The Medici Dagger

by Cameron West

  My mouth went bone dry. I shut my eyes.

  “I was just making sure he didn’t have the notes,” he continued. “Actually, it was his time anyway. And it was my pleasure to take him. He wasn’t as tough as you. He cried.”

  I pictured my dad, downstairs at his desk that last night; he never did come up to kiss me.

  Nolo started singing to the tune of “Jingle Bells”: “What fun it is to laugh and sing a . . . ‘slaying’ song tonight.”

  I inhaled deeply, the smell of my own singed tissue filling my nostrils. I swallowed, surprised that my throat still worked.He’s just signing me.A whiff of hope drifted in with the noxious vapor. Then it occurred to me: the knife is next. Tecci is a stabber—a gasher. I wondered where I’d get it.

  “Almost done,” Tecci said. “There, A-plus. Let go of him.” I leaned my head forward and peered at the man who had burned his initial into my throat. He winked at me. “You’re very brave,” he said sarcastically.

  Tecci turned to the goons. “Okay, boys, drag Miss Venice out to the car, get the gas, do the hokey pokey and shake it all around. Jocko, collect all the artwork and try not to trip and break your other wrist. Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

  So he wasn’t going to stab me; he was going to let me burn.

  Tecci and his men moved about the room in a menacing choreography, transporting my sagging Ginny out the door. I understood that they’d have no use for her after she translated the Circles of Truth. The thought crawled over me. I watched Lon and Joey reenter with gas cans, spilling clear foul fluid along the edges of the floor.

  I fought the burning pain in my throat and heart, and quested for that place where the rhythm of my swift feet skimming the forest floor opened my eyes to everything. Low branch, fallen tree, slippery leaves, the jet black panther.

  “Arrivederci,Flame Boy,” Nolo said, standing at the open front door with a gold lighter in his hand.

  He sparked it, knelt down, and touched it to the floor, igniting the gasoline fuse. As he closed the door behind him, the trail of flame instantly whooshed around the room.

  Smoke began to fill the place. I yanked at the cord cutting into my wrists.

  “Archie!” I called. “Archie!” No human sound, just the deadly gust of fire.

  The drapes ignited; flames traveled up to the pine-beamed ceiling. A windowpane burst.Glass. The fireplace door!My ankles were tied as tightly as my wrists but I could still move my feet.

  I shifted my weight against the back of the chair and got on my tiptoes, lifting the front legs a little way off the ground. Carefully balancing so as not to tip over backward, I lurched forward, scraping the chair several inches toward the fireplace. I did it again. The chair moved again.

  Black smoke billowed toward the ceiling. Dry, angry heat whipped me like a slave. I sucked in the thick air, coughed, and repeated my move, one, two, three more times.

  One more shuffle and the tips of my boots touched the hot glass. I kicked one of the panels as hard as I could with the tiny bit of freedom the ropes allowed. The glass rattled against the brass supports. I sucked in more air, clenched my teeth, and kicked again. This time the panel shattered.

  Sweat poured down my face, stinging the incision in my neck. I stuck my foot right into the fire. I felt intense heat through the back of my boot and the leg of my jeans as the orange flames viciously chewed at the twine. I tugged with every ounce of strength in my quadriceps. The rope burned through just as my pants caught fire.

  I stood on my free leg, hopped over to the kitchen, and frantically rubbed my jeans against the doorjamb till the flame went out. Then I hobbled to the butcher block next to the sink. I grabbed a long knife and cut into the cord at my wrist.

  The goons hadn’t doused the kitchen, but it was quickly filling with smoke. In two frantic seconds I sliced through the tight bonds.

  “Archie!” I shouted. Nothing but the roar of the fire. I turned on the tap full-blast, soaked my head, grabbed a dish towel, drenched it, too, and threw it over me. Then I ran through the smoke-filled house in a crouch, looking for Archie.

  I found him in a bedroom down the hall, faceup on the floor, tied at the wrists and ankles. Tossing the towel over his head, I grabbed himby the arm and moosed him up onto my back—all two hundred and twenty pounds of him—tearing out every one of Pop’s good stitches.

  Dashing down the narrow hall, I staggered through the roaring flames in the living room to the front door. I grabbed the scorching knob and flung it open. The fresh air combusted behind me, erupting like a volcano. I stumbled out to the driveway and laid Archie down in the grass.

  I checked him over. No burns. I held my fingers to his thick neck, felt a steady pulse. His face looked pretty busted up, though, and he was still out cold. I cursed myself for what I’d put him through.

  The back of my right leg stung, my hand was blistering, my shoulder-blade was raw and wounded, and my throat and lungs felt like I’d swallowed flaming swords.

  At the Jag, I used my cell phone to dial 911. I gave the operator Archie’s address and said one more word: “Fire.” Then I grabbed the satchel from the trunk, removed ten thousand dollars, and stuffed it in my wallet.

  Fifty yards into the woods, I buried the bag behind a tree under some soft dirt, leaves, and pine needles. Then I forced my way back to where Archie lay, still unconscious, as his house was rapidly consumed.

  They’ve got Ginny,I thought, then collapsed on the cool ground.

  sixteen

  When I awoke, I was in a hospital room with light pink walls. A nurse stood next to me, taking my pulse. Her watch read 9:18a.m.Good, I’ve only lost a night.I reached for the large bandage at my throat. The movement surprised her; she took an involuntary step backward.

  “Oh,” she said, “you’re awake. I’ll get them.” She hooked the clipboard at the end of the bed. I saw that my right leg was elevated at the knee by pillows.

  Daylight streamed in around flowery curtains I could see through a veil of pale nylon that separated me from the patient in the next bed. From his size, it looked like Archie. His face was heavily bandaged, and an IV dripped something into his left hand. Next to him a machine monitored his heart rate with a steady blip, blip, blip.

  “Arch,” I called. My throat felt as though someone had reamed it out with a wire brush.

  “Mmm,” he muttered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Arch, I’ve got to know something. That was you up there in the woods, wasn’t it?”

  “Mmm.”

  “I knew it.”

  Just then two men entered my room, one of them obviously a doctor,-wearing a white coat and stethoscope, the other a gray-haired policeman with a big gut and aviator glasses. A young officer in a tan uniform appeared behind them and remained by the door.

  The doctor picked up the clipboard, studied it for a moment. From his unshaven chin I guessed that he had worked the late shift.

  “Mr. Barnett,” he said, “I’d say you had one heck of a night.”

  “What are they doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m sure the sheriff will explain that to you in a moment.”

  “What’s my condition?”

  “Well, you’ve inhaled some smoke, so your lungs may be sore for a while. You have first- and second-degree burns on your hand and on the back of your right leg, and a slight laceration on the underside of your right forearm. I restitched two recent wounds by your left scapula. You have what appear to be rope burns on each wrist and something extraordinarily puzzling on your throat. Either you’re a precision masochist or someone burned the letter N into your skin with some sort of highly accurate tool.”

  Not someone, I thought bitterly. Something.

  “How did you handle it?” I asked.

  “I cleaned it and stitched it. I’m afraid it will leave a substantial scar, although plastic surgery may diminish that.”
<
br />   I indicated Archie. “What about him?”

  “I wasn’t his attending physician, but I’ve conferred with his doctor.-He suffered multiple facial contusions, broken nose, several fractured ribs, concussion. He may have bruised internal organs, although there’s no evidence of that.”

  “He’s going to pull through, then?”

  “I would say so, yes, in time. But he’s not my patient, you are. How are you feeling?”

  “He’s my friend,” I said. “I want the best for him no matter what it costs.” I leaned forward painfully, looking the doctor in the eye. “Doyou understand what I’m saying? Best care, full-tilt, soup to nuts, all the clichés. That man gets supreme attention and care.” I checked the doctor’s name tag. “I want your assurance, Dr. Kluver, okay?”

  “Yes, I understand. I promise you I’ll pass that along. You have my word. Now . . . please tell me how you are feeling, other than resolute.”

  I didn’t answer. I was thinking about how to get away from the police.

  The doctor prodded,“May I ask you, Mr. Barnett, are you a member-of some kind of cult?”

  “That’ll be it, Doc,” the gray-haired cop said sternly, moving a step forward. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “Yes, certainly, Sheriff.” The physician retreated past the young cop who guarded the door like a boot-camp Marine.

  “Excuse us, O’Toole,” the sheriff said to his subordinate. “And close the door behind you. Nobody comes in.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young officer replied, with military precision.

  The sheriff swaggered over.“Mr. Barnett,” he announced in a grave tone, “you are in a truckload of trouble. Someone matching your description, driving your Jaguar, participated in a shootout at a resort in Little River that resulted in the deaths of four persons. A fifth washed up on the shore nearby, but we can’t pin that on you . . . yet. In addition, the Malibu Fire Inspector is interested in questioning you about the possible arson of your private residence.

  “For icing,” he continued, “at three o’clock this morning,” he pointed in Archie’s direction, “this gentleman gets the spanking of a lifetime, and his place lights up, and, what do you know, you—Smokey the Bear’s worst enemy—are on the guest list for that, too. And the ten grand in your wallet. You didn’t win that arm wrestling.”

  I heard another “mmm” from Archie.

  “Now I checked you out,” the sheriff said. “Occupation: stuntman—granted that doesn’t come up every day—California carry license, no priors, not even a ticket for jaywalking. Till about a week ago, you’re Dudley Dooright. I would really appreciate knowing just what in the solar system is going on here.”

  The sheriff cinched his belt a sixteenth of an inch and pushed his glasses back up his bulbous nose. “You’re on my turf here,” he said, jabbing a chubby finger at me. “And you’re not going anywhere—not even to the toilet—till I get some reasonable answers. I’ve got a small jail cell and a big temper. You with me?”

  As far as both of us were concerned I’d been apprehended.

  The door opened behind him. Without looking, he barked, “I told you, no interruptions, Charlie.”

  “The name is Beckett,” a voice from behind the sheriff said in an exquisite British accent. The sheriff turned around, and the inspector took a step in my direction.

  He wore a charcoal double-breasted suit with a faint blue pinstripe, his Borsalino rakishly cocked to one side of his perfectly coiffed head. A cobalt tie and matching pocket hankie completed the look. He carried my suitcase in one hand and my jacket in the other.

  “You’re not allowed in here,” the sheriff blustered. “I’m questioning a prisoner. O’Toole!”

  He opened the door hesitantly.

  The sheriff said, “Didn’t I tell you—”

  “Silence, Sheriff Gullerson,” Beckett said, raising his small but immaculate hand. An emerald parallelogram cuff link glistened on his French cuff.

  Sheriff Gullerson probably hadn’t heard that before. “And just who the fuck are you, the Prince of goddamn Wales?”

  “I would say, sir,” Beckett said, “that if one added an ‘h’ to Wales, the title would be more fitting of you.” He removed an immaculate leather ID holder from his pocket, flashed it in front of Gullerson’s face, closed it, and replaced it in its home.

  Then he pulled a neatly folded paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the sheriff. Gullerson’s brow furrowed. From my vantage point, I could see an embossed blue and gold seal at the top of the letter.

  “The White House . . .” Gullerson said with astonishment.

  “Neither this man,” Beckett said, pointing at me, “nor I have everset foot in this hospital. Your total cooperation is expected, as is that of your assistant.”

  That sounded good to me. Not to the sheriff. His plug of seniority had been pulled.

  “You will be rewarded for your silence in due course, sir,” Beckett said. “And I must apologize for my earlier remark. That was unkind. I only wish I could regain a small percentage of the girth you would most likely give away with enthusiasm.”

  Gullerson eyed the official paper. “I don’t suppose I can keep this.”

  “Correct,” Beckett said, taking the letter back. “Now will you please excuse us, sir.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” The sheriff glanced at me one last time before ushering O’Toole out the door.

  When they were gone, Beckett took a step closer. Our eyes swapped as little as they could. I realized he wasn’t after me; he needed me. My concern lessened. I wasn’t the big fish, I was the minnow. I just needed some room to wiggle.

  I struggled to a sitting position, dangling my feet over the side of the bed. I could tell I wasn’t ready to stand yet.

  “Liked my coat, did you? I recovered it at the Four Seasons.”

  “She’sgone,Beckett. Tecci kidnapped her.”

  “I see. Listen to me. I’ve gone to considerable personal risk to free you. Think of it as a very magnanimous gesture on my part following the thrashing my underlings and, particularly, I took in Milan. I ask for no apology, but at least acknowledge your misjudgment.”

  “What you told me about Krell, that was all true.”

  “Your cynicism got the best of you. Me as well, I admit,” he added, rubbing his chin where I’d nailed him.

  “You know about the gunmen in Milan?”

  “You mean the bus incident? You are remarkable.”

  “How would Tecci have known where we were?”

  “An excellent question,” Beckett said. “But I’m afraid I can’t answer that for you. Consider it a mystery.”

  I wanted to smash him for toying with me, but then I’d have to deal with Gullerson.

  “Okay. How did you find me here?”

  “Originally I placed a tracking device under the lapel of your jacket when we collided at the Accademia. That led us to the Gritti and then to Milan, although we lost you when you slipped out of the country without going through customs. Neat trick.

  “We were watching out for you and learned of the fire at your residence. So unnecessary. We guessed you had returned to California, which is where we picked up your signal at the Hollister House.”

  “People change jackets. What made you think I’d keep mine on?”

  “People do change coats, don’t they, but when they’re on the road they generally keep their belongings with them. We found the bloody transmitter in the grass by a cottage in serious need of repair. It must have come off during your fracas.”

  “We could have been killed there,” I said angrily. “And now Tecci’s got Antonia.”

  “Yes, that is unfortunate. However, don’t forget who abandoned whose ship. And watch your tone with me. I’m your life preserver, so to speak.”

  He pulled the backup disk Mona made for me from his pocket. “Found this in the glove box of your car. Had a chance to look over your work—the two hundred separate rings—and Leonardo’s notes. I know you’re on to s
omething exceptional, although I confess I’m utterly mystified at this point.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” I said, stretching my neck, which tugged at the bandages on my throat. I heaved my suitcase onto the bed, dressed, then pulled back the curtain and went to Archie’s side. Beckett followed, his gaze bearing down on me. I wasn’t going on Gibraltar’s hook. But I was going back in the water, and I knew which direction to swim.

  “Archie,” I called. “You’re going to be all right, my friend.”

  He opened an eye and grabbed the front of my shirt with surprising-strength.

  “Wha haffen Ginny?” he mumbled.

  “They took her,” I said, gently placing his hand on the bed. “But I’m going to get her back. And you’re going to help me,” I said to Beckett. “I know how the Circles work.”

  Beckett’s eyebrows raised slightly. He smacked his lips.

  “Splendid.”

  We stepped through the Medical Center’s automatic doors into the fresh air.“Tell me you have a jet nearby,” I said.

  “Of course. At the Big Bear Airport,” he answered. “One of the privileges of being well funded.”

  “You saw the files. You must have a computer handy.”

  “My laptop in the car is loaded with CorelDraw and all the files that are on the disk.” He pointed to a silver sedan in the parking lot, Mobright at the wheel.

  “Then all I need is a program that’ll translate Italian into English,” I told him. “You wouldn’t happen to have that in the car, too, would you?”

  “Actually, I am an expert Romance linguist. My Italian is flawless. So you see, Gibraltar is your friend.”

  “I’m not doing this for Gibraltar.”

  “I’m clear on that,” Beckett said as we reached the car. “Your focus has shifted—you are after Ms. Gianelli, and the Dagger is your bargaining power.”

  “Exactly. You and I still have different agendas.”

  “Quite. Nevertheless, I dazzled the sheriff so as to extricate you from his meaty clutches. Quid pro quo. Getting into the car instead of mugging me, stealing the disk, and vanishing in the mist will be a good start.”