The testament, p.43
The Testament, page 43
Adem Khalif was upon him by this time. As Khalif began to shout, Bravo plunged a fist into his solar plexus. Khalif groaned and doubled over. Leaping over him, Bravo was up and running again, between the twin columns flanking the entrance, out the door, down the steps and away.
Whirling out into the slate and gunmetal-gray evening, Bravo plunged into the crowds and almost at once lost all sense of direction. He allowed the flow to move him like a piece of jetsam thrown off a ship. At the moment, it did not matter to him where he went, as long as it was away from his enemies. Borne along on this human tide, he absorbed flashes of color, the scents of spice, strong coffee, anxiety and foreboding. The day was ending and, with it, all the mixed blessings and tiny setbacks that accompanied the preoccupations of each person he passed. The rhythms of languages and street argot fell on his ears like the beat of prayer drums.
The precious few moments of blissful anonymity passed through his fingers like sand. It wasn't long before he spotted one of the bearded men and, not far behind him, the other one, trying to stanch the flow of blood from his broken nose on the stained sleeve of his shirt.
Had they spotted him yet? He didn't know, he only knew they were heading in his direction. At once, he veered off to his right, out of the crowd flow. Yes, he was exposing himself for a moment, but he felt the risk was worth his gaining a safe haven.
He took a side street, trying not to break out into a run, to keep his pace more or less equal to that of the people around him. But the hard beating of his heart, the spurts of adrenaline rushing through his system made this difficult. And then, with an anxious glance behind him, he saw the two men shoot like sharks out of the surf on the main street, heading down the side street he had taken.
He plunged into the shadows of a narrow alley, stinking of garbage, creosote and offal. Dogs barked, heralding his presence, and the triangular head of one of them peered at him briefly before vanishing in a second explosion of barking.
He moved on, forcing himself to continue, even while he wondered whether he had made a mistake. No shops presented themselves, no doorways in which he could seek sanctuary. His smoldering fear burst into flame when he glanced back to see other shapes entering the alley. The bearded men? He heard the quickened pace of their footsteps. Who else but the bearded men?
He stumbled on, picking up his pace, hurrying around another corner, where the alley bent like an old woman's back. But scarcely a few meters on, he was brought up short. There, standing in front of him was Adem Khalif.
"You understand that this could backfire," Jenny said as they approached the entrance to Mikhail Kartli's house. "It's likely that Kartli has already heard the rumor that I murdered Father Mosto."
"In that case, you will implicate the priest," Camille said evenly, "absolving yourself."
"You want me to vilify Father Mosto?"
"I want you to help us find Bravo," Camille said quietly. "If that means lying to your contact about someone else's integrity I don't see that you have a choice."
Her manner was both forthright and steadfast. There was an iron will, a certain determination in her that reminded Jenny of Arcangela.
"What does it matter to Father Mosto, anyway?" Camille added. "He's dead."
"Kartli may not believe me."
"He will because you'll sell it to him." Camille lifted a hand, ran her fingers through Jenny's hair. "I have faith in you, Jenny." She smiled. "Don't worry, I'll back up whatever story you tell."
Jenny turned, knocked on the front door in a singular pattern not unlike Morse code. Camille took note with one part of her brain, but another part was thinking how amusing it was to fabricate feelings for someone you were manipulating. Artificial, slippery as oil, they could not sink their curved barbs into your flesh, could not hurt you in any way.
The door opened, revealing the lined, sober face of Mikhail Kartli. He ushered them into a small, rather dark sitting room, enrobed in heavy curtains. Lamps burned, illuminating a low ceiling, muscularly beamed. A series of small, exquisitely hand-knotted silk rugs hung on the wall, arranged as if they were paintings in a high-end art gallery. Camille glanced around as she sat on a heavy upholstered chair. He served them tea, dark and fragrant and steaming, from an old and well-used service on a magnificently hand-tooled copper tray. There was a selection of European biscuits from which they selected one each, more out of courtesy than hunger.
Camille had deliberately seated herself perpendicular to Mikhail Kartli so that she could watch him without seeming to do so. The Georgian was of great interest to her, since he had been the Order's mainstay in Trabzon, a city that had for many years gone unnoticed by the Knights of St. Clement. He had told Cornadoro that he was newly freelance, a soldier for hire. She sipped her tea, settling back to gain his measure while Jenny did the talking.
Kartli was speaking of mundane matters: the humidity, historical sites, the food-he recommended several restaurants. He would not, of course, ask them why they had come or how he could help them. That was not, Camille knew, how these people operated. They were cagey, you had to coax them out of their lairs. They needed to get the measure of you, as they might examine the glimmer of a creature plucked from beneath the ocean's waves.
With mounting interest she saw that, despite Jenny's stated fears, the younger woman was adept at speaking to Asians. Camille had discovered that as a rule Americans did not know how to treat either Europeans or Asians. To them, everyone in the world either shared America's values and customs or was of no import to them. Jenny's attitude was neither usual nor automatic. Camille adjusted upward her opinion of Jenny's abilities.
Kartli peered at Jenny from beneath hooded eyes. He had not moved during the introductions. Indeed, it was difficult to see the rise and fall of his abdomen, to ascertain whether he was still breathing.
"I'm going to tell you the truth," Jenny said now. "In Venice, I was set up as the fall guy for Father Mosto's death. My sin was not being alert enough to stop the attack on me, just before Father Mosto was murdered."
Kartli lifted the hand that until this moment had been propping up his chin. "You say you're telling me the truth." The hand waggled back and forth in equivocation. "You do not know me. What have I done to deserve this signal honor?"
"You're the Order's man in Trabzon," Jenny said.
"Therefore, I am trustworthy. But it seems these days no one, inside the Order or out, is to be trusted."
Jenny said, "I have nowhere else to go, nothing left to lose."
There was as slight pause.
"And this Father Mosto… ?"
"I don't pretend to know much about him. He's not important."
"A man's death-"
"What is vital for you to understand," Jenny pressed, "is that Anthony Rule was the Knight of St. Clement mole inside the Order-not me, not Paolo Zorzi."
Kartli's gimlet eyes never strayed from her face. "Paolo Zorzi was your mentor." It was not a question. "Difficult to believe he had turned against you, was it?"
"Actually, it wouldn't have been hard to believe at all," Jenny said. "He was perfectly placed."
"Yes, he was."
"But Rule would have been the smarter choice," she went on. "He was Dexter Shaw's closest confidant."
Kartli made no further comment, and nothing in his expression gave Jenny the slightest clue as to his thinking. Lacking such a guidepost, she had no choice but to plunge onward. "The bottom line is that we have to find Bravo before the agents of the Knights do, and keep him safe."
"I don't see how I can help you."
"You must have met him, that much we have surmised," Jenny said. "Like me, he had nowhere else to go in Trabzon."
"And I say again, I don't see how I can help you. I no longer work for the Order."
Jenny took a breath, as if she were about to move out into deeper water. She sat forward, her upper body angled toward Kartli, and Camille at once took note because a new, uncataloged tension had come into the muscles of her body, an expression of the deepest concentration flooded her face. She appeared undaunted by what Kartli had said.
"I want to tell you about Braverman Shaw," she began, and oddly enough, Kartli, though he might have wanted to, resisted the urge to stay her.
Jenny talked about Bravo in the most impassioned way, and Camille noticed something. Like a fly in a web, the Georgian's attention had been caught. Kartli, like Camille, had fastened onto the upwelling of genuine emotion as she conjured up Braverman Shaw for him.
This was of the most intense interest for Camille. Jenny was the vulnerable spot, the pivot point that would tip the scales and bring Bravo rushing to her, and now, for the first time, she began to understand the depth of Jenny's feelings for Bravo. Whereas before she had assumed a schoolgirl crush, a romantic infatuation brought about by intimate contact that could bond those in battle-she herself had had her share of fiery but short-lived affairs-now she heard the truth from Jenny's own mouth. Much to her surprise and consternation, Cornadoro had been right, after all. Jenny was committed to Bravo, truly, deeply, unshakably.
Camille took a deep breath, let it out slowly. This information changed everything.
Possibly Mikhail Kartli felt the same way, for he said, "I don't know where Braverman Shaw is."
Something passed across Jenny's expression. No more than a flicker, it was nevertheless picked up by Camille's keen eye. Friend or foe, this was how Jenny was coming to judge everyone she met. If they couldn't help her-or wouldn't-they became her enemy. For her the middle ground had disappeared, had been rendered meaningless by the betrayals she had suffered on this assignment. It would be wise to keep in mind her new way of looking at the Voire Dei, her rapid learning curve, Camille decided.
"In that case," Jenny said now, "I could really use a handgun."
"Luger or a Witness?"
"Is the Witness a Tanfoglio?" Jenny said. "I like the way the Italians make it."
Kartli smiled, as if she had passed a test. "The Tanfoglio Witness will cost you more."
"And extra ammo," Jenny said. "I aim to get my money's worth."
As Bravo went into a defensive stance, Adem Khalif raised both hands palms outward in an unmistakable gesture of placation.
"I mean you no harm, Bravo, truly."
"What about those two behind me?"
"They mean you no harm, either."
"Bullshit They belong to Mikhail Kartli."
"True enough," Khalif acknowledged, "but Kartli is no more your enemy than I am."
"Now I know you've lost your mind." It was maddening trying to keep track of both Khalif and the two bearded men at the same time, surely their intention. "I don't have to remind you that I offended Kartli. Mortally. He's out for my blood."
Adem Khalif inclined his head slightly. "So it would seem to anyone observing the incident."
There was a short pause, during which Bravo digested the implications of this comment. The feral dog had reappeared, no doubt lured by the prospect of fresh meat. One of the bearded men lofted an empty beer bottle in a low arc over Bravo's head, striking the animal in the side. It yelped in pain and vanished.
"Someone was observing us?" Bravo said.
"It was why Mikhail ignored my advice to take the argument inside his shop." Khalif ventured the ghost of a smile. "I wondered about that at the time. It is foolish to air one's business in public, and Mikhail Kartli is anything but foolish."
"True enough," Bravo nodded.
"I have more to tell you," Khalif said, "but, I beg you, somewhere more pleasant, yes?"
"What about the Glimmer Twins over there?"
Khalif's gaze shifted to the two bearded men behind Bravo. "Bodyguards for you. Kartli's express orders. I wouldn't disobey them"-he shrugged-"though I suppose it is your choice."
Bravo waited a beat, considering. "I can dismiss them at any time."
"Of course."
Khalif's brown eyes met his without any hint of deception.
"All right," Bravo said. "Lead on."
A twenty-minute walk through the maze of the bazaar brought them to an unmarked door in a seedy building on a street sticky with beer. Here and there, garishly painted Natashas lounged and leered fiercely.
The door, its green field of peeling paint sadly faded, opened at Khalif's first knock, and they entered. The interior looked like Hollywood's idea of an Oriental opium den circa 1950-red wallpaper, yellow songbirds in bamboo cages, huge brass hookahs beside plush sofas, women in long, sleek, high-slit shantung silk dresses. On one wall, a painting of a lush naked woman, erotically sprawled on a divan, smiling with enigmatic malice.
The four men were completely ignored by the women, whose languid movement about the rooms reminded Bravo of exotic fish in a tank. Khalif nodded to an older woman with an inch of pancake makeup on her face, who directed them to a private room, then closed the door firmly behind them.
On the central table was a flagon of raki, eight bottles of beer, a decanter of single-malt scotch and a fistful of glasses. Bravo and Khalif took seats. The Glimmer Twins remained outside, presumably flanking the door.
Khalif gestured at the liquor, but Bravo shook his head.
"Mikhail suspected that you were being followed," Khalif said. "Further, he felt there was only one way-sure and quick-to find out. He gave the impression of a serious falling out. I played my own part-unwitting, as it happens-of trying to be the mediator between two hotheads. His ruse worked. Not an hour after you left his shop, a man arrived. By that time I, too, had departed, though in the company of one of Mikhail's sons-to keep me from contacting you, or so I believed."
Khalif drew out a cell phone, turned it so Bravo could see the color photo on the screen. "Taken by one of Mikhail's sons. Look familiar?"
"Yes." Bravo frowned. "That's a man named Michael Berio. He met us in Venice, hired by a friend of mine."
"I'm afraid your friend's been duped-and so have you," Khalif said. "His real name is Damon Cornadoro. He's a member of one of Venice's Case Vecchie."
"One of the twenty-four founding families of Venice." Bravo nodded. "Like Paolo Zorzi."
"More importantly for you and for me," Khalif said, "he works for the Knights of St. Clement. In fact, he's their top assassin."
"Christ, and he's here."
"Here, and asking after your whereabouts. This is what Mikhail told me after his son summoned me back to his shop." Khalif opened one of the beers, took a deep swallow, set the bottle down. "Bravo, I must tell you that the fact that the Knights have sent this man after you is the worst possible news. He is powerful, determined, clever, and very, very nasty. These traits have been bred in his bones, in his very blood."
"And now he's insinuated his way into my best friend's good graces." Bravo shook his head and took out his cell phone. At once, Khalif stayed him. "What are you doing?"
"Calling my friend Jordan. I have to warn him-"
"The moment you do that, you alert Cornadoro you're on to him. Think, Bravo-is that what you really want?"
"If he's half as nasty as you make him out to be, you bet I do."
"And then what will happen, do you think?"
Bravo fought to put aside his anxiety over Jordan's safety. Fought to bring himself back to the here and now. "You're right, of course. The Knights will send someone else, someone we won't know about, someone we have no hope of controlling."
Khalif looked shocked. "Mikhail and I were talking about killing Cornadoro. Controlling him is-"
"Terrifying, yes, I agree. But killing him now will have the same effect as my calling Jordan. The Knights want what my father was guarding, what he's leading me toward. They won't stop with Cornadoro's death."
"Obviously you have something in mind." Khalif opened the decanter of scotch and filled two tumblers. "Tell me, please. We are in this together."
Damon Cornadoro found Irema, the Georgian's daughter, at the Trabzonspor Club in the Ortahisar. It was named after one of Turkey's most famous football teams, and its decor showed their colors in pennants and photos signed by past and present team stars. All the serving girls wore team jerseys that came down to the middle of their bare thighs. Turkish techno music squalled from four large black speakers parked in the corners of the black-painted room. Television screens showed highlights of past games. The smell of beer and pot smoke hung like a pall.
Cornadoro sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Irema was sitting at a round table in the far left-hand corner with a number of her female friends. They were drinking and laughing. One of them, a heavyset girl with a flattish face, got up and danced while they laughed and clapped, and they bought her a beer when she sat down, flush-faced. It was all very innocent, which had immense appeal for him.
An hour and three beers later, he rose, went over to Irema and asked her very politely to dance. She looked up at him with her large, dark doe eyes, possibly to see if he was about to pull a joke on her-maybe he had come over on a dare from his buddies, maybe there was money riding on her response. But she saw only sincerity in his face-a handsome face, a face that was both sensual and sexual, a face that stirred her. She heard the laughs, the lewd encouragement from her half-drunk friends. Half-drunk herself, she held out her hand in a curiously formal gesture and allowed him to pull her gently onto the club's minuscule dance floor.
She had it in her mind to dance with him for one song, but the one song morphed into three, three melted into six, and on and on she danced, feeling their hips bump, their middles meld, their pelvises grinding as she moved ever closer to him.
"My name is Michael," he said, speaking to her in Georgian.
Her besotted eyes opened wide. "Just like my father."
"I am not your father," he said, swinging her around.
She laughed. "Oh, my God, no, you're not." She was breathless and flushed.
She told him her name and he said it was beautiful, that she was as lithe and graceful as the deer for which she was named.
