The Echelon Vendetta (14 page)

the echelon vendetta
|
99

“I
am
grateful, Cora. I am. But I really have to go.” She lifted her glass to him in an ironic
salute.
“
D’accordo.
No problem.
Ciao!
I will watch.” From over Cora’s shoulder, Naumann watched with evident

amusement as Dalton got halfway to his feet before the blue-white tide came roaring back, this time rising up from the floor. He felt the chair creak under him as he fell heavily back into it. She regarded him with a sly smile over the top of her glass.

“So.
Aspetta.
” “I’ve got to sleep this off.” “No sleep for you. You are drugged.
Incapacitato.
Talk.” For a time, Dalton said nothing. She waited in a self-contained

calm. Naumann watched Dalton’s face with wary intensity, shaking

his head slowly. “I can tell you some of it. I do owe you that.” “
Oh, please,
” said Naumann. Dalton looked down at his hand, and then took a sip of Chivas. “I was in Italy to look into the death of a friend of mine. His

name was Porter Naumann—” Naumann threw his hands up in frustration and walked away shaking his head. Dalton forced himself to look only at Cora.

“He was a good friend. He died of a heart attack the day before yesterday. In Cortona. His death was unexpected. The company—”

“What company?” “Naumann worked for an English bank called Burke and Single.” “I do not know this bank.” “They’re not well known. Anyway, when his body was found—” “Where?” “In the courtyard of the Cappella San Nicolò.” “Oh yes. I know it. A sad little church. Very old. Your friend died

there? Of a heart attack? Was he old?”

100
|
david stone

“No. Fifty-two. And in good health. Or so I thought.”

“You are not telling me everything about this death, are you?”

“Let’s just say it was ugly.”

“In what way?”

What the hell? She was a grown-up. He laid it all out for her, the rain in Cortona, the crime scene tent, Major Brancati. The ruined body of Porter Naumann. The injuries he suffered.

He said nothing about the green spider and stayed far away from any mention of what had taken place in the piazza. Cora took the narrative in without a flicker, and when he finished she was quiet for a while. Dalton found that he could stand up and went to pour two more scotches. Naumann came over to meet him by the drinks tray.

“This is very nasty territory, Micah,” he said, in a stage whisper, as if Cora could hear him. “Don’t drag her into it.”

Dalton mixed the drinks without looking at or in any other way acknowledging Naumann’s warning. When he handed Cora her scotch, she took it without much attention, her professional self now fully engaged.

“To me this sounds like your friend had some kind of psychotic break. People undergoing such a psychotic break have done terrible things. To others. To themselves. This may be consistent with what has happened to your friend. Sometimes the ...the trigger? ...of such an episode has been drugs. Psilocybin. Peyote and its hydrates. Mescaline. LSD. Occasionally you will find organic causes. This Brancati has told you that he thinks Mr. Naumann had
un colpo apoplettico,
yes?”

“Yes.”

“But there was no time for all the blood work to be done?”

“No. I’m going to Cortona tonight, as a matter of fact. To take charge of his body. And his insurance firm will want to do their own toxicology tests.”

the echelon vendetta
|
101

“Don’t forget my Chopard,” put in Naumann. Dalton glanced up at him, and then forced his attention back to Cora.

“Of course,” she went on, “I do not have much regard for the pathologists who work for the Carabinieri
.
They are
buffoni.
Clowns. You tell me this policeman says the forensic autopsy suggests stroke. I have seen cases where psychotic episodes have caused
un colpo.
There may have been a physiological flaw, such as an undetected aneurysm. Your friend was fifty-two? His age makes a stroke very plausible. Was he ...indulgent? A drinker? Given to excess?”

“Hey! I was in damn good shape, lady,” said Naumann. “He was in excellent shape.” “There you go, kid. Thanks.” “Except for his prostate.” “Schmuck.” “Well, at his age, a prostate problem is very usual.” “My age? I was
fifty-two,
for Christ’s sake.” “
Allora,
what I do not understand is what any of this has to do

with the old Indian man and his spinning pots.”

“Not a damn thing, sweetheart,” said Naumann, coming across the room and dipping his index finger into Dalton’s scotch, stirring the cubes around. The tinkling sound drew Cora’s attention again to the glass, so Dalton snatched it up and took a sip, watching in mute horror as Naumann stuck his index finger into his mouth and sucked the scotch off it. Dalton found the action impossible to ignore.

“Why do you
do
that? You can’t taste anything?”

“What?” said Cora, staring at him, but he was looking up at Naumann and did not hear her speaking. Naumann took his finger out and stared down at it with a thoughtful expression.

“Like hell I can’t,” he said, licking his fingertip. “Who are you talking to?” asked Cora, in a soft voice.

102
|
david stone

“Sorry. Sorry, Cora, I guess I was thinking out loud.” “No. You were
talking
to...someone else.” “It’s the drug, I think. Last night I had a terrible time with it.” “
More
drugs? What drug did you take last night?” “I mean, I had a dream, a nightmare. Last night.” “What kind of nightmare?” “Nothing. I meant today. I meant to say today. That thing—

whatever was in that pouch—it made me see things.” “For a CIA guy you are one lousy liar,” said Naumann. “Yes. But you
knew
them?” Cora persisted. “The images were fa

miliar?” Dalton instinctively shied away from the question, but his face

was answer enough for her. She was alarmingly bright. “Yes. They were . . . familiar.” “From your past?” “Yes,” said Dalton, and only because any attempt at a lie would

have been detected at once. She looked as if she wanted to press for

more, but then she let it pass. “I see. And did your Mr. Naumann also have bad memories?” “If you answer that,” said Naumann, “you’re a total putz.” “I don’t know.” “You do not know
anything
about your friend’s personal life?” “She’s shrinking you, buddy,” said Naumann. “Just shut up.” “Not much.” “His past?” “Nothing comes to mind.” “You lie easily, but not well. You shut me out. There it is. I do

not care. But you should try to find out. Perhaps he was seeing a

therapist. Psychological issues. There might be official records.” “Tell the little bitch to mind her own damn business.” Shocked, offended, Dalton sent Naumann a black look.

the echelon vendetta
|
103

“Watch your mouth, Porter.”

Cora was silent for a time, studying Dalton’s face while he tried to force his expression into what ended up as a twisted parody of innocence. She took his hand in hers, leaned forward.

“Porter? You are talking now to your dead friend Porter?” “No.” “Your dead friend Porter is talking to
you
?” “No. Yes. Maybe. I think he
thinks
he is.” Cora blinked, sighed. “He is in
this
room? Now?” Naumann shook his head vigorously, holding his hands up.

“Leave me out of this.” “He’s behind you,” said Dalton. “He’s leaning on the fireplace.” Cora turned and of course saw nothing at all. When she looked

back at Dalton, her expression had softened and there was a worried look in her eyes.

“You
must
let me take you to the clinic, Micah. I know the best people there. We need to make some tests. You might have some neurological damage. Truly, Micah. This is very dangerous for you. These ...these visions, they could come again. Without warning.”

She spoke with such unshakable confidence, such searing professional certitude, that her words cut deep. He had a fleeting vision of Laura in her white room by the sea, the salt wind billowing the curtains as she stared dead-eyed into eternity.

“Now you’re
getting
it,” said Naumann, his tone gentle. “I said

this situation was dangerous. This is exactly what I meant.” Dalton took Cora’s hand. It was warm and strong. “Thank you, Cora. I promise that when I get back to London—” “I thought you were stationed
here
? At the Consulate?” “My base is in London,” he said, glad that this at least was true. “Then you must go back tonight. I will go with you!” “I will go. Not tonight. But as soon as I can find out what hap

pened to Porter.”

104
|
david stone

She withdrew her hand, her expression closing. “You’re an idiot,” said Cora. “I’m sorry. But it is true.”

“Yes. I am.”

She sat back and glared at him, her face reddening. “Fine.
Basta.
I don’t care. Who are you to me? I don’t even
know
you. It is ridiculous to care. I do
not
care.”

She turned and looked behind her: by chance, she happened to be glaring right at Naumann, who stiffened, his ironic detachment vanishing.

“And the same for you,
Signor Spettro Cancrenato, mostra che di
vora i cadaveri, chi si diletta di orrori. Io ti caccio via! Ciao!
”

Here a vulgar but classic Italian gesture—done with snap and fire—and then she rounded again on Dalton, her face flushed and her dark eyes glittering.

“So.
Dove conduce questa strada?
Back to business. You are pleased to imagine that if this man, he wants to harm your friend, that he will do this by giving him this ...this drug?”

“It’s a theory,” said Dalton, rattled by the intensity of her concern, and even more so by her unshakable conviction that profoundly ugly things awaited him in the medical line if he didn’t get to a hospital right now. “The catch is, there’s nothing to connect Porter directly to ...to this man. Other than a restaurant.”

She hesitated. Dalton could see she was holding something back. He waited it out, saying nothing to distract her.

“Yes. There is,” she said, at last, with a resigned sigh.

“What is it?”

“If I understand you, it is possible that this Mr. Sweetwater—this Indian man—was in Cortona. When your friend died.”

“How do you know that?”

She reached down and lifted up the paper bag with Mercato Via Gesa printed on the side.

“This. It was in the refuse bin.”

the echelon vendetta
|
105

“A shopping bag?”

“It is not mine. The rooms are cleaned every day and all the garbage goes out. Every day. But today my woman was not able to come. So this bag was left by Mr. Sweetwater himself. And it is not old. A very new bag.”

“I don’t understand.” “Mercato Via Gesa is a grocery store.” “Yes?” “It is a grocery store in Cortona.” Dalton’s cell phone rang, a high-pitched shriek that made them

all jerk. An expression of fleeting resentment flashed across her face as she stood up and walked away to the windows, passing right through Naumann’s ghost on the way, her back stiffening reflexively as she did so and a tremble rippling down the length of her body. She stood at the open window and looked out at the spire of the Ognissanti basilica, her strong arms folded across her breasts and her expression closed, shuttered, cold.

Dalton fumbled through his coat pockets, found his phone: “Hello. Yes?” “It’s Mandy. Where are you? I hope you’re still in Venice.” “Last chance to bail, Micah,” said Naumann. “From here on in,

it’s all running with scissors.” “Mandy? Yes, I’m still in Venice. What’s the matter?” “Get to Marco Polo Airport. The company jet is waiting. You

have to come back to London. You have to come back
right now.
” “Why? What the hell’s the problem, Mandy?” “You want it in the clear?” Naumann’s ghost was standing near to Cora as she stood by the

window, her back to the room, staring out at the red-tiled rooftops and the spire of the Church of All Saints, at the clouds of swifts that swirled around the spire, crying and wheeling, rising in the wind. Naumann was looking at Dalton and the expression on his face was

106
|
david stone

closed, unreadable. After a moment, he shook his head slowly and

turned away.

“Yes, Mandy, I want it in the clear.”

“Okay. It’s Joanne. And the girls.”

“Yes. What?”

“They’re dead.”

“Dead?”

“Butchered, Micah. Slaughtered. It’s awful. They’re saying Porter did it. They’re saying
he
killed them. You have to come home.”

the echelon vendetta
|
107

monday, october 8 the bighorn mountains eastern wyoming