The Assassin Lotus

by David Angsten

  Ring!

  Heck with this, I thought, I’ll take the damn thing with me. Grabbing the suitcase, I started for the door, strewing clothes across the floor as I tried to zip it shut. My foot caught in the clothes and I tumbled to the floor.

  “Christ Almighty!”

  Ring!

  There was a light tap-tap-tap at the door.

  Ring!

  I lay with the luggage, holding my breath.

  A louder knock. “Hello?”

  The phone stopped. Quietly I gathered the half-open suitcase and crept away from the door. I heard the tell-tale click of the lock as another key card was inserted.

  The doorknob rattled. The deadbolt held. I heard a murmur of voices.

  At that point I was clawing at the drapery, desperate for another way out.

  “Security. Please open up!” I heard the unmistakable jingle of keys.

  The heavy velvet drapes hid a pair of French doors. I threw the latch and stepped outside, onto the projecting balcony. Traffic coursed below on the Via Veneto, visible through the leafy crowns of trees. I suddenly remembered that the “second” floor of an Italian hotel is actually the third—above the “first” and the “ground” floor.

  I was far too high up to jump.

  Even the first floor balcony beneath me was too long of a drop, but the balcony of the room next door jutted close. Before I even thought about it, I had thrown Maya’s open suitcase over to it and stepped up on the balustrade.

  Voices emerged from the room behind me.

  I swallowed my fear and leapt.

  If I hadn’t looked down I might have landed on my feet. But a quick glimpse stolen in fright threw me off, and my back foot caught on the balustrade. I crashed onto Maya’s suitcase and her scattered rolls of clothes, tumbling to a stop against the French doors.

  The doors were partly open, but the heavy drapes were closed. I swatted through them and scuttled inside, dragging the suitcase with me.

  As I got to my feet, clutching the bag, I saw them staring at me. Frozen in shock, on the bed in their underwear—the woman who’d been tardy to the elevator, and the man who had held the doors for her. I didn’t have time to assess what they were doing—some form of canoodling with canolli—but a scene from The Satyricon flashed through my head as I scrambled from the bedroom through the doorway.

  16.

  Porsche or Audi?

  I PEEKED INTO THE CORRIDOR. The Security people were still in Maya’s room. Edging out quietly, I ducked around the corner and raced pell-mell down the hall. The stairwell was just past the elevator. As I flew down the steps with the pink suitcase in my arms, backpack swinging from my shoulder, I realized I’d be conspicuous if I dashed out through the lobby—the Iranian might be waiting there, too—so I continued on down the stairs to the basement, into what I assumed would be the bowels of the hotel.

  It turned out to be the parking garage. I started running through it, looking for the exit, when suddenly a car came roaring from the side, screeching to a stop and nearly hitting me.

  I froze before the black Mercedes.

  The door opened.

  A young Italian in a hotel uniform stepped out of the car and apologized. “Mi dispiace.” Then he saw I was an American. “Are you okay, sir?”

  I was backing away. “Yes...I…I’m looking for my car.”

  “Mi dispiace molto. We make you waiting too long. So busy. We are not normal so busy.” He pried open his vest pocket and eyed a pair of tickets. “You are the Porsche or the Audi?”

  I stopped backing away. “Uh…the Porsche?”

  Scanning the garage, he spotted another valet trotting by and let out a piercing whistle. “Fredo, porti la Porsche qui, pronto!”

  Fredo shouted back that he couldn’t bring the Porsche pronto. Apparently he was busy, too.

  I shot an anxious glance toward the stairwell. “Gosh. I’m in a real hurry,” I said.

  The valet reached into the Mercedes and shut off the engine. “Wait here,” he said. “I bring for you.” He sprinted off.

  The Mercedes sat silent in front of me.

  I glanced around. Aside from the two valets, there were no other people visible in the garage. The stairwell door remained shut. Security hadn’t figured out where I was yet.

  I stepped to the car, wondering if it really was the killer’s. The rain-washed sedan gleamed like a jewel. Peering through the driver’s window, I saw that the valet had left the key in the ignition. The leather seats were empty—no trash, no coffee mug, no briefcase, no luggage. I quickly scanned the garage again, then opened the car door, tossed in my suitcase and backpack, and climbed in behind the wheel.

  Shutting the door encased me in silence. I noticed the scent of cigarette smoke, and remembered that moment with the dagger at my throat. My hand and arm trembled as I reached for the ignition. The engine purred, and as I shifted into gear, I caught sight of something moving on the ceiling of the garage.

  A rotating security camera.

  Up ahead a man in a dark suit was running up the aisle toward me. Through the passenger window, I glimpsed the bearded Iranian killer charging out of the stairwell.

  I slammed the gas. The tires screamed. I aimed full on at the man coming toward me. Reaching under his coat—presumably for a gun—he leapt aside as the car flew past, rolling onto the trunk of a parked limousine. I screeched around the end of the aisle and raced toward the daylight at the top of the exit ramp.

  In the rearview mirror, the Iranian appeared, sprinting full out after me. Up ahead a car suddenly backed into the lane—the valet retrieving the Porsche Carrera. I jerked the wheel and swerved away. The Porsche struck my passenger door and scraped all the way to the fender, sending the Mercedes into a tailspin.

  As I fought the wheel I caught a glimpse of the Iranian. My God, I thought—he’s going to jump the car again! The wheels straightened and I slammed on the gas, soaring into the brightness at the top of the ramp. A woman in a chef’s smock screamed and leapt away as I bounded out onto the pavement. The garage had disgorged me at the rear of the hotel. I turned hard, squealing into the one-way street. Expelling cigarette smoke, kitchen workers cursed. A butcher’s delivery van half-blocked the lane, its rear doors spread open, exposing frozen shanks. I swerved to avoid the van, but clipped a door and struck a row of parked motorbikes. They tumbled like dominoes.

  I screeched out onto Via Veneto, cutting ahead of a bus—an open double-decker—eliciting a collective gasp from the tourists up on top. Flicking glances at the rear-view mirror, I wove through the lanes and tried to vanish into the traffic, but the freshly scraped and dented Mercedes hardly blended in. Although the Iranian was no longer chasing me, I was certain the security man must have made a call to the cops. They would all be descending on Via Veneto. I had to get off onto side streets.

  How could this be happening? Was I really now fleeing the police?

  Somewhere, a siren wailed. I wheeled off just ahead of Piazza Barberini and jogged a couple blocks onto Via Sistina. I took that a few blocks and turned off into an alley. Then I started zigzagging through the center of the city, tacking my way toward Trastevere.

  In the pocket of my jacket was the note from Maya’s room. My watch showed 10:23 A.M. In a mere seven minutes I would be an hour late. I prayed that the doctor would still be there.

  17.

  Safari

  ACROSS THE TIBER, several blocks away from the entrance to the garden, I pulled over in a back lane and parked the battered Mercedes. It wasn’t a legal spot, of course—that would have taken time—but at this point nothing I was doing was legal, and I felt a terrible urgency to rid myself of the car.

  A helmeted girl buzzed by on a moped. I glanced around for pedestrians; it appeared I was alone.

  In the glove compartment, I found the Europcar rental contract. Unfolding the document, I searched for the renter’s name.

  Vanitar Azad.

  Just as I had feared! This maniac and Arshan Azad were obvi
ously related. Father-son? Brothers? I was good as dead. Blood revenge fuelled his rage. I nervously stuffed the rental paper back in the glove compartment.

  With the sleeve of my jacket, I wiped the steering wheel and the shifter handle. Did it make any sense to be cleaning off my fingerprints? Probably not, but at this point I was paranoid and scared out of my wits; I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly and didn’t want to take any chances. So I climbed out and wiped the door handle, too. Then I strapped on my backpack and hauled out Maya’s suitcase.

  The remote on the car key popped the trunk. I saw there was nothing inside. Apparently these minions of the Ayatollah traveled with only the clothes on their back. After shutting the trunk with my elbow, I glanced around and hurried off, bouncing the pink-paisley roller up the lane.

  Several minutes later, as I scurried along Via della Scala, I tossed the car key through the grate of a drain.

  THE SECURITY MAN led the way back to her room, all the while jabbering into his cell phone. Though I couldn’t understand his non-stop Italian, it was clear he was consulting with the police. I knew they’d soon connect me with the incident the previous night. It didn’t leave much time.

  Discreetly I buttoned my suit jacket, adjusting it over the dagger. The fabric, still damp from the rain, clung too close to my body. I wondered how long it would take them to see it, or to notice the stains on my knees.

  The door to her room had been propped open, the curtains pulled aside. On the edge of the bed sat another security man—also on his phone. He eyed me suspiciously as I followed his partner inside.

  Several dresses and women’s underclothes lay strewn across the floor. As the man I’d followed ended his call, he turned to see me staring down at them. “He steal her suitcase,” the man explained in English. “Look like he left the best stuff behind.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my scowl. The grin on the man’s face faded.

  I slowly scanned the desk and the bed. In my head I heard an echo of Arshan’s voice: Look more closely. See.

  The Italian on the bed closed his phone and told his partner something.

  The partner turned to me. “The camera. In the garage. We have his picture. Not to worry, you will get back your car.”

  I nodded.

  The man on the bed stood up and gently waved the Hindi’s passport. “Police want to see this. They saying something happened.” His eyes stayed on mine, then drifted down my dampened suit and narrowed at my knees.

  “You fall down? In the rain?”

  I looked at him. “The phone,” I said.

  “Scusi?”

  “There, on the desk.”

  The two men turned. The message light was blinking.

  WHEN I ASKED IF SHE KNEW of a Dr. Fiore, the Gypsy in the booth at the entry gate furled her bushy brows. I repeated the name, “Fiore.”

  Memory struck and lit up her face. “Il Professore!” She told me I must hurry, and urged me up the path to “la serra tropicale.” This was a large and decrepit greenhouse I often passed on my morning jog. It was not too far from where I was standing, so I quickly marched off, suitcase in tow, and hastened up the path.

  In all the many times I had jogged through the gardens, I’d hardly given a thought to the greenhouse. Now, as I approached, its age and general state of decay struck me as oddly enchanting. It appeared to have been a fixture for centuries.

  A sign on the access door read Chiuso, but when I tried the knob, it opened.

  The canopy of fogged and leaf-littered glass enclosed an Amazonian jungle. Small birds flitted past, disturbing humid air awash with the sound of trickling water. I followed a winding walkway, dodging banana leaves and dangling branches, dragging my squeaky-wheeled suitcase. In spite of its sunlit expanse, the green-tangled interior felt somehow claustrophobic, and the thickness of the air quickly put me in a sweat.

  I ascended an elevated walkway. It snaked over a tranquil, percolating pond, and my eyes went immediately to searching its surface, as if it might hold the treasured lotus.

  “May we help you, sir?”

  Behind me, in a clearing below, framed by the glutted foliage, a group of young Italians with clipboards and notepads stood staring up at me in amusement. A severe-looking woman with black-framed glasses stepped out from among them. “I am sorry, but the conservatory is closed,” she said. “This lecture is restricted to the students.”

  Several of the future botanists snickered, and I suddenly realized how silly I looked, white safari jacket and pink suitcase, lost in a counterfeit jungle.

  One of the young women giggled out loud.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Fiore,” I said.

  The older woman shook her head. “There is no one here by that name.”

  “Felix Fiore? A professor, maybe?”

  “I’m afraid I’m the only professor today. Now, please, if you will excuse us.” She turned back to her students and resumed her lecture.

  I stood there a moment, dumbly, then turned and began to retrace my steps. Fiore. Professore. The Romanian at the entry gate must have made a phonetic mistake, and thought I was a student running late for this woman’s lecture.

  What the heck was I doing? Forget this goddamn doctor. There was only one thing I ought to be doing—getting the hell out of Rome!

  I blasted out the greenhouse door and started down the lawn.

  “Perdoni!”

  I turned.

  A young woman stood in the greenhouse doorway. She called out to me in English. “A man was here, before.”

  I walked back up to her. It was the girl from the lecture who had giggled. She was pretty, with friendly eyes. “I think he is maybe your friend,” she said.

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  She shook her head, “no.”

  “Why do you think he was my friend?”

  She smiled. “He wears the white. Like you.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. I pinched the collar of my jacket. “Like this?”

  She nodded happily, “Si.”

  “When was he here?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I think…an hour, before?”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He ask me for where to find l’Orto dei Semplici.”

  “The Garden of…Simples?”

  “Si. Up there, behind the wall.” She pointed through the trees up the slope. “Where they grow the herbs for the medicine.”

  I knew the place she was talking about. The plants there all had labels.

  “Grazie,” I said. “Tante grazie.”

  “Prego,” she said.

  I watched her go back inside.

  My wristwatch read 11:28 A.M. I peered through the trees toward the Garden of Simples.

  He wears the white?

  18.

  The Walled Garden

  THE GARDEN LAY HIDDEN behind ivy-covered walls. Inside, a geometric labyrinth of raised planter beds concealed a central, circular pond. The waist-high brick planters formed odd-angled shapes and sprouted all manner of plant life, from delicate sprays of herbs and flowers to thorny thickets of shrubs and vines. Profuse growth had overwhelmed the initial attempt at order, and despite identification labels, there appeared no discernible pattern to the plantings, so that now even the geometric layout seemed obscure. The design, I decided, as I wound my way through it, could only be divined from above.

  At first it appeared I was the only one there. But when I finally reached the plant-filled pool, I was startled to find a white suit jacket draped over its stony rim, with a pair of white-and-tan saddle shoes neatly arranged beside it. Out in the pond, behind a thicket of swaying papyrus, a man with a full white beard and a surging mane of snowy white hair waded knee-deep in the water.

  Slowly, I circled the pond, trying to get a clearer view of exactly what he was doing. The old man seemed entirely preoccupied and paid me no attention. His white vest was buttoned, but he had rolled up his white suit trousers and sleeves, and was bent over, reaching tow
ard the water. His reflection shone brightly on the jade-green surface; I watched him swipe his palm across it, as if peering into the depths.

  I thought at once of the lotus. There were numerous lily pads in the pond; a few even sprouted flowers and seed pods. But where he was standing there were no water plants, just a shimmering film of green at the surface. He cupped some of the green stuff in the joined palms of his hands and, trudging slowly back through the water, carried it to the edge of the pool.

  I walked over to meet him.

  Digging into the folds of his jettisoned jacket, the man fished out a powder-blue handkerchief and carefully placed what he had collected into it. As I approached, he stood upright, and a grin spread across the cloud of his beard.

  “Find something interesting?” I asked in Italian.

  He held out the hankie on the palm of his hand, squinting at it in the sunlight. On it was a collection of tiny green leaves, some sort of aquatic clover.

  “Lemna gibba,” he said. “A species of Lemaceae—more commonly known as duckweed.” He spoke precisely in accented English, his voice soft and delicate, each syllable exquisitely pronounced. “Perhaps the simplest specimen in this marvelous Garden of Simples.” The grin seemed a permanent part of his expression. His squinting eyes sparkled like Santa Claus.

  I reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Jack Duran. Are you Dr. Fiore?”

  “I am indeed.” His grip was unexpectedly strong, his eyes a welcoming cool pale blue. He turned and sat on the flat stone rim with his feet still submerged in the water. Wet gray mud discolored his calves, but his rolled up pants were immaculate. Again he examined the duckweed. “Lemna reproduces quite rapidly. Very useful in the lab. But if it continues growing here, I fear it will choke out all the life in the pond.”

  “You don’t work here, do you?” I asked.

  “Heaven’s no. I’m Swiss.”

  “Swiss?” He had said it as if it explained everything.

  “I was born in the mountains of the Bernese Oberland, in good old Helvetia, which I love.”