‘How did you come to meet Basil?’
‘I was keeping a leery eye on the Palazzo Falcetto when he showed up there on Saturday. I trailed him back to the Zampogna, checked him out, then the following day—introduced myself. We, er, compared notes.’
‘What about?’
‘Lighten up, Nick. We’re on the same team. Well, the same substitutes’ bench. Jonathan Braybourne hired me to find out who’d been paying his late mother hush money from a Cypriot bank. Well, I found out: Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus, wartime resident of Cyprus, later absentee hotelier and Venetian recluse. Since I dug into his affairs, the old boy’s died. But Demetrius Constantine Paleologus, his iffy businessman son, is very much alive and kicking. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. And Braybourne has the headstone in Sutton Coldfield Cemetery. When a client of mine gets stiffed, I get nervous. With good cause, in this case. Someone came after me in Limassol a while back. Several someones, as a matter of fact. I had to vamoose. Which came hard for a bloke at my time of life who isn’t a naturally swift mover. Seems what I found out about Demetrius the elder was a lot more than his son wanted anyone to know. Braybourne found out more still, I assume, hence the header he took into the canal.’
‘You think Demetrius the younger had Jonathan Braybourne killed?’
“I think you’d be well advised to work on that assumption. I’m working on it.’
‘Did you tell Basil this?’
‘Of course. He didn’t seem as impressed as he should have been, if you want my opinion. He had his own agenda. It’s yours too, I imagine, and I don’t suppose you’re any likelier to let on what it is than he was. But I’m not a bad guesser. And my Greek’s fair to fluent. The name Paleologus is a combination of two Greek words. Palaios: ancient. Logos: word. So, maybe it shouldn’t be a big surprise if the Paleologoi carry old secrets.’
‘What secrets?’
‘Don’t be coy, Nick. The newspaper cutting about Nardini gave your brother pause for thought, but he didn’t take the threat seriously enough. Don’t make the same mistake. Your family’s tied into all this. If you don’t know how, I sure as hell don’t. What I do know is that an eight-sheet Venetian portolan dated thirteen forty-one, sold at auction in Geneva last November, appears to show navigational details of the North American coast more than a hundred and fifty years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue. So, it’s either a fake or an authentic record of a secret chunk of history. Legend has it that Antonio Zeno, a Venetian merchant, sailed to Nova Scotia some time in the thirteen nineties, accompanied by a Scottish nobleman, Henry St Clair, Earl of Orkney, so who knows if—’
‘Did you say St Clair?’
‘Name rings a few bells, does it?’
It rang more than a few, though scarcely in harmony.‘What are you getting at, Mr Balaskas?’
‘The truth, my old cock. And you’re right. I’m getting at it, but not to it. Drysdale signed off his foreword to The Left Hand of the King with his address: Roslin, Midlothian. And Rosslyn Castle is the ancestral home of the St Clairs. If one of the St Clairs sailed to Nova Scotia with Antonio Zeno six hundred years ago, they’d have found a portolan like the one we’re talking about hellish useful. Nardini acted as middleman for the sale on behalf of an anonymous client and there’s no chance now of him putting a name to that client. But here’s the strangest thing. Six months before the portolan was sold, Jonathan Braybourne came to Venice with a copy of Drysdale’s book in his luggage. He wound up dead as well. When his wife got his possessions back, they included the book, which she later passed on to me. Inside, marking the page—the same page I left it in for you—was Nardini’s business card.’
‘Hold on. Braybourne’s wife gave you the book?’ Doubt was beginning to refine itself in Nick’s mind. Ever since discovering that Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus was dead, he had been puzzled by Emily’s apparent unawareness that the Demetrius her brother had gone to see in Venice could not be the same Demetrius their father had supposedly met in wartime Cyprus. She had also referred to her discovery of The Left Hand of the King among Jonathan’s possessions. Her discovery, not his wife’s. Something was wrong. Something could not be reconciled.‘When was this?’
‘Early January. Just after Nardini was killed. Which is when it got a lot too hot for me in Limassol. Coincidence? I think not. Someone had decided to take out some expensive insurance. Nardini and I were part of the premium. Like I told your brother—’
‘What about Braybourne’s sister?’
‘His sister?’
‘Yes. Emily Braybourne.’
Balaskas stared blankly at Nick for a moment, then frowned.‘I’ve never heard of her.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The water taxi cruised on across the flat darkness of the lagoon. Glancing through the cabin window, Nick could see lights ahead of them in the distance. The airport, he assumed. He took another sip of whisky from the flask, then handed it back to Balaskas.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it, old boy. You looked in need.’
‘It’s the bouncing up and down. Made me feel queasy, that’s all.’
‘Yeah? Well, it’s good for shocks too. And I’d say you’ve just had quite a big’un. If Emily Braybourne made a fuss at the inquest like you tell me, then I can only assume she decided to drop her protest straight after and shove off back to the States, because her sister-in-law didn’t breathe a word about her to me. Cut and run would have been a wise policy, of course. Just look at my recent experiences. Maybe this woman who introduced herself to you as Emily Braybourne is an impostor. Have you considered that possibility?’
‘I’m considering it now.’
‘We’re in uncharted waters, Nick. The only way out is to take a deep breath and swim like hell. That’s what I’m planning to do. I advise you to do the same.’
“I can’t. I have to find Basil.’
‘I wish you luck. And I reckon you’ll need it. I warned him to lay off Demetrius. I don’t think he heeded the warning, though.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Monday. When he returned Drysdale’s book to me. We’d arranged to meet on the forty-two vaporetto—one of the circular routes. I told him as much about Demetrius as I dared. And that was as much as I knew.’
‘You’d better tell me, then.’
‘OK. Demetrius the elder was straight-as-a-die patrician stock. Demetrius the younger is out of a different mould. He’s persona non grata in Cyprus because of suspected involvement in cross-border money laundering. The hotels he inherited from his father have been closed down until he answers the charges. All his Cypriot assets have been seized.’
‘Oh God.’
‘He’s being squeezed financially, Nick. And not just by the Greek Cypriot government. The Turkish Cypriots aren’t any happier with him. There are whispers tying him in with organized crime here in Italy as well. However you slice it, the guy is bad news. The suspect portolan wasn’t the first cartographic gem Nardini marketed last year. It wasn’t even the most valuable. I think Demetrius used Nardini to offload some or all of his father’s archive of antique maps and atlases. He needed the money to keep his creditors at bay. And his creditors are the sort who take payment in kind if they can’t get it in cash. He has a villa on the Lido guarded by the sort of goons you’d expect to see on duty outside the residence of an exiled Latin American dictator. He’s in trouble and he is trouble. He’s not the sort of man you can do business with. I explained that to your brother. Very clearly.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He thanked me for the information. He shook my hand. Then I got off the vaporetto. He stayed aboard. It was going on to San Michele—the cemetery island. He said he wanted to take a look at the elder Demetrius’s grave. Well, that was it. The parting of the ways. There’s been neither sight nor sound of him since.’
‘Demetrius couldn’t have been more charming when I spoke to him. Or more helpful.’
‘He’s playing
you along, Nick. Don’t trust him.’
‘What do you think’s happened to Basil?’
‘I think Demetrius could answer that question for you straight off if he wanted to. I can only make an educated guess.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘You don’t really want me to.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘No.’ Balaskas stared insistently at Nick.‘Believe me. You don’t.’
That was almost the last thing Balaskas said to Nick before he climbed up on to the landing-stage at Marco Polo airport and walked away towards the taxi ranks and bus stops in front of the terminal building. The weight of the carpet-bag was dragging down his left arm so that he appeared to be limping. He did not look back.
‘He say you pay,’ the pilot growled.
Nick handed over a wad of lire.‘Fondamente dell’Abbazia?’
The pilot scrutinized the wad, then nodded.‘OK.’
It did not inevitably follow from what Balaskas had said that Emily had lied to Nick. She was not necessarily an impostor. She might merely have asked her sister-in-law to make no mention of her to a third party. It was her failure to dispel the confusion about Demetrius Paleologus’s identity that Nick could not reason away, however hard he tried. As the taxi pounded back across the lagoon, he stared at the jaundiced reflection of his face in the cabin window, aware that the tremor in his hands and the fluttering in his chest were not caused by the vibration of the hull. No-one could be trusted. Nothing could be relied upon. Behind every deception was another deception. The secret was that there was no secret.
And that itself was a lie. Nick sank his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
He did not phone Irene that night. In a bar close to the Zampogna—but not as close as Luigi’s—he drank enough grappa to loosen the spiral of his thoughts. Fatigue of many kinds overtook him after that. He slept deeply in the narrow bed where his brother too had slept, recalling when he woke that he had dreamt of his father. But what the old man had said or done in his dream he could not retrieve. So much that was buried was also lost.
The morning was bright, almost spring-like. Nick walked east to Fundamente Nuove, where he had a breakfast of sorts in a bar and gazed out across the lagoon at Isola di San Mich le the cemetery island to which Basil had carried on after his and Balaskas’s parting three days before. Beyond the terracotta boundary wall of the cemetery itself all Nick could see were the massed green ranks of cypresses. But there would be ranks of graves, too. One of them belonged to Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus. It was a simple fact of death.
Nick had decided what to do. He would go back to the Consulate and ask Brooks to contact the police on his behalf. They could do more for Basil than he could. They were his only hope. He would speak to Irene later, when he might actually have something to report. She would demand explanations for things he could not explain if he called her now. Besides, it was only just gone eight o’clock in England. She was probably still asleep. He smiled to himself, acknowledging that he could find excuses even when he could find nothing else.
But some excuses cut two ways. The Consulate was not yet open. Nick left the bar, walked across to the vaporetto stop and studied the timetables. There was a service to San Michele in just a few minutes. He bought a ticket and waited, glancing around at the other people on the landing-stage and wondering if any of them might be following him. Balaskas would have him believe his every footstep was dogged. And maybe it was. But his helplessness at the thought was a kind of liberation. They would show themselves or not as they pleased. Until they did, there was nothing he could do. Except follow Basil on the last journey he was known to have taken.
The vaporetto was bound for the island of Murano. So, it transpired, were all of the passengers save Nick and an immaculately dressed old woman carrying a large bunch of flowers, wrapped in cellophane. At the Cimitero stop, they were the only two to get off.
Nick followed the old woman through an archway into the grounds of the cemetery. The graves stretched away into the walled distance, separated by straight avenues of raked gravel, beside which the cypresses stood at measured intervals, as if to attention. The old woman hurried on ahead, a receding figure between the headstones. She knew where she was going.
Nick had not thought till then how he would find Demetrius Paleologus’s grave. Spotting a sign pointing to the cemetery office, he headed back into the cloisters flanking the church of San Michele. The office was just being opened. The attendant spoke decent English and, to Nick’s surprise, recognized the name of Paleologus. He handed Nick a map showing the layout of the cemetery and prodded at a section labelled Rec. Greco.
‘He was Orthodox, yes? You will find him there. The stone is quite recent.’
Orthodox? Yes, of course. Old Demetrius had kept the faith of his Byzantine forefathers. Glancing at the map as he went, Nick headed past the crematorium building towards two separately walled compounds. One was reserved for Protestants, the other for those who had deferred in life to the Patriarch of Constantinople and had been granted in death a small measure of exclusivity on that account.
Arrows on the map pointed to the last resting places of two Russian Orthodox celebrities: Diaghilev and Stravinsky. They were of no interest to Nick. He wandered between the graves, looking for the brightness of new stone. It was warm now, the high walls trapping the heat of the sun. A dove was cooing somewhere. The tranquillity of commemorated lives seemed suddenly absolute.
Then he saw the name, spelt in the Greek style. PALAIOLOGOS. A lizard scurried from the stone as Nick’s shadow fell across it.
QUI RIPOSANO
DIMITRIOS ANDRONIKOS PALAIOLOGOS
NATO IL 2 FEBB 1908 MORTO IL 24 MAR 2000
E LA CONSORTE
GIULIA AGOSTINI PALAIOLOGOS
NATA IL 11 LUG 1914 MORTA IL 22 AGOS 1986
Nick had read the inscription before he noticed, carved above it, as on his grandparents’ grave at Landulph, the double- headed eagle of Byzantium. No Paleologus, it seemed, was permitted to renounce his past.
Gazing at the painstakingly chiselled record of his cousin’s birth and death, Nick was struck by a hopeful thought—at a moment and in a place where he had not expected to find hope of any kind. Reading Balaskas’s report, which she must have come across amongst her brother’s possessions, Emily would not have known its subject was already dead. Jonathan Braybourne had probably only learned as much shortly before his own death. It was possible—yes, damn it, it was
possible—that Emily still did not realize there was a younger, more ruthless and potentially more dangerous Demetrius Paleologus to be borne in mind. She had not necessarily deceived Nick after all.
Then his shadow seemed suddenly to stretch, blotting the sunlight from the inscribed words and dates. He turned and started with surprise at the sight of the very man he had just been thinking of: Demetrius Constantine Paleologus.
Demetrius smiled.‘This is a big coincidence, cousin.’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘When we spoke yesterday, I remembered I had not been here for too long. What brought you?’
‘Curiosity, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps you needed to see with your own eyes in order to believe.’
‘No, I just—’
“It is sometimes hard for me to believe he is really dead. He was old. He was ready for death. Yet still I sometimes expect to hear his voice again, to see his eyes fixed on me. At the palazzo, when the workmen have gone, as it grows dark ’ Demetrius shrugged.‘You know?’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘I spoke with Bruno this morning. He remembers meeting your brother. But that is all. And that is no help to you, is it?’
‘Not really.’
‘My other enquiries will take longer. You will have to be patient.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good.’
‘I’d better be off now. You’ll want to be alone.’
‘There’s no need to leave. You came by vapor
etto?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can ride back with me on my launch. Just give me a few moments. Take a look at the family vault while you wait.’ Demetrius pointed towards an ivy-hung greystone mausoleum near the rear wall of the compound.‘My mother did not want to be buried there. So, my father rests with her here. His father and many fathers before his father are in the Paleologus vault.’
Nick walked slowly away, leaving Demetrius to stand, head bowed, by his parents’ grave. Nick was not sure now whether his unease had any rational basis. Demetrius was dangerous, according to Balaskas. But was he? Was he really!
Nick reached the vault. The name Paleologus was inscribed in Greek capitals within the pediment above the padlocked steel door. The bones of’many fathers before his father’ were gathered within these walls. Nick had never felt so close to the departed ranks of his ancestors. The dust they had been brought to seemed to float in the falsely warm air around him.
‘Where are you, Basil?’ he murmured.‘What happened to you?’
The last conversation he had had with Basil, on Sunday morning, suddenly recurred to Nick’s mind. Basil had already spoken to Bruno Stammati by then. What were the chances that he could have done so without it emerging that the owner of the Palazzo Falcetto was far too young to have known their father during the war?
Nick turned to see Demetrius walking towards him. The raincoat of the day before had been replaced with a light cashmere overcoat that enhanced the swagger in his strolling gait. He was smiling, though whether the smile reached his eyes the tint of his glasses made it hard to judge.
‘If only the dead could speak, eh?’ said Demetrius.‘What secrets would they tell us?’
‘Maybe they’d tell us whether there’s really a heaven and a hell.’
‘And a God and a Devil to preside over them. Yes, that would be useful.’
‘Or maybe they’d say the biggest secret is that there is no secret.’
Days Without Number Page 31
