The Venetian (34 page)

He rolled onto his side and cupped her breast, giving her nipple a gentle squeeze, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. He ducked beneath her chin, began kissing her neck, slid his hand down below her waist, gently working his way between her legs. She could feel him growing hard, and gave him a tender squeeze. He moaned, suddenly collecting both her hands, pinning them above her head. He rolled over, looked at her eyes first, roamed over the rest of her face, stopping here and there as though memorizing, before returning his gaze to hers, the slightest rise of an eyebrow as he entered her again.

She sighed, closing her eyes. “You win,” she whispered.

***

THE WAREHOUSE WAS
dark, a tomb coming to mind. Francesco had said he would leave the door to the alley unlocked, and so it had been. It was late, long past the hour when they would have to worry about too much activity down in the Rialto. The occasional street urchin combing the canals for scraps would be their only concern.

There was a light in the merchant’s spacious office at the rear of the warehouse, a single candle’s modest glow. Paolo walked toward it, silently, alert for any movement in the cavernous space. Mountains of merchandise filled the warehouse—wine, wax, and iron, spice and wool, exotic beans and gnarled roots. Paolo wandered through black canyons of unfathomable wealth. He wondered how this night would end, and had no doubt it would not be as expected. Such things never were. There was still too much he didn’t know. But he had to take the chance. Either that or keep running, and he would never run from anything again.

The three of them had decided to send the message. They did not know how exactly, but suspected that Francesco must somehow be involved. There were too many coincidences—his connection to Lanzi, the timely job offer, and smaller things Paolo had remembered, behavior that meant little at the time but took on new meaning now. At least that had been the reasoning. Paolo secretly wondered whether they were just searching for ghosts, seeing what they needed to see, connections that weren’t really there. But he sent the message, telling Francesco that he was back in Venice and needed his help. Either the merchant would help or he would betray. Paolo did not relish the notion that his very life turned on the flip of a coin.

Chaya had begged to come, as he knew she would, as her father knew she would. So they had been prepared, the two of them, to refuse her. She had been angry, then fearful, and finally resigned. He made a promise to return and silently prayed he could keep it. And then it had been her father’s turn. While he knew he himself could not accompany Paolo, Bercu had wanted to send some men with him, at least two or three, to stay outside in case there was trouble. Paolo had laughed. Of course there would be trouble. If there was one certainty, it was that. But he did not want to risk any more lives. Too many had died already. Bercu understood. He wouldn’t argue.

Paolo arrived at the door to the office. It was ajar. He could hear nothing inside. He touched the dagger Bercu had insisted he take, tucked into the waist of his pants, and wondered if he would have to use it. He pushed the door and it opened slowly, a soft creak that made him wince.

The merchant was sitting at his desk, his heavy hands and forearms resting atop the enormous piece of wood. The candle stood on a narrow table by the door, burned two thirds of the way down. Its dim light did not reach Francesco.

“Francesco,” Paolo whispered, picking up the candle, the thick tapestries absorbing his voice. Could he have fallen asleep? When it came to eating, drinking, or sleeping, he would put nothing past the man. He approached the desk, raising the candle higher. “Francesco, how could you possibly…”

Paolo sprang back, nearly dropping the candle. Francesco was dead, strangled. His eyes bulged, spidery webs of blood vessels burst in the milky whites of the orbs. His tongue, fat and blue, hung limply, protruding from between his fleshy lips. The garrote was still around his neck. It had gnawed into the soft folds of his skin, leaving a thin red collar. Paolo was breathing heavily, trying to think. He had been right about one thing. This he hadn’t expected. The door closed behind him, the creak the sound of death.

“Well Signore Avesari, I see that you took my advice after all. At least the advice about fleeing. Although I don’t recall suggesting that you come back.”

Paolo turned, knowing whom he would see, the voice unmistakable, chilling in its familiarity. The deputy stood there, baring his teeth like the wolf he was, flanked by two large men. He seemed to emit evil itself, a darkness that dwarfed the men beside him, no matter their size. And like the wolf, Paolo now understood, this was a man who killed not with brute strength but with malevolent cunning.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be quite a shock to find your employer like this.” They had been standing behind a carved screen near the door that Paolo hadn’t noticed in the dim light—a lovely piece of work from the East he couldn’t help but note.

Paolo was thinking furiously. How was he going to get out of this? He’d already been in too many certain-death situations for one lifetime. His luck was bound to run out soon, if it hadn’t already. “I thought Francesco was behind all of this.”

The deputy smiled again and Paolo nearly turned away, remembering the face. He had been frightening at the Doge’s Palace, but now it was worse. The pieces of a normal countenance were all there, typical in their separateness, but when combined, somehow, took on the aspect of an animal, the kind of mythical darkness in a fairy tale.

“Yes. Well, he
was
to a certain degree. At least in the beginning. Then he became somewhat…reluctant.”

“He told you of my message.”

“Oh no. And that is why he sits before you in such an unhealthy state.” He inclined his head toward Francesco, whose bulk had been pressed against the desk to prevent his body from slumping over. “Please, sit.” The deputy indicated a chair on the far side of the desk. Paolo walked over and sat down. At this point, there was no reason not to. The deputy followed, sat on the corner of the desk, and peered down at Paolo. Paolo could see Francesco’s bloated face through the crook in the small man’s arm. The office was beginning to smell.

“No, I am here because of the other message you sent, the one to the council. The one in which you accuse poor Francesco of treachery, vague and ambiguous though it was, and urged them to meet you here and see for themselves. Alas, I see all messages to the council first and thought it best that I investigate on my own. To see if there was any merit to the charges of course. The council is very busy. It would not do to waste their precious time.”

Paolo was dismayed, and it was clear from the deputy’s expression that it showed on his face. “Yes, I see that you are putting things together now. There is no one here to help you. And,” the deputy said, taking obvious pleasure in the irony, “had you not sent that message to the council, Francesco might still be alive. But don’t blame yourself,” he continued in mock sympathy, “I would have found out eventually. Had he informed me of your message in the first place however, he would indeed still be alive, preparing to be honored as a hero in the royal court of Lisbon. Unfortunately for him, you seem to have roused a bit of sentimentality in his character. He was weak, allowing himself to be diverted from a place in history. Wherever he is, I hope he thinks it was worth it.”

“Lisbon?”

The deputy sighed as though Paolo could not possibly expect him to explain
everything
. “Yes, Francesco was a Portuguese spy. Some say there are more spies in Venice than true Venetians. An exaggeration of course, but not by much. He wasn’t a very good spy however and we discovered him relatively quickly. And that was my chance. The council wanted to throw him into the
leads
but I intervened, convinced them it was instead an opportunity to keep Francesco in place and provide the Portuguese with false information. Francesco readily agreed of course. It was either that or death and we both know how much Francesco loved life. It was the perfect situation really. The council believed me to be passing false information to Lisbon when in fact I was providing real intelligence—natural resources, advances in weaponry, the secrets of the Arsenale.” He looked very pleased with himself.

“So you are a spy as well. Do you expect me to congratulate you?”

“Of course not. I expect you to die like a good Venetian.”

“I still don’t understand.”

The deputy closed his eyes, shaking his head in false frustration, but Paolo could tell he was enjoying this, proving how intelligent he had been. Paolo suspected he had never been treated with much respect.

“Why did you have my brother murdered?”

“Abramo Lanzi, you know of him I take it?” Paolo nodded. “He knew of certain plans, exactly how we still do not know, but we will find out. Any close associates of his had to be silenced in the event that he had divulged the information. He was a scoundrel. Did you know that he had been trying to woo your brother, to convince him to sell his glassblowing secrets to the highest bidder? I believe that your brother refused, loyal servant of the Republic that he was. But of course I had to convince the council otherwise. Though Ciro was innocent on that account, who knows what else Lanzi whispered in his ear.”

“All the men that were killed…”

“In one way or another had something to do with Lanzi,” the deputy finished. “We could not take any chances.”

Paolo nodded. “One more thing I do not understand.”

“Yes?” the deputy asked with exaggerated patience.

“Why are you spying for the Portuguese? You are the
Deputato alla Segreta del Consiglio dei Dieci.
”

“Indeed I am. And it has served me well. But beneath that title I also have a name. I am Andrea Petri.” Paolo waited but the deputy said no more, apparently expecting some sign of recognition, but Paolo had never heard the name. “Typical,” Petri said with disgust. “Venetians care not for their heroes, those who gave their lives to defend the Republic. They ignore their history, care only for where the next lavish dinner is being held. My grandfather died at Constantinople, waiting for Venice to send help, help that never came.” He paused, smiling now. “In fact it was a lovely coincidence, how I was able to have your brother killed in a nearly identical fashion.”

Petri saw the look of recognition on Paolo’s face. The deputy eased himself off the corner of the desk and crouched down until his eyes were on a level with Paolo’s. “Yes, my grandfather was impaled. The pain must have been excruciating. Like your brother’s. Apparently he called for your dead mother.”

Paolo was unmoved. “And so you chose to betray the land your grandfather loved enough to die for.”

“No, it was La Serenissima that betrayed
us
. My family was destroyed by it.” Petri waved the memory away. It was time to move on. “Venice is dead, as you soon will be, only She doesn’t know it yet. As we speak, Alfonso de Albuquerque is sailing for Goa in the Indian Ocean. Portugal cannot compete with the Muslim merchants, particularly the Mamluks, without a permanent naval presence in the region. Once Goa has been taken, we will take Malacca, Aden, and Hormuz. And it
will
be taken. There is no one there to defend it because everyone who may have known about the attack is now dead.

“The spice.”

“Of course. Malacca is the collection point for spices from the Moluccas, silks and porcelains from China, and everything else that had, for all these interminable years, been available only from the hands of greedy Venetian merchants. Whoever is lord of Malacca has his foot on the throat of Venice. And then, all we must do…is press. Venice will die. The Mamluks will die. Our mutual friend Qilij understood this.”

“And still he followed you.”

“Yes he did.” Petri smiled. “He was under the impression—unfortunately for him a misguided one—that while it was true that the Mamluk Empire would indeed crumble, his actions could bring about its resurrection in a…purer form. In the end, all that mattered was that he did what I asked.”

“And this attack…that is the information Lanzi possessed?”

“Yes. May I kill you now?”

Paolo ignored him. “And what do
you
get from all of this?”

“Why revenge for my family of course.”

“Forgive me, but you don’t seem the type to do all that for something as unprofitable as honor.”

Petri laughed, a shrill sound. “Just so. Revenge and a comfortable position in the new world order.”

Paolo heard the creak of Francesco’s door for the third time that night. The first signaled alarm, the second dread. The third, only the next few seconds would tell.

“I am sorry Andrea, but no comfortable position awaits you.”

Paolo turned and Petri stood, backing away toward the desk. Stefano Zambrotta stood in the doorway. Two soldiers held swords at the throats of Petri’s men. A third stood next to Zambrotta.

“Stefano…”

Zambrotta held up a hand. “Please, stop. We have been outside the door for some time. I heard everything. You are going to die for your crimes Andrea.” He turned to Paolo. “Signore Avesari, from the depth of my heart I apologize for what you and your family have endured. A more formal, and public, apology will be forthcoming. That I promise you.”

Paolo nodded, but the words were hollow. While he couldn’t believe it was finally over, he felt no gratitude. No apology, public or not, would bring back his father. “How?” was all he could manage to say.

Zambrotta nodded toward Francesco. “Signore Gambare which—based on what we’ve heard here tonight is most definitely not his name—sent a message directly to me, with instructions to bypass Signore Petri.”

Francesco had saved his life. He had thought the man a buffoon, but was instead a calculating spy playing the fool. And in the end, his savior.

Petri had been forgotten for the moment, his capture a foregone conclusion. He had remained perfectly still during the exchange between Paolo and Zambrotta, and sprang from the corner of the desk now, lunging at Paolo, a blade flashing in the candlelight. Paolo reeled back in the chair and toppled over backwards. His head hit the stone floor with a thud, bright flashes dancing before his eyes. He threw up his arms instinctively and felt the hack of the blade on his forearm. He kicked out blindly, connecting with something, and heard a soft grunt.