Number 7, Rue Jacob

by Wendy Hornsby

  I said, “Lordy. Should have known. How many people who were here last night sent out photos or messages like these?”

  Roddy held up his hands. “They were instructed to keep a lid on that shit, but it’s the price we pay, Maggie, when we put ourselves out there.”

  “Well, now we know how Qosja found us,” I said. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  “I want off this boat,” Sierra demanded, nearly in tears. “And I want my fucking phone.”

  “Sierra, honey,” I said. “You’re just not doing yourself any favors right now.”

  Horst, still scrolling through her messages, barely glanced up. “You’ll get off when we dock tomorrow.”

  “Mitchell!” she gasped through sobs. “Do something.”

  After a deep sigh, Mitch turned to Roddy. “Hey, man.”

  “Pally, do you remember that crisp white paper you signed? The one about not shifting proprietary shite onto social media without permission? Or the one about not having overnight guests without clearing them first with Horst?”

  “Sorry, man. Sorry. It’s not really overnight yet, though, is it? I mean, the sun isn’t up. And whatever the deal is with the chick’s phone, man, I didn’t know what she was doing. I was asleep.”

  “The chick?” Sierra screeched, grabbing for him. “You piece of crap. The chick?”

  Roddy looked weary. “Horst?”

  With a sigh, Horst took Sierra by the elbow, whispered something into her ear that quieted her protests, and walked her back up the stairs and out of sight.

  “Where’s he taking her?” I asked.

  Roddy held up his palms. “Dunno. He’ll either make her walk the plank or tuck her up in sick bay.”

  “Rod?” Mitch said.

  “Go to bed, Mitch. Tomorrow will be a very long day for all of us. Be warned that I will devise some onerous penance for you to perform.”

  Mitch nodded and turned to go back into his stateroom, but paused, seemed to listen for a moment before slowly looking around at Roddy. “Is the boat moving?”

  “Nah. You’re just drunk. Go on, pally, go sleep it off.”

  “Thank you, Roddy,” I said, stretching up to kiss his cheek. “Sorry to have landed all this on you.”

  “Hell, Maggie, no apology necessary. Nothing as interesting has happened since— Since I don’t know when.”

  “I wonder what’s next.”

  “Horst thinks that sometime tomorrow there may be a report of an explosion of unknown origin aboard a yacht sailing the Adriatic. It would be unfortunate, but entirely possible, that two of my guests will be lost at sea.”

  5

  “Guido, I need a favor.”

  After a pause, Guido managed to say, “Maggie? Why did you track me down through the studio switchboard? You know my number. And why the hell are you in Italy? I thought you were going to Paris.”

  “Enough with the third degree. And how do you know I’m in Italy?” I sat on the edge of one of the big chairs in Roddy’s office, afraid that if I sat back and got comfortable I’d fall asleep.

  “Max called, looking for you. He has a Google alert on both of us, you know, so he gets a ding every time your name or mine pops up on social media in case there’s a fire he needs to put out. Always looking out for us, your Uncle Max. Anyway, someone tweeted some stuff about you at a party in Italy. Max called me when he couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  “The tweeter was your old buddy, Sierra.”

  The name opened a quiet gap in the conversation for a few beats. “No shit? Her? What’s she doing in Italy? Who cares. What are you doing in Italy? And what’s with all this weird phone stuff, huh?”

  “Guido.” It was late. Or early, depending on one’s point of view. And I was cranky. I sounded cranky. Snappish, actually. Not a good way to begin asking for help. “Sorry. I’ll fill in the blanks later, okay? How close are you with your Italian cousins? I need a car.”

  “No, not okay. Tell me what’s going on, Mags. Why do you need a car?”

  “To get the hell out of Italy.”

  Again he paused, probably working things through. “Are you in some kind of trouble, partner?”

  “Yes. That’s why I need help finding a car.”

  “You can’t just rent one?”

  “No. So, back to the beginning: how close are you with your Italian cousins?”

  “I stay in touch with the ones who owe me money,” he said. “You want me to ask one to steal you a car?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I was hoping for a loaner.”

  “A loaner,” he repeated, sounding doubtful. “There are a few things I need to explain to you about men and their cars and why they don’t lend them to strangers who are in trouble. So, why don’t you tell me what’s up and I’ll see what I can do.”

  I told him, in brief, about the situation. At least, the little I actually knew about what the situation was. Bombs he understood. And cyber-stalking by known mercenaries. I told him that we would dock in Ravenna at about eight o’clock in the morning, Italian time, and that I would need wheels.

  “See how easy that was, Mags? I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”

  “Let me give you a phone number to use.”

  “What happened to your phone?”

  “Guido, this is a burner.”

  “A burner? A throwaway?”

  “Yes. After I hear back from you, I’m throwing it into the Adriatic.”

  “No, really, where’s your phone?”

  “Guido—”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, and wrote down the number I gave him. I started to say good-bye, but he headed off onto a new topic. “Hey, I got the message you left about the meeting with the French TV people on Monday. Are you going to make it? Do you need me to come over and take the meeting?”

  “I hate to ask you to get right back on an airplane, but would you? Even if I do manage to get there, you should sit in on the discussion. The decision about working with them, or not, isn’t mine alone to make.”

  “I’ll book the first flight I can get. You going to put me up in Paris?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s number seven, rue Jacob, on the Left Bank. The concierge, Madame Gonsalves, will be expecting you.”

  After we said good-bye, I curled up in that big cushy chair for a nap because I didn’t want the phone to wake Jean-Paul when Guido called back.

  By seven in the morning, I was showered and dressed and feeling almost rested when Jean-Paul took me by the hand and we left our stateroom to follow the smell of coffee coming from somewhere upstairs. Jean-Paul’s color was better and his fever seemed to be gone, hopeful signs. When he awoke at dawn that morning and discovered that we were at sea, I told him about Sierra’s posts and the potentially explosive reappearance of Qosja shortly afterward. And about my conversation with Guido.

  “Somehow,” he said with a little smile that morning as we walked up the stairs to the main salon, “it seems appropriate that we will meet Guido’s cousin—”

  “Luigi Cadelago.”

  “Luigi Cadelago, in the Ravenna cemetery.”

  “I think it’s all about the location and not the function of the site,” I said, kissing his freshly shaved cheek.

  “How will we recognize this cousin?”

  I had to laugh. “He’ll be driving a refrigerated fish delivery van.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t seem to get away from fish, can I?”

  We found Roddy at a table set for breakfast in a dining room off the main salon. I took the chair the steward held out for me on Roddy’s right. Jean-Paul took the seat on his left.

  “Top o’ the mornin’,” Roddy said, pouring coffee into our cups as the steward set plates of prosciutto, fruit, and herbed eggs in front of us. “You two look surprisingly fresh.”

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” I said. “Just what I ordered.”

  Roddy laughed. “Good, because the captain promises more of same for the coming week, with a possibility of snow flurri
es by late this afternoon.”

  The day was, as expected, cold and gray. Though the sea around us was full of chop, the ride in that pleasure palace was as smooth as a sail across a quiet lake, as if the Adriatic didn’t dare ruffle the comforts of the tender souls who would travel on such a sumptuous vessel.

  Roddy rested his elbows on the table and asked, with a sigh, “Was it warm in Laos?”

  “It was perfect.” I savored the lovely food on my plate. “Warm, dry, green.”

  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night,” he said, holding my eyes.

  “The one about you taking over my job?”

  He chuckled. Just a hesitant little chuckle. “Not yet, anyway. No, but how about taking me along when you go back to Laos?”

  “What makes you think I’m going back?”

  “The look on your face when you talk about it,” he said. “Business unfinished, I think. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You aren’t wrong,” I said. “I would love to go back and spend more time. We barely touched the surface during the three weeks we were there. If I did go back, I would want to include Cambodia and Vietnam as well. But first I’d have to sell the idea to our august employer. Or find another backer.”

  “Rumor has it that you might be ready to jump the mother ship for a different television home,” he said. “One in France, of all things.”

  The comment took me aback; no one should know that except me, Guido, Uncle Max and the French TV folks I was meeting with on Monday. If I got back to Paris in time, that is. I turned to Jean-Paul, but he shook his head. He hadn’t said anything. I asked, “Says who?”

  “I read it in the trades,” Roddy said, reaching for the jam pot.

  I needed to call Uncle Max, who was my agent, among other things. It would be like Max to plant a story of that sort in the entertainment news—the trades—just when I was about to come up for contract renewal. Especially if the story was true. And it was.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  “I’ve been thinking about branching out into something new myself.” Roddy leaned forward, more earnest than I had ever seen him. “Perhaps investing some of the obscene salary I’m burdened with in a worthwhile film project of some sort. I was thinking that, if you’re available, we might work together over the summer hiatus.”

  “Summer is monsoon season in Laos,” Jean-Paul offered, accepting a coffee refill. “But if you want a worthwhile topic, I would be quite happy to set you up with Doctors without Borders in any number of sites around the world. Or perhaps you would be interested in refugee camps.”

  And so the conversation went, until we approached land. A steward came into the room and leaned close to Roddy. In a very soft voice, he said, “Captain asked me to tell you, signore, that we will drop anchor in twenty minutes. The motor launch will be waiting to take guests ashore whenever they are ready.”

  “Ravenna?” I said, looking out the window, trying to see some identifiable landmarks. But we were too far away from shore. I felt apprehension gurgle up through the middle of the lovely breakfast. The yacht had felt like a cocoon, a lush and well-fortified shell against people who meant us harm. We couldn’t stay, but I hated to go, not knowing who might be out there. Waiting.

  Roddy asked, “You’re being met?”

  “So we are told,” Jean-Paul said, rising and offering his hand to Roddy. “Thank you, Roddy. In our current situation, we can only repay your kindness with profound gratitude. But we hope that very soon we will have the opportunity to reciprocate properly. Without the fireworks, of course. And no mercenaries on the guest list.”

  “Oh, my Maggie girl,” Roddy said, rising to pull Jean-Paul by the proffered hand into an embrace that made the poor dear wince in pain. “What an amazing catch you’ve made, luv. Such charm.”

  He released Jean-Paul and gave me a similar squeeze, adding several noisy cheek smooches. “You two turned a pathetically mundane romp into an adventure. It is I who should thank you. However,” he said, releasing me from his grip. “You might repay any perceived debt by giving serious consideration to what was said here. I hope we are able to do a deal, if not this summer, then soon.”

  Jean-Paul’s smile told me that he liked the idea of trekking off with Roddy and a film crew. It was something to think about, certainly.

  Mitch, freshly scrubbed and crisply dressed but shaky from hangover, chose that moment to wander into the dining room. Using both hands, he managed to pour himself a cup of coffee without spilling very much. He didn’t speak until he’d downed half of it. “Where the hell are we?”

  “On the briny,” Roddy said.

  “I can see that, Roddy.” Clearly, Mitch was unhappy. “We’re pointed south. Last time I looked, Munich was due west from Venice. Over land.”

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Where are we? I have us all booked on a flight from Marco Polo Airport at two o’clock this afternoon so that we can get to Munich in time to set up to shoot in Marienplatz tonight.”

  Roddy turned to me. “Is this Friday?”

  “Unless I’ve lost a day, it is.”

  “So, then it must be time to decamp for the nonsense in Munich.” He aimed a finger at Mitch. “Better get on the horn, my dear producer, and rebook the mob on a flight leaving from Ravenna right away. Our tenure on this old scow expires at noon. I’d ask for an extension but I have a visceral sense that the owners and crew will be happy to see our backsides. They’re just a bit nervy about the attempt last night to blow a hole in the hull.”

  Mitch leaned over to look out a window. “There’s a hole in the hull?”

  Roddy just shrugged; life is full of little mysteries, he seemed to be saying. I stretched up and gave his cheek a last kiss. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “Prego,” he said with a little bow.

  I turned to leave Roddy to deal with his producer, but came right back. Leaning in close, I asked him, “What about the girl?”

  “She’s having breakfast in bed and will be back in Venice in time for tea,” he said, squeezing my hand. “None the wiser about where she’s been. In the meantime, Horst has her mobile under lock and key.”

  Bundled up against the cold, Jean-Paul and I were handed into a sleek shore launch tied up off the yacht’s stern, and sent on our way across the last stretch of open water toward the Port of Ravenna. We sat mid-ship, between the first mate at the helm and Horst in the stern, the latter scanning the horizon through binoculars as we sped toward land.

  We passed the yacht harbor and the shipping container facility, and entered a long, narrow waterway, the Canale Candiano, that coursed between a commercial fishing pier on one side and wide, empty white sand beaches on the other. A tall iron fence marked the end of the beach and the beginning of the city’s ancient cemetery. The closer we came to our meeting point, the more Horst seemed to vibrate with intensity, training his glasses on every tall commercial fishing cabin, shuttered beach concession stand, and moss-covered stone monument that we passed. Watching for a sniper’s rifle to appear? Or a security camera, which, all things considered, could be as dangerous. I felt exposed, trapped in the open boat with nowhere to hide, and nowhere to run.

  Jean-Paul gripped my hand. “No shadow, yes?”

  “Not yet. Here we are, out of the forest and we haven’t drawn fire.”

  “As you said, not yet.”

  Hardly reassuring, but as we proceeded I began to relax. We could see all the way to the open sea behind us, and no one was following. Unless it was Guido who hired Qosja, an unlikely prospect, there was no way for the people who had pursued us to know ahead of time where we were meeting cousin Luigi. But once we left the shelter of Roddy’s rented yacht, we were in the open, and vulnerable.

  I learned early on working in television that the safest place to be is in a state of anonymity. I have always been uncomfortable when strangers recognize me somewhere out in the world beyond the television screen. I have been stalke
d before, and accosted or followed by strangers, so this isn’t an unearned queasiness. But, I was thinking as we passed along the cemetery’s iron fence, the investigative films I make for American television are rarely seen outside the U.S. and Canada. In Europe, away from places where American tourists gather, I could be—I most likely was—anonymous. Bundled in my coat, collar up over my ears, all that a camera could capture would be the form of a woman of a certain size. It was a comfortable feeling. For insurance, I pulled up Jean-Paul’s collar as well.

  The first mate cut the motor and drifted in close to a small pier just outside the cemetery’s main entrance. When he jumped out to tie up the launch, Horst came forward to stand tight against our backs, and stayed close as we were handed out, first Jean-Paul, and then me. We thanked them both and shook hands all around. I shouldered the backpack and we turned away from the water and our protectors. The road in front of us, via Cimitero, was empty. Not a soul in sight.

  “He is meeting us here?” Jean-Paul asked me.

  “That’s my understanding,” I said, checking my watch; we were a few minutes late. “The dock near the front gate of the cemetery, Guido said.”

  Gesturing toward the road, he said, “Shall we?”

  I turned and waved as we started down the road, a last thank you and good-bye, but saw that Horst and the first mate were waiting on the dock for our ride to show up. If he didn’t come, what then? I could see the outskirts of Ravenna in the distance, less than a mile away. When I heard the blast of a train whistle, I knew that there was a Plan B nearby. But after we had walked no more than twenty yards, a small blue tradesman’s van with pesce cadelago and a jumping fish painted on the side panel careened around a curve in the road and sped toward us. We stayed at the side of the road, on a little berm, and waited. So did Horst and the first mate.

  The van passed us, made a U-turn, ready to head out again, and came to a stop beside us. The driver, a wiry youth whose family resemblance to my old friend Guido was remarkable, from the chiseled features to the set of his shoulders, hopped out and trotted around the van to open the passenger door.