Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (26 page)

“You’re not going to like what I have to say, Vanessa.” Charles Janek slid his manicured hand lightly across her wrist. She recognized the signet ring he wore on his right pinkie; it bore his family crest from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He tapped her fingers lightly with his own.

She nodded. “I reached out to you because you are the wisest man I know, and you will tell me if you think I need a straitjacket, and you won’t sugarcoat one word,” she said, all of that having the absolute benefit of being true.

He pursed his mouth, his eyes youthful and restless. “I have never questioned your sanity, and I am quite confident I never will. Your impulsive tendencies may be another matter.”

“Duly noted.”

All eight tables in Osteria alle Testiere were full at nine p.m. in the middle of the Carnevale di Venezia. Leave it to Charles to find a table here at short notice when reservations were usually booked months in advance. The premises glowed with the warmth of amber. Most of the diners had honored tradition and come in costume, and
Charles, with his aristocratic features, outshone everyone. Tonight, in his seventeenth-century duds, his feather-topped cap jauntily covering a head that was bald except for a halo-like fringe of sandy hair, he reminded Vanessa of a seasoned Autolycus from
The Winter’s Tale.

Vanessa had planned to make do with the complimentary mask from the hotel Charles had booked for her, Hotel Ala, but just as she was getting ready to meet him for dinner, the bellman knocked on the door to her room bearing an enormous box tied with a satin bow. Inside, she found a full outfit: a stunning hand-stitched seventeenth-century gown of lavender silk and turquoise satin decorated with white lace. The note on heavy stationery said, “If this pleases . . .” and Charles had no doubt signed his distinctive flourish with his Mont Blanc fountain pen. Perhaps one of his mistresses had worn the gown once, but it looked brand new. Although she felt a tinge of impatience at the timing of this indulgence, Vanessa couldn’t resist and she certainly wasn’t going to insult his generosity. It was exactly the sort of gesture that made Charles . . . Charles.

“Who am I?” she’d asked in the hotel lobby when he bowed low over her upright hand.

“The lovely Juliet, of course, who was young but also headstrong and intelligent,” Charles said, one eyebrow rising in appreciation. “Although, sadly, I am not destined to be your Romeo.”

“Be glad,” Vanessa said, smiling wryly. “‘Within the infant rind of this small flower poison hath residence . . .’”

And with that, they had begun their short walk to the tiny five-star restaurant.

As soon as they were seated at their table, an elderly waiter with jet-black hair brought a chilled bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil 2000. They raised their tulip-shaped glasses, and Charles cleared his throat. “‘In Lent, if masquerades displease the town, call ’em Ridottos and they still go down.’”

Vanessa laughed, something it seemed she hadn’t done for ages.
“Who said that?” she asked, sipping her champagne. “Oh, this is extraordinary, Charles.”

“So glad you approve. The toast comes from ‘The Man of Taste’ who was alive and well in 1733,” Charles said. “And I would argue that his words continue to hold true today.”

She took another sip of champagne; she would pace herself. Charles’s ability to consume large quantities of alcohol was amazing. From aperitif to dinner wines to the last sherry or grappa, he never seemed the least bit affected and certainly not impaired. It was a marvel to watch. She felt the glow of the sparkling wine the moment it hit her belly, the horrible tension of the past days easing just a bit.

Charles chose that moment to set a silk pochette on the table between them. “For your continuing education.”

“More gifts?” She shook her head but she was smiling. Inside she found three CDs, albums of Bach, Chopin, and Dvoˇrák. “Thank you, Charles, when I play them I’ll think of you.”

Charles raised his glass, his fingers poised against the delicate glass stem, not a drop spilled. Watching his magician’s style, his seemingly casual precision, Vanessa unwound another micro-notch, and she relaxed a little more in the high-backed wooden chair that probably dated back to the time of the Doges.

He smiled at her now with his distinctive mix of intelligence, wit and wickedness, and regret. He let his gaze linger, taking her in, the way only Charles could. And then he sighed. “I fear it is time to turn our talk to matters most serious.”

He lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper. “You asked me what I know about Allen Jeffreys.”

Through the lace-curtained window of Osteria alle Testiere, he watched the blond girl and her companion in a feathered hat and jacket, talking at their table for two. Their conversation seemed so secretive, their heads nearly touched over the small candles. The girl wore a thin gold mask over her eyes and her dress was the kind he’d seen at a Shakespeare play. He’d watched that play, the only play he’d ever seen, the summer he spent in Virginia in America with the other initiates and leaders of the Circle.

That was the summer that changed his life. It was the summer he had discovered the purpose Jesus had for him. That summer was the reason he was in Venice tonight, waiting to send the girl to her reckoning.

He’d followed her from the airport—had to wait forever for her to finally exit the terminal. He’d taken a water taxi even though it cost more than a
vapo,
because that’s what she did. He got off at Saint Mark’s Basilica, and he was shocked by the people in the nearby piazza, who
were clothed
in lustful and indecent costumes, powdered wigs and face paint and tight pants, the women showing half their
breasts and some people only covered with body paint! Little did he know, but he’d walked directly into Carnevale.

From Saint Mark’s he followed the girl on foot the few minutes to her fancy hotel. Her bearing and stride were distinctive, and the crowds made it easy to track her without being noticed.

When the time was right he would deal with the girl, and this crowd of sinners would make his job easy. He would garrote her long, slender throat with wire as he whispered from Isaiah 13:9 the last words she would hear before she went straight to hell.

“Behold, the day of the Lord comes, cruel, with wrath and fierce anger, to make the land a desolation and to destroy its sinners from it.”

But the right opportunity had not yet presented itself. He was still trying to improve his patience, one of his weaknesses that his Brother Initiates had pointed out to him when he was in America.

While he waited near her hotel, he resolved to try to fit in with the nonbelievers, so he bought a mask from the first vendor he found, a cheap and gaudy mask with dyed feathers and fake gems—it was large enough to cover his scars. That vendor also offered capes and jackets, but at exorbitant prices. Less than a block away he’d found an old lady who sold him a rough black cape for five euros.

Now he’d been outside the restaurant for hours while the girl and the old man took a hundred years over dinner. He could barely believe it when the ancient waiter brought a different color wine with every course.
How long does it take to eat a few forkfuls of salad, a few bites of fish, and a spoonful of dessert?
It was all so decadent.

All that time he had done everything he could to avoid attracting attention. Not so hard when the crowds were thick and rowdy and everyone was drunk and costumed. He pretended to be waiting for a friend. He walked a hundred meters in every direction. And then he made his way back, always keeping the restaurant in sight. He even made friends with a pigeon.

And every few minutes he recited a verse from Matthew to remind himself why he was here. “And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.”

He stared past three men, caped and masked and strutting along the narrow alley. They had huge swords sheathed against their thighs, but the blades were obviously as fake as the marble-sized jewels crusting the hilts.

These people called themselves Christians, yet he hated their mockery and debauchery. How could they believe this was any true preparation for Lent, with its fasts and rituals of penitence?

“All these are the beginning of sorrows.”

He felt in his pocket for his watch—and the garrote.

But the realization hit slowly, enveloping him like warm and dangerous water—
the garrote was gone.

He’d been robbed! Rage washed over him. His fingers cut into the flesh of his palms. When he’d bought the mask from the old lady, someone had picked his pocket!

He calmed himself with prayer. He still had his bare hands.

Vanessa eyed Charles soberly. “You worked for Eagle Enterprises while Jeffreys was still CFO.”

The look of distaste on Charles’s face filled in the momentary silence. He set his glass down on the white cloth. “You remember correctly. I worked in Africa for E.E. for a year or so. You may recall that I grew momentarily disgusted with the ‘company’ and thought I would try something different for a while. The pay was much better, but the job was not nearly as fun. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d hope that your interest in it might be idle.”

“But you do know me, Charles.” She lowered her voice, glancing left and right, aware that the gesture seemed melodramatic. “I believe Jeffreys could be the mole the Agency has been hunting.”

Charles touched his finger to his lips just as their waiter returned holding a slightly dusty bottle wrapped in a linen cloth as gently as one might hold a new baby.

Charles barely paused to look up, and then he waved the waiter off with a nod.
“Certo.”
Meaning this new, undoubtedly very expensive
bottle would accompany the
primo
course of their meal. Charles was a connoisseur of many things, and wine topped the list, after women. Vanessa found it disconcerting if not alarming that he would order without tasting first. She had never seen him do that, and it told her he was concentrating intently on their discussion.

“Charles . . .” She toyed with her as yet unused dinner fork, drawing a line across the cloth with its tine. “After the suicide bombing in Paris I was contacted by Bhoot . . .”

She filled him in on the details quickly, sparingly. “Bhoot claimed that it was his prototype that was stolen, and by the same person who betrayed so many of my—” Her voice broke. She pushed back the overwhelming guilt she felt for the deaths of her assets.

On the walk from the hotel to the restaurant, strolling arm in arm, Vanessa had filled Charles in on the details of the past six days and he’d been direct in his response. “I know you, Vanessa, and I know you’re wondering if you missed something, if you are in some way responsible.” As they passed to the north of Saint Mark’s Square, Charles steered them to the edge of the street, farther away from the hundreds of costumed revelers who flowed and eddied through the piazza like a restless human lake.

He said, “You’d be inhuman if you weren’t wondering if this hell will just go on forever.”

At that moment, a drunken court jester stumbled toward them. The hair on Vanessa’s arms bristled just as Charles managed to guide Vanessa safely out of the man’s path.

But still panic swelled inside her. She tried to bite back the fear, silently ordering herself to breathe.

Her heartbeat began to slow just as Charles squeezed her hand. “As for the fact that you haven’t been killed, my dear, that is luck. And you’ve been lucky too many times, Vanessa.”

Hearing this from Charles, who saw and understood so much of what others did not, was more than unsettling. She felt completely
vulnerable. In that instant, she knew that her luck would run out one day.

—

“THE DEPUTY NATIONAL
security advisor is an arrogant bastard and a narcissist,” Charles said, his head bent close to Vanessa’s. “He is also incredibly intelligent, although I guarantee you that he believes he is smarter than he actually is. But that’s common for the privileged—they rewrite history, theirs and the world’s, until they alone are responsible for the sunrise and sunset. So yes, he is guilty of many sins and capable of committing many more.”

The waiter returned with clean glasses for the new bottle Charles had accepted without sampling. He tasted it now, swirled it around in his mouth, and nodded, but not with his usual concentration, Vanessa noticed. He was too focused on her, on the conversation. She felt a pang of wistfulness—it would have been nice to be able to dine out with Charles the way normal people could.

“Ordinary life would bore you to death in a matter of minutes,” Charles said.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” But Charles was smiling again.

“You know what! Don’t read my effing mind.”

The waiter turned to top off her glass but she waved one hand to signal she was good for now. The elderly man allowed himself a tiny smile as he backed away.

Over the course of their conversation, Charles had been progressively lowering his rich baritone voice. He was down to a round whisper. “If you know the identity of the mole who betrayed you and your assets to Bhoot, then, my dear, you are in deep trouble. You keep bad company. In order to bring down your traitor, you have chosen to cast your lot with Bhoot, who is absolutely amoral. He will always be a direct threat to you.”

She shook her head.
Had he compared notes with Dr. Peyton?

She frowned. “Would you have said ‘no’ to an open line of communication with Bhoot?”

“Well it is hardly an open line, is it? As you’ve told me, he chooses when and where.”

Vanessa nodded as a plate of crusted swordfish was set in front of her along with a small side of beautifully prepared vegetables. It all smelled amazing. She broke off a bite of fish with her fork. “I can’t figure out what ‘the win’ is for a man like Jeffreys.”

Charles eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you remember the Vandenberg Air Force Base controversy a few years back? In the PowerPoint presentation to train young officers on the ethics of a nuclear launch they were using Wernher von Braun as a moral authority and quoting examples from the Bible to justify the concept of ‘just’ wars?”

“The Jesus Nukes?”

“Quite so. Then you know something about the Circle. Your man ranks very high amid the muckety-mucks of the Circle. In fact, he may well be their number one
.
Their goal, kept fairly quiet, is nothing short of world domination. Jesus is their personal advisor, and this is not a Jesus who turns the other cheek.
He
, as in Jesus, approves of power and wealth and
action
. Hence, their Jesus believes in the actions of Genghis Khan and Hitler. And it’s all in the name of End Times.”

Charles worked to contain his anger, but Vanessa saw it, she saw his outrage, and she felt it, too.

He closed his eyes. “‘When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people kill each other. To him was given a large sword.’”

“That’s from the Old Testament?” Vanessa asked, shuddering, spooked, even. “Charming.”

“The Book of Revelation,” Charles said, opening his eyes. “By the way, you can often spot a fundamentalist because they say the Book of Revelations—plural.”

He sipped his wine. “The Circle was active in Uganda, pressing their homophobic agenda. I saw their ugly work when I was there.”

His mouth went flat and his nostrils flared. “The members of the Circle believe the Book of Revelation lock, stock, and barrel. They believe in a River of Blood and Jesus as wrathful warrior on a white steed and the Apocalypse. Jeffreys does, too—and if he has his doubts, he does well to keep those to himself to gain more power and more wealth.”

Vanessa had raised another bite of swordfish to her mouth, but now she set it down untouched on her plate.

“You’ve got a very bad man to catch,” Charles said, delicately tasting black sea bass. “And after you catch him, you’ve got to deal with Bhoot.”

Neither of them spoke for the next minute or so. Charles savored the last bites of his dinner. Vanessa sipped sparkling water while picking at her food, both of them caught up in their own thoughts.

When his plate was completely clean, Charles set down his fork and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You and I, Vanessa, share a hunger for truth as well as a kind of core morality, which is why it is vital you understand that you’re endangering your heart, your moral center, even if your end goal is bringing a traitor to justice. You must decide how far you can go without compromising yourself. And I’m not talking only about your career. Do you understand?”

She shook her head, feeling a bitter internal surge as her thoughts went to Khoury and his own battles with the Agency. She looked away and said, “Maybe none of it will matter anyway if the world goes up in a nuclear hell.”

“Melodramatic!” Charles expelled a rush of air. “Your priority right now is a loose nuke.” He held out his long fingers, his pinkie
banded by the signet ring, to punctuate his statements. “And all this story is missing is the right target. Where would you get the most bang for your buck?”

No need to rack her brain on that one. “The Middle East.”

“Agreed,” Charles said. “If you want End Times, you want World War Three in the Middle East.”

Vanessa set her napkin on the table. “Okay . . .”

Charles shook his head. “Pillow talk . . .”

Vanessa’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“Something I shouldn’t know about . . . but I think something big is going to happen in Istanbul.”

Vanessa went cold. “What are you talking about, Charles?”

He sighed. “My lovely ‘friend’ of the moment is married . . .” He made a quick face. “To a Turkish MIT officer who is quite highly positioned in the government.”

Classic Charles. And the Agency worried about its female officers sleeping around . . .

Vanessa said, “You have my attention.”

“The highest-level security has been arranged for an event. I don’t know what it is, but there is a welcome banquet tomorrow evening. It is conceivable that Jeffreys will be attending.”

“My God . . . Am I crazy, Charles? Could this actually be happening?” She broke off, setting her glass down abruptly so that wine almost splashed over the rim. Her pulse was quickening and she felt a rush of heat.
Do not panic . . .

He studied her in silence for several moments, his forehead creased with concern.

Khoury had warned her not to go over the edge.

“Listen to me now . . . this scenario is still all speculation.”

Vanessa’s mouth had gone dry. She finished the last small sip of water left in her glass. “I’m listening.”

“If, for this moment, we assume you are right,” Charles said, not
moving, “you are in grave danger.” His forehead was almost touching hers and his voice was a whisper. “He cannot suspect that you are tracking him, or, I believe, he will simply make it all disappear. But not before he takes you down, ruins your career, and destroys your future. Are you clear on that, Vanessa?”

They both pulled back slightly and Vanessa met his dark brown eyes. One of the decorative candles on their table had gone out and the tiny strand of its dying smoke was reflected in his pupils. She reached for his hand, letting her fingers close around it lightly. “Clear.”