Jude leaped out of the way, his wet hair swinging forward. The dim lighting in the hall cast shadows over his bruised face. “I fetched our passports . . . ”
His voice trailed off. “You look ghastly. Has the nausea returned?”
“You have such a gift for sweet-talk.”
The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “So I’ve been told. What’s wrong, Clifford?”
“Someone called my room and meowed.” She paused, and a miasma of snark washed through her. “I assumed it was you,” she added.
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” One edge of his mouth kicked up into a smile. “Oh, I see. This is payback for my lecture on catnip.”
She tugged the edge of her sweater. Did he think everything was about him? “It was a real call. By a fake kitten. Thanks for your concern.”
They walked in silence to Father Aeneas’s room. The layout and décor were identical to Caro’s. Yellow walls, two queen-sized beds, and ornate French furniture. Afternoon sunlight pricked through blue damask curtains, slashing over the floor. Demos ushered them into the room, running a distracted hand through his white hair. The monk sat in front of a desk, sorting through medicine bottles. When he saw Caro, he smiled and rose to his feet.
“Jude told me you were ill.” He grabbed her hands.
“Just a little seasick. I’m fine now.”
“Excellent. Please, sit.” He waved at a gilt chair.
She perched on the edge, and Jude positioned himself behind her, resting his fingers near her shoulders. The monk’s dark eyes swept over her, and then he folded his liver-spotted hands and bowed his head. “Before we discuss your true reasons for coming to Venice, let us pray.”
True reasons? She didn’t have a clear goal, just a handful of clues. Her thoughts dispersed when the monk began to whisper in Greek. She felt dizzy as words swirled in the air, each one curled and shimmering. Caro felt a tug on her left shoulder, then Jude’s hand moved to the back of her neck and gently squeezed. She glanced back. He shook his head, his eyes guarded.
She looked away. Why was he so distrustful? Because vampires had severed his tendons or because suspicion was part of his core personality? Trauma molded a person far quicker than kindness; that much she knew. Her parents had been slaughtered, but she’d survived. Doom and doubt were part of her being, but the pessimism had been balanced by Uncle Nigel’s unconditional love.
Now, as the Greek prayer eddied around her, she understood why her uncle had withheld the truth. For whatever reason—probably because she’d moved to London, where he couldn’t protect her—he’d changed his mind, and recently, according to the dates on his letters. He’d approached Caro’s history the way he would prepare for an archaeological dig. First, he’d unearthed the scientific article, and then he’d burrowed deeper, tracking Jude from Yorkshire to Zürich. Her uncle had set up that meeting in Oxford, hoping to assemble the odd pieces of her life like potsherds. Then, because he loved routines and schedules, he’d left for his annual dig at Perperikon. During his final moments, he’d left clues and the Fates had brought them to her.
Caro sat up straight. Why hadn’t Uncle Nigel left any hints about Jude? Had he forgotten? Despite her uncle’s condition, his quick mind would have allowed him to jot down a scrambled form of Jude Barrett—biochemist. Why hadn’t he? Because even at the end of his life, her uncle had been cautious and practical. No need to bring Jude into the fray and endanger him. The monk was a man of God, a former physician, and he knew intimate details about Caro’s parents. Uncle Nigel had been deliberately obscure with the anagrams to protect her and Father Aeneas—but was the omission of Jude’s name a clue?
Father Aeneas’s prayer beads clicked softly as he sketched a cross in the air. His narrow face dissolved into wrinkles as he smiled. “Caroline, what do you hope to find in the safe-deposit box? The third icon? Or ten pages from Historia Immortalis?”
She was pretty sure she’d find the vellum, so why was she lying to this good man? Because her uncle’s death had created a void. Jude’s rejection had created another one. Nature abhors vacuums. She squeezed her hands until her fingertips turned pink.
The monk opened his bag and dragged out a small cloth bundle. His gnarled fingers drew back the fabric. The icon was a bit smaller than hers, and curved at the top.
“Caroline, let me see your panel.”
She fished it out of her bag and set it on the bed. The monk pushed his icon beside hers, aligning the colors and images. The night sky filled the top portion of both panels, with mountains jutting up like wolf teeth. Father Aeneas’s icon showed a stone sarcophagus. Inside was a man, his eyes wide open, and he seemed to be rising. Below him, a fire raged out of control, flames jutting out of an arched window, with a tiny robed figure racing away from the inferno, carrying a sheaf of papers and a large egg.
Caro tried to look away from the flames, but she felt herself pulled toward them. She could hear crackling wood and smell the scorched flesh. She felt a cool hand on her shoulder and looked up into Father Aeneas’s eyes.
“My child, are you ill?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She pointed to his icon. “This is the fire that killed my parents. And this figure is a child. She’s me.”
“Impossible,” Father Aeneas said. “The triptych was painted in the eighth century.”
“But look at my icon.” She pointed to the red-robed woman. “She’s holding a book and an egg. And her hair is dark like mine.”
“It’s not you.” Jude touched her neck. “A week ago, you were blond.”
Father Aeneas nodded. “This triptych depicts the Albigensian Crusade. Many people burned, and Historia Immortalis was at the center of it.”
“What does the egg mean?” Jude asked.
“It’s symbolic of birth and rebirth.” Father Aeneas drew his finger along the line where the icons were joined. “Do you see the beehive and peacock feather? More symbols of immortality. Sir Nigel and I put these panels together a long time ago. We spent days examining the art, trying to decipher the metaphors. The night sky is larger on my panel. And look at the stars—Perseus and the Pleiades. This is significant. Of what, I do not know. We desperately need the third icon.”
“Maybe it is in the vault?” Demos spread his hands.
“What time does the bank close?” Jude asked.
“If Caroline leaves now, she should make it before siesta,” Demos said.
She grabbed her bag and started for the door. “Wait,” Jude called. “Where are you going?”
She turned. “The bank.”
“What are you planning to use for identification?”
She reeled backward. “Damn.”
“What is the problem?” Father Aeneas folded his hands.
“The bank will ask for identification,” Jude said.
Father Aeneas stepped away from the bed. “But Caroline has the key.”
“She’ll need more than that,” Jude said.
Father Aeneas frowned. “The bank isn’t interested in Sir Nigel’s lockbox.”
“They might be interested in her.” Jude stared into Caro’s empty chair. “She can’t ask them to look up Sir Nigel’s box. She doesn’t have the number, by the way. And they’re going to ask for it, along with her relationship to Sir Nigel.”
“They’ll definitely want identification, too,” Demos said. “If her name isn’t listed on the account, they won’t divulge anything. They may call the police.”
Caro leaned against the wall, feeling a headache trying to break loose behind her eyes. Uncle Nigel’s instructions had led her to Venice. She had to follow them.
Jude crossed the room and squeezed her shoulder. At first, she thought he was trying to comfort her, but the pressure intensified. She looked up.
“What about your uncle’s passport?” he asked.
“Yes, what of it?” She blinked.
“It might be useful.” He looked at Demos, who was leaning against the wall, picking his teeth with his finger
nail.
Jude shrugged off his jacket and picked at the seam. He pulled out Uncle Nigel’s passport and handed it to Caro. She glanced at Demos, then her uncle’s photo. Father Aeneas joined them and studied the picture, too. He looked at Demos. “Uncanny,” he said.
“They’re around the same age,” Jude said. “Even the white hair is the same.”
This won’t work, Caro thought.
“He’ll need a haircut,” Jude said. “And the beard would have to go.”
Demos stopped picking his teeth and scowled.
“It could work,” Father Aeneas said.
Jude opened his bag and pulled out scissors. “Caro, you should alter your appearance, too. The bank will have video cameras. Did you bring a dress?”
“No. Why?”
He handed her a fistful of euros and sent her to a boutique with instructions to tart up, without veering too far from her passport photo. She walked to the door and hesitated. Was it safe to go out alone? She started to ask Jude to come with her, but he was already steering the loudly complaining Demos into the bathroom.
She hurried out of the hotel and dashed over the bridge, past tattoo artists and men selling fake Louis Vuit-ton and Fendi handbags. She cut down a narrow alley and turned into a shop. Her headache vanished when she pulled a black dress from the rack. Finally she was doing something normal. The dress wasn’t her size or style, but at six euros it was a bargain. She folded the garment over her arm and reached into a sale basket, scooping up a handful of bangle bracelets. On her way to the register, she grabbed a mannequin’s black sweater.
Five minutes later she’d changed clothes and was on her way back to the hotel. Her dress swirled around her knees as she stepped into Father Aeneas’s room. The monk did a double take. Jude looked at her legs, and his eyes widened. Before he could speak, Demos emerged from the bathroom. His hair was neatly trimmed, and the beard was gone.
Caro thought she might cry. Demos looked eerily like her uncle.
Jude handed her a black expandable bag, the type that tourists favored for trinkets, then began firing off instructions.
“When you walk into the bank, keep your head down. And when you open the box, put the contents in this bag. Don’t look at the camera, either.”
Jude pulled her aside. “Find a teller who isn’t paying attention. Avoid the obsessive ones. Look for a messy desk.
Offer minimal information, and give it in increments. If the officer prohibits you from accompanying Demos to the vault, insist that he suffers from palsy and needs your help. Demos, shake a little.” Jude demonstrated. “Caro, if anyone recognizes you, run like bloody hell. You, too, Demos.”
“Okay.” She dropped her uncle’s keychain into the nylon bag.
“Scared?” he asked her.
“Petrified.”
“You can do this,” he whispered.
Behind him, Demos was pacing. “I do not look like myself,” he complained. “I do not resemble my own passport photo. How will I get back into Greece?”
“Your beard will grow,” Father Aeneas said.
“In a few weeks, yes.”
“Be thankful we didn’t shave your head,” Father Aeneas said.
Demos’s forehead puckered. “You laugh, but I am serious. It is illegal to use a false ID. I am too old for this trouble.”
“After it’s over, I’ll buy you a hat,” Caro said, handing him her uncle’s passport. He started to thumb through it, but she put her hand on his. “And sunglasses,” she added. “I’ll buy you sunglasses.”
Demos eyed her. “I want my hair.”
“Demos, my friend,” Father Aeneas said, “you complain more than fifty nuns on a fast.”
Caro followed Demos along the Grand Canal, the afternoon light streaking on the water. The back of her neck tightened, and she had the feeling again that someone was watching. She spun around. A gondola glided by, its reflection moving in the dark green water. In one end of the gondola, a man with a dark ponytail aimed a video camera at a girl with curly, ash-blond hair. A Burberry scarf was looped around the man’s neck.
“What is wrong?” Demos asked.
“I don’t know.” She pressed a fist against her chest. Never in her life had she experienced a premonition, but she felt a sense of doom around that couple.
Demos followed her gaze. “The girl, she looks like you. Except her hair is frizzy.”
Caro blinked. The girl’s curls spiraled around her shoulders, and the man had an uncanny resemblance to Jude before he’d cut his hair.
Demos dismissed the couple with a wave. “Come, we must hurry or the bank will close.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of Demos’s arm and they headed to the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro. They stepped into the marble lobby, and Caro looked around for a distracted employee. A policeman stood beside a teller’s cage. His gaze lingered on a skinny brunette in a tight beige dress who sat on the edge of a desk, surrounded by messy folders. She yelled into the phone, lifting her free hand and making a fist. Dozens of gold bracelets rattled. Caro picked out a few Italian phrases—Dove eravate and Perché telefonate—and decided that a man had stood up the brunette.
The woman slammed her fist against her desk. Several tellers glanced in her direction and smiled at each other. “Bastardo,” she cried.
Perfect, Caro thought. She steered Mr. Demos toward the desk and waited. The woman’s eyes flashed as she slammed the receiver over and over. She glared at Caro and Demos, clearly irritated by the intrusion.
Caro explained that her uncle needed to examine his safe-deposit box. She wrote her uncle’s name on a Post-it note and slid it across the brunette’s desk. The woman blinked at the note and rolled her eyes, chattering under her breath in Italian about old paper and water.
Not a good sign, Caro thought.
The woman spread her arms on the desk, the bracelets chinking, and cast a petulant glance at Demos. “Posso vedere la vostra identificazione?”
“He’s British,” Caro said. “He doesn’t speak Italian.”
The brunette shrugged. “May I please see ID?” she asked in English.
Demos flashed the passport. The woman glanced at the photograph, then looked at Demos. He sealed the deal by winking at her. She slid off her desk and eased into a chair, then turned to a computer terminal. As her fingers clicked over the keys, she frowned. Caro began to panic. What if this was the wrong bank? What if Interpol had flagged the account?
“This way please,” the clerk said in Italian. She slid off her desk and walked down a hallway, her high heels clicking. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were following, then she turned up a winding staircase. Demos was gasping when they reached the top.
“This is the vault for paintings and documents,” the woman said in halting English. “It is small but far away from dampness. And, it is climate-controlled.” She passed through the rounded vault door into a room with green marble walls. Fitted into the walls were numbered brass boxes, the smaller ones on top, with larger ones running along the bottom. The woman stepped around a corner and pointed to the top shelf. “Box 514356,” she said. “May I see your key?” The woman extended her hand, the long tapered fingers curling.
Caro hesitated. She wasn’t at all sure of the procedure. She pulled the rabbit’s-foot keychain out of her bag and held it out. The brunette narrowed her eyes at Demos.
“His eyesight is failing,” Caro said. “It’s difficult for him to distinguish the keys.”
The brunette exhaled, and her bangs lifted from her forehead. She picked out a small key with a round top and slid it into the keyhole. The tumblers clicked. Standing on her toes, the woman slapped open the door and yanked out a metal box. She carried it to a table and set it down, bracelets clanging, then tossed down the key. The violent jangling continued when she pointed to a clock above the door.
“The bank will be closing for siesta in one hour,” she said.
“We won’t take long,” Caro said.
As the woman stepped out of the vault, Caro glanced around for a camera. She didn’t see one. Demos sat down with an exaggerated groan, as if he’d fallen ill. His hand slipped under the table, his index finger pointing above the vault door. A tiny black camera hung down from the ceiling, blending into marble veins that ran along the wall.
Caro turned away from the door and opened the nylon bag. Demos stood, blocking the camera’s view with his rounded shoulders. Caro ran her hands over the box. She didn’t see a lock. She raised the lid. Inside was a smaller cardboard box.
“We’ll open it later,” she whispered and slipped it, and her uncle’s keychain, into the bag.
“Walk behind me,” Demos said. He walked through the round door. Caro remembered the camera and lowered her head. She followed Demos down the stairs, back to the lobby. The policeman moved away from the teller’s cage and strutted down the aisle, his hands clasped behind his back. He squinted at Caro’s bag. Demos steered her toward the main entrance. Halfway to the door, their clerk yelled, “Arresti!”
Demos stumbled, and Caro reached out to steady him. His eyes rounded in horror. She leaned over and whispered, “Arresti means ‘stop.’ ”
She turned, forcing herself to smile. The clerk tottered over to Caro and Demos, her lips curved into a smile.
“Signore, I checked your account. It has well over two million euros.” The woman spoke in perfect English now, and directed her comments to Demos. “If you would like to set up an appointment tomorrow, I can explain how your money can earn dividends.”
He lifted one eyebrow and sketched a giant capital L. It took Caro a moment to realize that he’d drawn the British pound sign; he meant for her to collect the money.
Caro tilted her head to the side. It was tempting to empty the bank’s coffers, but it would take days, even weeks, for the bank to complete the paperwork. And they would need a steamer trunk to haul the money. A bigger question loomed: How had her uncle squirreled away two million euros on a professor’s salary?
“Il mio zio penserà a questo proposito,” Caro said. My uncle will think about it.
The brunette handed Caro a business card, bracelets skating over her thin arm. “Arrivederci.”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 27
