“Good morning, Giselle. How did you sleep?”
“I didn’t sleep much. I just laid there willing the hours to pass so we could get started.” She poured him coffee. “How did you find Moroccan dreamland?”
“I also did not sleep much, so I began working on a new sculpture in the workshop.”
“I would’ve done the same thing, but I figured working with a crane in the dark was too crazy even for even me to attempt.”
As they prepared a breakfast tray to share, Giselle mixed grated orange peel into softened butter and flicked in bits of pulp. She tasted the citrus butter and nodded approval. Then she dipped her finger into it and held it up to Markus’ lips for him to taste. Startled by the intimate gesture that she offered so naturally, he took her finger into his mouth and sucked on it as she slowly withdrew it. The butter was creamy and bright with orange on his tongue. It was delightful. She didn’t wait for a response, but moved over to the hearth where she rescued their bread from a blackened fate. He poured milk into their coffee, slightly flustered by what had just happened.
After breakfast they walked out behind the house and past the stable house to a large courtyard bordered by two impressive buildings.
“Here’s where we’re going to work. Last month I had the ground measured by a surveyor, and then graded perfectly level so it’s ready for us to begin.” She gestured to industrial brackets on the ground. “Be careful not to move any of those mold bases.” Then she headed toward a glass building. “We’ll use the greenhouse as our workshop.”
Following her toward the greenhouse, he pointed to the structure on the far side of the large courtyard. “What is that other building?”
“That was used for an entertainment called ‘follies’ back in the seventeen hundreds. In the old days when my family entertained, it was on a really grand scale.”
“I can imagine. My father and I worked on a property in Ukrayina that had a zoo with exotic pets.”
“Hmm, we didn’t have a zoo that I know of.” She continued pointing around the property. “Well, the stable house you already know, and over there is the garage.”
“Any cars?”
“You mean besides my Tank?”
“Your Tank is not a car. It is more like a military transport.”
“Ha! We also have a Jeep, and Vincenzo’s Exagon Furtive-eGT. It’s battery powered. Very eco.”
“Also very expensive.”
“That too. He really believes in the company and the environment.”
“Clearly. But it is not made for these roads.”
“You’d be surprised. And over there are the barn, paddock, and stables.”
“Any horses?”
“I have five, Vincenzo has one, and Selma has two. When I’m away, our groom boards Vincenzo’s and mine at his farm nearby, and brings them back when we’re here.”
“Where does Selma live?”
Giselle turned to face the back of the property, pointing past the courtyard and into the distance. “See down that road that runs along the forest? You can barely see them, but we have some nice guesthouses, and Selma lives in one of them with her mother, Veronique. When I’m in Paris, Veronique moves into the main house and lives in an apartment behind that Moroccan breakfast room.”
“I have not seen them around the property since we arrived.”
“When they come and go from the property, they use an access road that’s all the way down by their garage. It’s more direct than coming back this way if they’re going into town.”
“So you are very solitary when you are here.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“Not like your life in Paris.”
“I need to be alone to work. That’s why I can’t create in Paris. Collectors always find me and just ‘happen to’ stop by any studio I use.”
“Hmmm. I see. It is a good thing I do not bother you, Giselle.”
She squinched her face up at his humor and then tilted her head. “You’d better not.” Then she slipped her arm in his and walked him inside the greenhouse.
“These crates contain the materials that will become Star Fall. I had the delivery company open them to make everything accessible.”
He eyed the wooden packing crates with waybills hanging from them. “Convenient.”
“And there’s our crane.”
“I see it is a Bobcat. Lots of fun to use!”
He knew she could see how excited he was to have this machine at his disposal, but not wanting to look too immature, he recovered himself quickly.
“Sadly, it is not battery powered,” he commented.
“Sadly, no.”
“Not eco.”
“No.”
Giselle fastened a small tool belt around her waist, felt for her pencils and measuring tape, and walked past the crates to a table where she unfolded a surveying chart. She opened her blueprint and walked out to the courtyard. She paced out the design on the ground, tracing her trajectory on the drawing with her finger so Markus could see where each part of the sculpture would stand.
“You’ll use the Bobcat to set the base girders upright inside the molds, then we’ll pour the cement in. Once that’s set, you’ll use the Bobcat again to lift the arches in place and affix them here, here, and here.”
“Your art is so big, while mine is so small.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We are lucky I do not get intimidated. Your big sculpture might put another man in a bad mood.”
She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a condolence squeeze. “Enough small talk. Get up into that crane, will you?”
Markus climbed aboard the Bobcat and thoroughly enjoyed himself as he lifted the girders from their crates and drove around the courtyard, placing them neatly upright into their molds. He’d used this type of machinery before to move everything from church windows to boulders, but using one to assemble art materials was new to him. After double-checking measurements, he joined Giselle in the greenhouse and got to work measuring the cement mix from sacks and water into buckets. They spent the rest of the morning mixing cement and pouring it into the molds from a small mixer on wheels. He was used to working hard, and was impressed that Giselle hadn’t uttered a word of complaint even though she was sheened with sweat. Working alongside her, he felt a mixture of desire and respect. She was an efficient manager, and precise when giving directions.
Once the last support strut was cemented in place, they took a break. Markus rinsed out the cement mixer while Giselle went to the kitchen and brought some food out to a table by the greenhouse where they sat down to a late lunch. Giselle kicked her shoes off and poured them each a big glass of water as he prepared plates for them.
“Which side of the sculpture do you think we should begin our assembly on?” she asked.
“I would begin on the right side…there,” he pointed.
“I agree.”
Markus noticed that, just like her friend Selma, there was no small talk in Giselle. She never talked about herself, and she hadn’t asked him anything personal since their first cab ride together. She seemed to be all art, all the time.
It was evening before she called an end to their work, and they headed to their respective rooms to clean up before Fauve and Giselle’s other friends arrived. Stripping off his clothes and walking toward the Moroccan shower, he thought for the umpteenth time, What am I doing out here embarking on some illegal-substance-covered art piece? There is something here I am not understanding. I do not know what it is, but I think it could be trouble.
Alphonso stashed his suitcase on the luggage stand in the corner of his room and went over to the window. Drawing the dark blue curtain aside, he looked out on a nice view of the quaint towns rooftops, and directly below was a spacious yard with a vegetable garden and a big section that had been left wild. Judging from the floor plan downstairs, he figured the goat munching on weeds below his window probably belonged to Henri and Fauve, as well as the chi
ckens and rabbits that occupied the neat coops and hutch on the far edge.
Turning back to the room, it was just what you’d expect in an eighteenth-century hotel. He eyed the brass bedframe suspiciously, but when he sat down on the bed and bounced, he was pleased to find the frame sturdy. And when he pulled back the cornflower-blue bedding, he was happy to see that the mattress appeared to be new. The walls held collages of photos of the countryside in antique off-white frames that had chipping paint on their worn surfaces. Nice pictures, whoever took them had an eye for composition. Listening, he didn't hear any conversations or music from nearby rooms, so he felt hopeful it would be a quiet place to relax after long days of spying on Vincenzo's wife.
He went to investigate the bathroom. While it was obvious it had been added on some time in the last hundred years, he was relieved to see it was outfitted adequately. A fresh plastic curtain surrounded the shower basin, although the overhead rain attachment was a holdover from another time. The sink was tiny, but mercifully the toilet was a standard size. The towels were clean, and fluffy. He accidentally turned on the bathroom exhaust fan when he turned on the light, and it sounded like an airplane engine. There was no window, but the overhead light was bright enough to shave without cutting himself. Being tall and broad shouldered, he’d have preferred a larger bathroom. But it was about the size of the one in the apartment he’d grown up in, so he was fine with his accommodations.
He called Zelph and gave him the hotel information, before heading out into the countryside to locate Giselle’s home in Gernelle. He arrived near her property almost an hour later after repeatedly taking wrong turns, and even ended up in Belgium at one point. Anxious not to raise suspicion, he avoided asking directions from the locals and from the old women he occasionally saw chatting near mailboxes at the end of quiet lanes.
He eased his rented Renault up to a wide-open gate that offered access to a white gravel driveway, and spotted an iron postal locker with the address Gina, the florist, had given him. Success! He drove a few hundred meters past the estate drive, and turned onto a rutted lane that bordered the property. He drove until he arrived at a stand of trees that would shield his car from view of the main road. Leaving it parked on the edge of the forest, he approached Giselle’s property on foot, keeping himself sheltered in the first line of trees. It was quite a hike, and he had to keep crouching and watching to be sure no one saw him. He needed to observe Giselle’s activities, and he wouldn’t get the chance if he got caught trespassing.
As he skirted past a small fruit orchard, the back of a beautiful castle and estate compound finally came into view. Her property was what he expected of a Verona home; it could have been an exclusive boarding school or a destination hotel. Even from the back, he could tell it was classy, the sort of place he would never get invited to. Why is it the super-rich only associate with themselves? Well, in fairness, that didn’t seem true about this particular family. The Veronas appeared to reach out to everyone. So what could they be hiding?
While being cautious to stay out of view from the château and the other buildings on the estate grounds, Alphonso made his way as close to the rear of the château as he dared. What he glimpsed in the back courtyard was the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. Wow! Vincenzo certainly hadn’t married an ugly ragazza! Giselle and some Icelandic-looking athlete were working with long struts of metal, wheeling them around with a little crane. Alphonso hunkered down in the tall grass of a field and made himself comfortable for his stakeout.
After several hours of work, they put their tools away, and then the man walked alone to a small house attached to a stable on the edge of the courtyard. Giselle walked past the stable house and was continuing around the back of the castle when he heard the whine of a small engine approaching. He dropped into the top of a push-up and watched a woman on a motorcycle approaching on a road from deeper on the property. She zipped past him on the other side of the field and banked around the front of the castle and out of sight, just as Giselle disappeared around the same corner. She has a visitor. He perked up and came onto his hands and knees when he saw vehicles approaching from the driveway at the front of the property. Here came a Range Rover, and a Fiat, and some mid-sized minivan model he didn’t recognize. Well now, what’s going on here? He crept forward to find out.
Salvio still had nothing to leverage against Verona. In an effort to buy himself more time, he sat down at his desk and wrote a note to the College of Cardinals, who were still convened in Venice.
I am writing to assure you that, although the iniquity I must bring before you breaks my heart, I am only days away from providing you with the proof as promised. Please join me in a request to the pope that he grant me absolution for sullying my soul with the proving of these sins, and immediately appoint me as head of Verdu Mer, for the sake of its vulnerable residents and their future comfort.
Salvio Davide Scortini
After handing the sealed note to Guiseppe with instructions to deliver it to the College, Salvio hurried off to the emergency meeting of builders he had called. The key builders of Venice were assembled in a warehouse, the only building large enough to hold such a gathering. Each of the attendees expected him to award them lucrative contracts for the Verdu Mer project, and he was certain that, without exception, they all understood that this would put them in his debt.
He strode into the warehouse, and voices hushed as he approached the podium. He tapped the microphone to test it before beginning.
“Because we are all busy men, I’ve come with a very short message. The Verdu Mer project is far more complicated than any of you could possibly imagine. I’m working closely with the Vatican and global experts to set a plan for demolition and building to begin.”
No one moved. They all seemed to be waiting for him to provide specific information on their contracts. He saw one of the titans of demolition looking at him speculatively; no doubt he was already working with Verona. Perhaps he even had an inkling that Verona was currently the head of the project, but the man wouldn’t dare risk challenging Salvio outright.
“Of course, behind closed doors I am working tirelessly on the logistics with Verona, a close advisor. But at this time, I cannot give you more information.”
A voice called out, “Signor Scortini, can you at least give us a start date and an estimated budget? We need to schedule our upcoming contracts accordingly, so we’ll be ready to begin work on Verdu Mer.”
Salvio made a brushing gesture with his hand at this non-issue. “You’ll have it soon. And once I give you the sums we’re talking about—which I am receiving directly from the Vatican treasury—you’ll be able to return any moneys from current jobs if needed.”
Another voice called out, “Signor Scortini, it’s bad business to take a job, then hand the client’s money back and leave for another job.”
Salvio fought to reign in his flaring temper and appear calm. He raked his fingernails as quietly as he could against the underside of the podium to relieve his cresting anger.
“If your current clients are more important to you than the Vatican, and you don’t wish to be a part of this God-given opportunity, then you don’t need to give it another thought!” He was at his limit with being nitpicked and challenged. He was losing control of himself. “But at this moment, I’m urgently expected back at my Verdu Mer consortium. I only called this brief meeting to personally tell you how much I appreciate your patience. Now if you will excuse me…”
He stalked off toward the side exit, ignoring the attendees who were gathering together in small groups, no doubt to discuss the upcoming opportunity like women gossiping over a laundry line. Once outside, Salvio slipped around a corner and hurried alone down a tiny, dark alley. He heard running steps behind him, and turned to see who was trotting to catch him.
“Who are you?” Salvio demanded.
“I’m Reynaldo Falconetti.”
Salvio offered him a blank look.
“We’re in marble.”
“Ah sì, Marco’s boy. Your parents were just at my home.”
“Per favore, Signor Scortini, I hope you’ll clear something up for me.”
“I have no secrets. What I have to say, I say to the whole building establishment.”
“Signor Scortini, my father couldn’t be here today because he was at a meeting of the Verdu Mer consortium.”
“Sì,” he murmured in a bored tone, “I’m working with a global consortium, and am on my way there now.”
“Well, signore, what you say doesn’t make sense, because the consortium members say…uh…” His courage appeared to desert him.
Salvio slapped a smile on his face and purred, “They say what?”
Reynaldo choked out, “That the Pope already chose Verona over you—”
Before he realized what he was doing, Salvio grabbed Reynaldo’s face and slammed his head straight back into the stone wall. He’d thrown all of his force behind the pistoning momentum of his arm, and there was a muffled crunch as Reynaldo’s skull fractured. He appeared to be trying to say something as blood slipped over his bottom teeth and out the corners of his mouth. His brown eyes fluttered shut, and his limp body dropped onto the stones in the darkest shadow of the alley’s gutter.
Stunned by the explosive force of his own violence, Salvio reflexively jumped back into the shadows. My God! What just happened? I’ve got to get away from here. Move, Salvio! He looked in both directions and then hurried unseen from the alley.
Moving quickly down the calle, Salvio tried to reassure himself. That young man had paid for bearing false witness. Salvio was an instrument of the Almighty God, and while he bore no personal ill feelings toward that lowly marble artisan, it wasn’t in Salvio’s nature to question God’s will. As an instrument of divine will, his conscience was clear. When that sinner’s body was found, no one would think to question Salvio. He’d never had any business with the young man. He didn’t even know him.
Salvio walked directly home and went straight to his office, dismissing Guiseppe’s attempt to inquire about the evening’s plans. Slamming the office door, he moved behind his desk to plan his next move. He snatched up a golden drapery cord that he kept on his desk, and began to reflexively wind it around his hand as he pondered his future. He had taken the cord from the Vatican while he’d been left waiting in a hallway next to some curtains. True, the cord didn’t belong to him, but unlike his forefathers, he’d never been given gifts from the Pope. So he’d helped himself to this little trifle as a symbol of gifts yet to come. He had faith he would soon earn the Pope’s affection and gifts.
Stealing Venice Page 12
