glimmering in the downlight and on the hostile glitter in his pale eyes as he looked up at Mandy Pownall with a killing face.
Dalton showed her his teeth, half rising. She stepped into the booth, dimly aware of Galan drawing the curtain behind her, conscious of Dalton’s scent in the room—Toscano cigars and under that something like soap and citrus.
In this booth at Florian’s,
she thought,
he looks like a Medici prince.
She held him, feeling the muscles under his white shirt, the bones under the muscles. He kissed her on the cheek and let her go.
In this booth at Florian’s,
she thought,
he looks like a Medici prince.
She held him, feeling the muscles under his white shirt, the bones under the muscles. He kissed her on the cheek and let her go.
She slid into the booth opposite him, placed her broad-brimmed hat on the seat beside her, keeping her eyes on his death mask of a face.
She was surprised to find she was a little afraid of him.
“Micah. I’m so happy to see you.”
“Surprised and happy?”
“No. Just glad. You look . . . terrible.”
“And you look lovely, as always.”
“May I smoke? I mean, are you healthy enough to . . . ?”
“Only if you share.”
She brought out her Cartier case, extracted a long turquoise cigarette, offered another to Dalton, and lit both with her heavy gold lighter. As she set it down, Dalton, now half hidden in a cloud of coiling smoke, reached out and picked it up. His hand looked like a leathery claw, the tendons standing out clearly and the muscles in his wrist writhing like snakes under the skin.
“Porter gave you this, didn’t he?”
“Yes. In Corfu. Two years ago. It was his father’s. How are you, Micah? Forgive me. You do look like hell. What kind of shape are you in?”
Dalton shrugged, set the lighter down.
“They picked nineteen pieces of Murano glass out of my guts. If the blade had nicked an artery, I’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be having this drink together. Other than that, and the fact that I’ve still got untold quantities of assorted hallucinogens fizzing around in my blood, I’d have to say I’m . . . peachy.”
“Fucking
peachy?” she said, mimicking Porter Naumann’s voice.
“Fucking
peachy” was one of his favorite expressions.
peachy?” she said, mimicking Porter Naumann’s voice.
“Fucking
peachy” was one of his favorite expressions.
“Yeah.
Fucking
peachy.”
Fucking
peachy.”
“Have you . . . seen Porter lately?”
One of the side effects of his last mission had been a massive exposure to a high-potency mix of powdered datura and peyote. It had nearly killed him, and had kicked him into a series of vivid hallucinations, some of which included long and very complicated discussions with the ghost of Porter Naumann. Naumann’s ghost had worn a pair of emerald green silk pajamas throughout several appearances in the days that followed.
Except on one occasion.
“The last time I saw him was in Carmel. The day Laura died. He was wearing a navy blue pin-striped suit. Other than being dead, he looked splendid.”
He didn’t tell her about seeing his ghost again, in a dream of Cortona, while he was lying bleeding on the steps of the Basilica in the piazza. Nor did he tell her that in the dream his old friend Porter Naumann had tried to talk him into dying.
“Porter always knew how to dress.”
“Yes. Taught me everything I know.”
Mandy smiled, put the turquoise cigarette to her red lips, inhaled, the tip of the cigarette flaring into a yellow cat’s-eye in the half dark. The scent of tobacco—rich, dark, Turkish—filled the room, and the smoke drifted upward into the shadows, writhing gently. They sat together in silence, watching the smoke. After a time, Mandy spoke.
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