Days Without Number (40 page)

'We Orthodox are fortunate,' said Demetrius, breaking a silence of several minutes. 'Because of limited space here on San Mich�le, the Catholic dead are exhumed after ten years and taken to the public ossuary. No such fate will overtake the Paleologoi. We will remain . . . for ever.'

'That's good to know.'

T'm glad you think so, even though, of course, it is ultimately irrelevant what becomes of a body.'

Ts it?'

'Why, yes.' Demetrius cast Nick a sidelong glance. 'Did you visit the Protestant section before we met?'

'No.'

'The poet Ezra Pound is buried there. // miglior fabbro, as Eliot called him. "What thou lovest well remains," he wrote. "The rest is dross." '

'You believe that?'

'I believe part of it.'

'Which part?'

'The dross, cousin. The dross.' Demetrius looked ahead and raised one hand, signalling with his index finger to the man in the gateway. The man pushed himself upright and swung one of the pair of gates open as they started up the steps towards him. T'm going to my villa on the Lido. Why don't you accompany me? Bruno is coming there straight from the airport later this morning. I thought maybe you would like to speak to him in person.'

They stepped through the gate and out onto a landing-stage. Demetrius's launch, a sleek-hulled lagoon limousine with burnished honey-toned decking and glistening chromework, 335

stood ready for them, its idling engine purring like a panther. The pilot glanced up at them through reflective sunglasses. He was tanned and muscular, like his crewmate, and Nick wondered if they were representative of the 'goons' Balaskas had claimed Demetrius employed to guard his villa. He heard the gate clang shut behind him and realized that the invitation to visit the villa was both an opportunity too good to miss and a risk too grave to run. What had Demetrius said? 'You must make one and take the other.' But whose, in this case, was the luck - and whose the chance?

'A handsome craft, no?'

'Very.'

'Then, please, step aboard. We will show you what she is capable of.'

Nick hesitated for a fraction of a second, then went ahead.

The pilot helped him aboard. Demetrius and the other man followed. The mooring was slipped, the engine gunned. And the launch sped away.

The trip to the Lido was a high-octane surge. The blast of chill air soon forced Nick down into the cabin with Demetrius, who flung his coat casually aside and gazed back proudly at the sparklingly chevroned wake. Then his mobile rang, inaudibly it seemed to Nick, and a heavily onesided conversation followed, to which Demetrius contributed little beyond 'Sf at irregular intervals, supplemented occasionally with 'Subito' or 'Senz'altro.''

By the time he rang off, they were closing on the long, low western shore of the Lido. The pilot throttled back and steered in towards the narrow mouth of a canal, to either side of which terracotta-roofed villas were spaced along the lagoon frontage behind high walls and sheltering greenery.

Demetrius ushered Nick out of the cabin and pointed to the villa standing on the left-hand corner of the canal. 'Mine,' he announced. It was larger and starker than most of its neighbours, a plain cream-stuccoed edifice of simple lines and little obvious pretension, with a colonnaded terrace hung with 336

vine running along the side facing the lagoon. The chimneys were twentieth-century versions of the medieval fumaioli Nick had seen all over Venice. They were the only aspect of the villa's design that was specifically Venetian. It was otherwise a standard-issue riviera residence. And not one that its owner made intensive use of, to judge by the number of windows on which the shutters were firmly closed.

A short distance down the canal was a landing-stage. The pilot have to and tied up. Nick and Demetrius disembarked, Demetrius leading the way through a wrought-iron gate and along a gravel path round a thin screen of trees on to the drive on the landward side of the house. A silver Lancia was parked in the wide turning area, beside a dark-red Transit van.

The main door of the villa opened as they approached. A fellow looking like a close relation of the pilot and his crew mate, though more smartly dressed, held it back for them, twitching his head in faint deference first to Demetrius, then to Nick. They entered a cool, empty hall and moved on into a large drawing room that gave via French windows on to the terrace. The sea glinted at them through the colonnade across a manicured lawn and covered swimming pool, beside which stood shrouded loungers, waiting for summer.

The drawing room was expensively furnished in Art Deco style, with lots of pale leather and extravagantly veneered wood, elegantly at odds with a state-of-the-art widescreen TV and vertically arrayed hi-fi. A grand piano occupied a slightly raised area at the far end of the room.

'Make yourself comfortable,' said Demetrius. 'Coffee, perhaps? Or something stronger?'

'Coffee would be fine.'

'I'll join you.' Demetrius stepped back into the hallway and spoke briefly to the man who had let them in, addressing him as Mario. When he returned to the drawing room, he sat down in one of the pastel leather armchairs and gestured for Nick to sit down opposite him.

'When are you expecting Bruno?'

'Soon, soon. We have much to discuss in the meantime.'

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'We do?'

'Certainly. I must begin by thanking you, Nicholas. Most sincerely.'

'For what?'

'For coming here.'

'It was no problem.'

'Indeed it was not. But it might have been, you see. You might have made it so much more difficult. As it is . . .' Demetrius smiled. 'Here we are. Here you are.'

'Why should I have made it difficult?'

'It hardly matters, since you didn't.'

'Am I missing something here?'

'Perhaps.'

A silence fell as Mario entered, carrying a lacquer tray with two cups of black coffee, a small jug of cream and a sugar bowl on it. He set the tray down and left without a word. Demetrius leaned forward, spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly.

'I have had you followed, Nicholas. You should understand that. Apart from a couple of hours last night when you gave my men the slip, your movements have been closely monitored since your arrival. We did not meet on San Mich�le this morning by chance.'

Demetrius had spoken in the same affable tone he had employed throughout their exchanges and, for a moment, Nick could not quite believe he had heard correctly. 'What?'

'I think you heard me. Who were you with last night, incidentally? I'd be interested to know.-'

'You've . . . had me followed?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'To make sure you did not stray too far. It was obliging of you to return to the Zampogna after we lost you. Obliging and, if I may say so, rather stupid.'

'Now, look here--' Nick started up from his chair.

'Sit down, Nicholas. There's something I want to show you.' Demetrius plucked a remote control from the low table

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between them, pointed it at the television away to his right and pressed a button. A picture flashed into view.

Nick stopped halfway to his feet and stared at the slightly blurred, black-and-white image on the screen. Basil was looking up at him, or at any rate up at the camera. He was sitting on a hard-backed chair in the middle of an apparently featureless room. His feet were tied to the legs of the chair and his arms were pinioned behind him in some way. He was wearing a pale T-shirt, jeans and espadrilles. There was a fuzz of stubble round his chin and over the crown of his head. His expression was blank, neither fearful nor defiant. Mercifully, there was no sign that he had been maltreated. But he was a prisoner. Of that there was no doubt. Nor did Nick doubt that the man responsible for Basil's imprisonment was lounging in the chair opposite him, smiling blandly.

'Be very careful, Nicholas. What you're watching is a closed-circuit link with the place where Basil's being held. The people holding him are professionals who will not hesitate to kill him if I give the word. Allow me to demonstrate the peril of his situation.' Demetrius took his mobile out of his pocket, pressed a button and conveyed some sotto voce instructions. A figure appeared on the screen, dressed in archetypal terrorist gear: trainers, jeans, sweatshirt and balaclava. He stepped into position beside Basil and pulled out a gun, holding it ostentatiously in front of Basil's face. Basil pulled his head back slightly, but otherwise did not react.

'You've made your point,' said Nick, forcing himself to speak in a measured tone.

'Good.' Demetrius murmured into the phone and Nick watched as balaclava man lowered the gun and walked away out of the picture. 'Now, do sit down.'

Nick lowered himself slowly back into his chair and swallowed hard. By rights he should have been experiencing a full-blown panic attack, but actually he felt calmer than he had any right to. It was a relative condition, of course. His mouth was dry, his palms damp, his brain a chaos of competing thoughts. Yet he was still in control. Not of the 339

situation, obviously, but of himself. And he knew that for Basil's sake he had to stay that way. 'What do you want?'

'Your full cooperation.'

'And if 1 give you that?'

'Basil goes free.'

'Then you've got it.'

'You should hear what it involves first.'

'Tell me.'

'Very well.' Demetrius picked up his coffee-cup and took a sip. 'Don't let yours get cold.'

'Just tell me.'

'All right.' Demetrius replaced the cup soundlessly in its saucer. 'But I wish to avoid unnecessary repetition. My associate will be arriving shortly. All will be explained then.' He flicked the remote at the television. The screen blanked out. 'Meanwhile, you may as well drink your coffee.'

'No, thanks.'

'As you please.'

Ts it Bruno Stammati we're waiting for?'

'No.'

'Who, then?'

'You will not have to wait long to find out.' Demetrius looked round, as if he had heard something. 'Ah. A car on the drive, I think.' He glanced at his watch. 'Gratifyingly on schedule.'

Nick had heard nothing. But now the sound of a slamming car door reached him, followed by footsteps, growing suddenly louder as the front door of the villa opened. The footsteps clacked along the marbled hall towards them. Nick looked up, cursing his own foolishness for hoping even at this late and desperate stage that he would not see the face of the woman he had come to think of as Emily Braybourne.

Then he saw. And it was her.

'Hello, Nick,' she said.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She met Nick's gaze directly. There was no hint of shame or regret in her expression. Her eyebrows were half-raised, her mouth placidly unsmiling, her jawline relaxed. She seemed utterly calm, almost detached. She would not apologize. She would not gloat. She was present, as ever, on her own terms.

'What should I call you now?' Nick asked, not troubling to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

'Call her Emily,' said Demetrius. 'Oh yes. She is Emily Braybourne.'

'Is that true?' Nick threw the question at her.

'Yes.' As she walked across to the coffee-table, Nick noticed that she was carrying a slim silver-grey briefcase. She laid it on the table, then stepped back and sat down facing him, one hip propped on the arm of Demetrius's chair. 'A lot else I told you was true too.'

'You never mentioned getting into bed with your brother's murderer.'

'An interesting choice of metaphor, Nicholas,' said Demetrius, idly running his hand along Emily's black trousered thigh. 'You speak in the business sense, of course. Which is appropriate, since Emily has long learned to view the loss of her brother as a sad necessity of business. Isn't that so, caraT

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'Yes.' She did not flinch as she said the word.

'You may be wondering what's in the case,' Demetrius went on. 'We'll explain that later, //we need to.'

'We will,' said Emily.

'She has a theory, you see. An elegant and plausible theory that fits the facts. We shall soon find out if it's correct. Either way, I'll get what I want.'

'And what's that?'

'You promised your full cooperation, don't forget.'

'I'm not about to.'

'Good.' Demetrius glanced up at Emily. 'Tell him.'

'Jonty found out about the portolans Demetrius was smuggling through Switzerland,' she neutrally began. 'He tried to pressurize Demetrius into letting him in on the deal, hoping that would enable him to crack the secret. But the secret has nothing to do with the portolans. And pressurizing Demetrius was a fatal mistake. When I thought it through, I realized he could be a better ally than a foe. So, we joined forces. Revenge doesn't make you rich or happy, Nick. But maybe becoming rich and happy is a kind of revenge. It's the one I've opted for. Demetrius's father left a lot of valuable stuff behind. But there was something far more valuable he had a stake in. If we can lay hands on it, we'll be able to name our own price. Literally.'

'And it will be a very high price,' said Demetrius. 'Papa used to hint to me when I was growing up that there was some great secret he would reveal to me one day. // segreto favoloso, he called it. But he never did reveal it. He said later I had shown myself to be unworthy. What he really meant was that I did not choose to live according to his rules. So, he kept the secret from me. It was safe with another, he said. I could not be trusted. When your father tried to contact him recently, I knew why, of course, so I made sure he did not learn of his old friend's death. Papa had died with the secret. But it had not died with him.'

The knowledge has been passed down from generation to generation,' Emily resumed. 'Your ancestor, Theodore

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Paleologus, did not settle in Landulph by chance. He went there in quest of something his ancestor, Emperor Michael the Eighth, had heard described and discussed at Limassol in the spring of twelve forty-one. A relic of some kind, an artefact preserving sacred information. It had been discovered in Jerusalem by the Knights Templar and could no longer be safely left in the Holy Land in view of the deteriorating situation there. A secure repository was required. That's why Richard of Cornwall built his castle at Tintagel. He'd been instructed to do so - commissioned to provide a hiding-place that would look like a wealthy prince's folly, drawing no-one's attention to its true purpose, far enough from the battlegrounds of Europe's dynastic rivals to ensure its safety and its survival.