by Tom Savage
The young man waved a hand toward the opposite door, speaking in carefully pronounced English. “That way. Follow the alley straight ahead into the square.”
“Oh, right through here? Grazie!” the relieved lost tourist cried.
“Prego,” he said, returning his attention to the two girls, but Nora barely heard him. She was already through the door and turning right, racing down the smaller alley beside the building toward the canal from which she’d come. She saw a deep, arched doorway on her right, and she threw herself into it, flattening herself against someone’s front door and twisting her head around to peer back up the alley she’d just run through toward the shop doorway she’d just exited.
Sure enough, the big woman in the black coat burst through that door a few moments later. Without even glancing left or right, she took off at a dead run, her meaty arms and legs pumping like pistons, straight toward the piazza. In seconds, she was past the opposite buildings and out of Nora’s view. The sound of her running footsteps echoed down the alley before fading to silence.
With a long sigh of pure relief, Nora peeled herself away from the door and walked back out into the alleyway, doubling over at the waist as she strove to catch her breath. A deep gulp of cold air, then another. When she felt steady on her feet, she retraced her steps to the shop doorway and went inside once more.
The young man was handing the two girls a shopping bag across the counter, along with a receipt. When he saw the lost tourist woman again, he gave her a puzzled smile.
“Hello again,” he said. “Did you not find Piazza San Marco at the other end of the alley?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Nora said. “It’s still there; they haven’t moved it. But I couldn’t help noticing the beautiful mask you were showing these ladies. Isn’t that Columbina, the ingénue? Do you have anything similar to it?”
His smile turned into a sly grin, and he winked. Nora went over to the counter as the girls left the shop. The moment they were gone, he reached under the counter and came up with an identical one, a silver satin half-mask with pink and blue glass sequins, a blue baton, and pink ribbons: Columbina, the young leading lady of Italian Commedia dell’arte. Gazing down at the almond-shaped eyeholes, Nora found herself thinking of Galina Rostova, the young leading lady of Russian theater.
“Did your friend find you?” the young man asked. “She came in after you and asked me where you had gone, so I—”
“Oh, yes, my friend,” Nora said quickly, and she shrugged. “I sent her on to the piazza; I’ll catch up with her later. How much for the mask?”
The price didn’t seem nearly so steep this time as it had ten years ago; she could well afford it. It would be ten years late, but her own young leading lady would finally get her souvenir. He wrapped it for her, and she left the shop on the Calle Vallaresso side.
When she walked into the lobby of Pensione Bella at exactly seven o’clock, Nora was deep in thought. Who was that woman? More important, who sent her, and why?
She didn’t have time to worry about it now. Frances Camillo was waiting for her, already dressed for the gala in a deep blue gown under a blue-and-gold embroidered bolero jacket, with upswept hair and diamonds in her ears.
“Wow, you look fabulous!” Nora said.
Frances rose and headed for the stairs. “Thank you. Now let’s make you look fabulous. And while we’re doing that, I’ll give you some dish about Galina and General Malinkov.”
“Ah, yes, you were whispering with Vera all afternoon. Do you trust what she says?”
“I think so,” Frances said. “I don’t think she has any reason to lie. That girl knows where the bodies are buried—and if she’s got the story right, I mean that literally!”
She ascended the stairs, followed by an astonished Nora.
Chapter 15
They were fashionably late for the party. Frances’s story took some telling, and Nora’s long-sleeved green velvet gown took some adjusting. Her hair went up and her necklace and earrings went on. She was glad she’d remembered how chilly Venetian evenings could be in winter, which is why she’d opted for two velvet ensembles, black for the play last night and dark forest green for tonight. She was Irish on both sides, and green was always a good choice with her green eyes and chestnut hair, so she’d look presentable at the reception.
If only Jeff could be there with her! But Jeff was off somewhere, doing something, and he wasn’t officially in Europe at all, so no Jeff until after the party tonight…
The men were waiting in the lobby, resplendent in their finery from last night, and the little group set off for the landing. Nora found herself looking furtively around her all the way to the canal, checking every shadowy corner, this time for a large, powerfully built woman, but she didn’t see anyone suspicious anywhere. Still, she was nervous tonight. Aldo quickly ferried them to Hotel Danieli, and they made their entrance into the Marco Polo banqueting rooms.
There was a receiving line, with the Russian director and his cast smiling and shaking hands with a hundred Venetian VIPs, including the mayor. Nora gazed around at the designer-clad people in the beautiful rooms, remembering similar parties from when she’d worked with the New York Shakespeare Festival and the Roundabout Theatre; in fact, she’d met Jeff at a theater reception in Washington. This party was smaller than she’d expected, and quieter, but she was still on edge.
Galina greeted her in the receiving line. She looked sensational tonight, in a deep red sequined gown not unlike the one in the photo from Red Square.
“They matched our clothes for the interviews, but look at us tonight,” Galina said, indicating Nora’s green velvet and her own crimson sequins. “We look like Christmas!”
“Complementary colors,” Nora agreed. “Oh, well, we’ll be coordinated again tomorrow, won’t we?” It was an innocuous question on the surface, but Nora squeezed the other woman’s hands when she said it, and Galina nodded.
“Oh, yes, Joan,” she said, gazing directly into Nora’s eyes. “We will be coordinated tomorrow.”
Another air kiss, and Nora moved on down the line, greeting the older star, Anya Danilova; the man who played Trigorin; and the soon-to-be-newlyweds, Ivan and Natalia. When she arrived before the bride-to-be, Nora said, “Ms. Fedorovna, I hope to see you perform soon.” She took the understudy’s hands in her own and squeezed, as she had just done with Galina.
Natalia Fedorovna smiled and nodded. As Galina had just done, she looked directly into Nora’s eyes. “I think that you will see me acting in the very close future. I am looking forward to it.” Her English was awkward and heavily accented, but Nora understood her perfectly. She nodded to Natalia and smiled at her gorgeous fiancé.
Nora accepted a flute of sparkling Italian wine from a waiter and moved about the rooms, smiling, admiring the opulent décor and the classical string quartet that provided soft background music. She was introduced to the mayor and his wife, then to the hostess of the evening, a silver-haired dowager in black and pearls who was La Princessa della Something-or-other, the chair of the Venice Arts Council.
Nora smiled some more, the delighted American journalist at the charming party with her current subject. But all the while she was acutely aware of the presence of the tall man who hovered in a corner by the windows with stunning views of San Marco Basin and the Doge’s Palace glowing in the distance. At several points during the evening, Nora thought she could feel General Malinkov’s gaze on her.
Patch was politely getting footage, aiming his camera here and there, always asking permission of the subjects beforehand. Mario and Paolo followed him around, the one supervising and the other assisting. The word spread throughout the rooms that the three men were filming for an American news program hosted by the lady in green velvet, and everyone indulged them, grinning and raising their glasses for the camera.
There were other media as well. Just before the princessa moved to a podium set up near the windows, silencing the string quartet, a group of men and women was us
hered in. They were Italian and international reporters and news camera people, and they were allowed to film this part of the evening. The princessa made a speech in Italian and carefully learned Russian, welcoming the theater troupe to Venice. Then the mayor spoke, followed by the elderly Russian director, Mr. Lovanko, who read his speech in Italian from a sheet of paper, causing delighted laughter when he mispronounced several words. As soon as the speeches were done, the reporters were hustled out, the music began again, and the party resumed.
While she watched the speeches, Nora noticed other figures at the edges of the action, strategically placed in corners and near doorways. She recognized the Russian contingent, Sergei and Rudi, and she saw at least three Italian men who were presumably here with the mayor. They were easy to spot—dark suits that weren’t dinner jackets, earpieces, and their tendency to raise one hand to an ear and move their lips in dialogue as they scanned the crowd. They might as well have been wearing Day-Glo flak jackets. But even the presence of all this firepower didn’t dispel Nora’s sense of unease.
Another room was opened, this one with tables, and everyone found seats for the late supper. The Russians were at a long banquet table at the head of the room with the princessa and the mayor, and everyone else gathered at round tables for six. Nora and her people filled one table, with one seat left over. Just before they sat down, General Malinkov materialized beside Nora.
“May I join you, Ms. Simmons?” he asked.
“Of course,” Nora said, managing a bright grin to cover her inward shudder. He held her chair as she sat, then took the chair next to her, with Patch on her other side.
Nora indicated the main table at the front of the room. “Why aren’t you up there with them, General Malinkov?”
“Please to call me Nikolai, and I call you Joan, da? I am not at that table because I am not officially in Venice. I have an…an understanding with Ms. Rostova, but it isn’t—what is the phrase?—it isn’t common knowledge. Is that how you say it?”
“Yes,” Nora replied evenly, “that’s how we say it. So, how did you crash this shindig?” When he stared blankly at her, Nora relented and said, “How did you obtain an invitation to the reception?”
“Ah,” he said, and a slow smile crept under his mustache. “I am a late addition to the theater group, just in from Moscow. La princessa was most understanding.”
“Indeed,” Nora murmured, and he gave her another blank stare. Realizing that her attempts at sarcasm were lost on the man, she opted for a more direct approach. As waiters arrived with salad and white wine, she said, “General—Nikolai, I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve been watching me—first in Caffè Florian, then at the Museo del Vetro, and now here. You seem to find me fascinating, and I’m wondering why that is.”
She raised her salad fork and made a pretense of eating, bracing herself for his reply. Frances sat across from her at the table, flanked by the two detectives, the three of them engaged in an animated discussion in Italian. Patch, on Nora’s left, was trying to follow their comments, something about Carnival in Venice versus Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Nora was here with friends, and two of them were armed. Still, her discomfort increased.
She was finding it difficult to breathe in her tight velvet dress. This was it, the reason she’d felt misgivings from the moment she’d arrived here tonight. Now, Nora was deliberately baiting a dangerous man, trying to force him to show his hand. She was here for Mr. Green and the CIA, and she needed to know the danger level, so it was time for cards on the table. If General Malinkov posed a threat to tomorrow’s operation, it was best to know it now, beforehand.
The general sipped his wine before replying. He glanced around at her associates, apparently deciding that they were too busy with their Carnival talk to overhear his words with Nora. He looked across the room at his lover, sparkling in her shiny dress, amusing the mayor and his wife with some anecdote. Nora waited. When he finally spoke, he leaned toward her and lowered his voice, but he continued to stare at the woman on the other side of the dining room.
“Look at her,” he whispered. “So beautiful. So charming. She is probably the best actress in Russia. And she is a liar.” Now, at last, he turned to Nora and met her gaze. “But I think you know that, don’t you?”
Chapter 16
“I don’t know what you mean,” Nora said.
“Yes you do,” the general replied. He drained his wineglass before continuing. “Your friend across the table, Mrs. Camillo, was making the long conversation with Vera Gubalova today at Murano, and I think she has repeated it to you. Let me tell you what she heard: The general is in love with Galina, and he will leave his wife and daughters to be with her if she will have him. He is very possessive and very jealous, and he thinks Galina is with other men when he is not there. He suspects the old director who gives her the best roles. He suspects that handsome young actor in her play. There is even the story that he killed a man, an officer of his own command. This officer, a young lieutenant named Marius Tarkovsky, vanished from his post in September, never to be seen again, soon after he is discovered in—in a delicate situation with the actress. No evidence was found, and no charges were brought against the general. In short, your friend has been told that General Nikolai Malinkov is a very dangerous man. Now, Joan, say to me in my face that you have never heard this story.”
Their faces were inches apart, too close for Nora’s liking. She sat back in her chair, regarding him. “I’ve heard the story.”
“Yes, you have,” he said. “This is why I am watching you today, the newswoman from New York who is filming talks with Galina for American television. You know a good story, and I think you also know when you are being told a story. What is your opinion of Galina?”
Nora formed her reply carefully. “She’s a brilliant actress, one of the best I’ve seen in years. I think she loves acting. And I think she loves you.” She leaned forward to whisper. “But why do you say she’s a liar?”
He looked across the room again. The waiters were serving the main course and pouring red wine. At Nora’s table, the conversation had resumed in English, probably for Patch’s sake. Now they were discussing the great Italian filmmakers: Fellini, Rossellini, Visconti, De Sica. Patch was ardently praising them, and the Italians beamed at his praise, but poor Frances looked like she was ready to fall asleep in her capellini alla veneziana.
The general said, “I say she lies because she makes all this up. I am not jealous—I have never been jealous. I have my wife, my Ludmilla, so who am I to say she cannot have the other men? But she tells the stories anyway. The ugly old director? Why would I suspect her of being with him? Ivan Kirin is to marry the woman beside him over there, Galina’s—how you say?—stand-in?”
“Standby,” Nora corrected him. “Understudy.”
“Yes, understudy. Ivan loves Natalia, this a blind person can see. Why would he be with Galina? And I have never killed Lieutenant Tarkovsky. This is absurd! Galina is making up the story.”
“Why would she do that?” Nora asked.
He shrugged, “Because it makes Galina seem more desirable, that I kill a man for love of her! That is my theory. Marius Tarkovsky is a drunken soldier; he drinks vodka and beer all the time, and he is—forgive me—he is the homosexual. He is with another soldier, and they fight, and Marius gets drunk and runs away. Maybe he goes out of the base and kills himself in the forest, who knows? We never find him. These are the men I accuse Galina of being with—an old man, a man who loves another woman, and a man who loves the other men. She is always with the stories!”
Nora sipped the excellent red, thinking. She was American by way of Ireland, and in neither country were people so quick to air their laundry with relative strangers. This expansive, volatile Russian was the complete opposite of that, and she could use it to her advantage. She decided to put out a feeler. “What about your fortune? Frances heard something about a Swiss bank account.” She looked over at Frances, hoping she wasn’t hearing this whoppe
r. No worries: Frances was now deep in conversation with Paolo about babies and child-rearing.
The general slapped the edge of the table with his palm. “Oh, that again! These stories are all over Russia. I am sick of these stories.”
Nora nodded, noting that he hadn’t exactly answered the question. As she looked at his angry face, she suddenly remembered something else, something her husband had said last night in her hotel room.
I noticed their security crew, three men and one woman, making regular rounds of the entire area. They were on high alert, or so it seemed to me.
“Well, this has been enlightening,” she said, “but I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. She’s an actress, so she has what we call a sense of the dramatic. Besides, you don’t know that she came up with the stories. Vera strikes me as a gossip, as some women are. Some men, too. Anyone could have made up these things.”
The general frowned, but after a moment he conceded. “Yes, I suppose.”
“So you came running to Venice because of rumors, nothing more,” Nora concluded.
She was expecting another concession, but Malinkov didn’t comply. The frown on his handsome face grew, and his dark eyes became searchlights aimed at her. He was evidently confused.
“I came running to Venice?” he said. “What does this mean?”
Nora attempted an easy smile. “I just meant that your surprise visit probably wasn’t necessary.”
“Surprise?” He stared at her another moment before looking across the room again. Galina and the others were all laughing at something the princessa was saying. General Malinkov turned back to Nora. “Joan, I do not come running to Venice. Galina asks me to come here. She calls me and says she misses me, she wants me to see Venice with her, so I come from Moscow. That is why I am here. And I join you at this table tonight to ask you, personally, to have me not in your TV show, yes? It would be not good for me to be mentioned. You did not film me today, thank you, and I prefer not to be in it at all. I have called your Sound Byte Productions office in America, and your employer, Mr. Jackson, promises me this, but I want the promise from you, too.”
