“Your things are upstairs in your bedroom. Can you manage the stairs?”
Hope bloomed on her delicate face. “Oh, yes.” She looked around. “I saw the stairs when we came in, but now I’m all turned around. Where?”
His mouth compressed. “This way.”
As they walked back toward the front hallway, she said, “Jack, I know you don’t believe in my amnesia. Yesterday you said Vadim accused me of stealing. You made that up to trick me, didn’t you?”
He winced that she’d read him so well. “I had to try.”
She gave him a sad little smile. “And just now you were trying to trip me up about finding the stairs. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you or I can do to bring back my memory except keep trying.”
“The doctors said your memory might return all at once or in pieces.”
“Or never. Thank you for being kind enough not to mention that possibility.” Her smile sagged. “I’d be grateful for one of those pieces anytime now.”
They entered a spacious bedroom with hardwood floors, a large bed with a pale peach coverlet and a vase beside it. The flowers in it had died. No one had been there to replenish their water. The doors and woodwork, including the bed frame, were painted grass-green.
“The room is inviting. I wish I remembered staying in it.” Sophie ran her fingers across the soft cotton coverlet.
Jack opened a wardrobe. “Your luggage is in here.” He pulled out two red leather suitcases, one large and the other a carry-on tote. He slung them onto the bed. “They’re a little damaged from searches. Slits in the lining, a few scuffs.”
“If I recognized them, I might be upset.” She lifted out dresses and skirts and tops, silk and linen, all expensive.
These were the boutique fashions Vadim had bought her. Had bought his lover, Jack reminded himself. There was no clothing of Vadim’s in her room. That meant nothing. He must’ve made her come to him.
“How about the other bag?” He stood by, his gaze fixed on her, willing her to recognize something or to slip and prove his doubts right.
She opened the tote and gasped. “My purse. My folio of letters.” She beamed at him. “You said they were here. Oh, thank goodness!”
A corner of his mouth twitched. He didn’t seem to be able to resist her infectious smile. “Your passport’s there, too. You must’ve had those with you on the flight from Florence.”
One-handed, she pawed through the frilly underwear and the cosmetics bag at the bottom of the tote. “My camera? I could’ve taken pictures of my long-lost relatives.”
“No camera.” He cleared his throat, waited. “You don’t recognize anything else?”
“Sorry. These things are lovely, but they aren’t mine.” She gestured at the clothing strewn on the bed.
“They are yours,” Jack said. “Vadim bought them for you. Until your luggage is found, they’re all you have to wear.”
Sophie frowned as if ready to object, but a voice from downstairs summoned Jack.
He scrubbed knuckles over his jaw. A moment ago sympathy had cracked his determination, but he needed to remember what this woman was to Vadim. And keep his eye on his goal.
“See if you can pack this stuff. I’ll come back to carry the suitcases downstairs. We’ll be at a safe house in Venice for a while. You’ll need clothes.” He turned and walked out.
Sophie collapsed on the bed, her grandmother’s papers crushed to her chest with her good arm. At least she had those and her passport. Something of hers.
Dizziness swirled in her head, and she closed her eyes. For a long time a knot had constricted her chest at not having an identity separate from those she took care of. Not having her memory or her life was drawing that knot tighter.
She wouldn’t think about it. She couldn’t let fear and worry suffocate her.
Her purse and passport proved that she had been in this house. Somewhere in her brain was there the knowledge that would help capture Vadim? Could she locate the stolen uranium?
If Jack wanted her to remember, she would try. He was hard and unsmiling and he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
But she could trust him to protect her.
The torment she glimpsed in his eyes told her he had deeper reasons, personal reasons to find Vadim. And deeper emotions he kept in check.
Sophie stood and packed as best she could with one hand. The clothes were more expensive than she could afford but styles she liked. Did she choose them?
Finished with the packing, she looked around. On the bedside table was a marble statuette of a woman, about a foot high. She wore a long cloak and held her hands in a prayerful grip.
So beautiful. A religious icon, she thought. It looked very old. The attached base was cracked and had been glued.
Sophie felt the cool marble. One-handed, she could lift it only a few inches. Heavier than she expected marble to be.
Beneath the statuette was the business card of an antique shop. She turned it over. “Santa Elisabetta Rinaldi.”
Tears gathered. Sophie crossed herself. Saint Elizabeth. Rinaldi? A Rinaldi family saint?
Where did she come from? Surely Vadim hadn’t given it to her. Clothing, yes, because she had to have something to wear. The statuette was an antique, probably valuable. She would never accept such an extravagant gift.
She must’ve bought this with her new traveler’s checks.
It was hers. But not the clothing. She wanted nothing from such a despicable man. She would return the clothes and luggage. Well, not return. She would donate them to charity.
Finding a Rinaldi saint. What would Nonna say? Her grandmother would tell her it was a miracle and to bring Santa Elisabetta home. She was certain.
Santa Elisabetta belonged to her. Why would the task force care?
Chapter 4
Vadim wished his cousin had never brought him the cursed uranium. This palazzo, obtained under a new alias for just such a contingency, was musty and dark, but it would serve. If not for Dobrich, he would be relaxing on the terrace of his villa instead of hiding like a rat in a hole.
Tapping his fingers on the windowsill, he gazed through the gap in the heavy draperies. He kept his back to his men as he sorted out the mess. Let them sweat a little longer. They had both failed him.
The whole debacle was Dobrich’s fault, may he rot in hell. Had Interpol been following his cousin? Or had the Italians finally gotten evidence on the illicit diamond trade?
It had to be the former. Tracking the uranium would be the reason for the Americans’ involvement. And Dobrich, with his toolbox full of radiation, had led them to him.
Perhaps the American woman was not as naive as he’d thought. Could she have been sent to spy on him? Why else had she listened to his phone conversation?
Petar had reported that she remembered nothing. Amnesia made no difference. Memories returned. She must be eliminated before she remembered his and Ahmed Saqr’s plans. The uranium had to be retrieved. His plans would go forth.
They must.
Ahmed had made a down payment on his purchase and demanded its prompt delivery. He would not understand if Vadim reneged. The Yamari fanatic would cry betrayal.
In that eventuality, Vadim would have a great deal more to fear than Interpol or the Americans.
He turned to face Petar and Guido. “Petar, you failed to silence the woman in the hospital,” he said in Cleatian. “With her arm in a sling she fought you off. Is that correct?”
The wiry man’s short hair stood up in tufts as though he’d been pulling it. He opened his mouth, apparently to object, but sighed and said, “Dak, you’re right. I failed.”
“And the American nearly caught you. Did he get a good look at you?”
“He did not. I was too fast for him to get close enough.” His chin rose a notch. Petar had competed in marathons and was proud of his speed.
“Then I can take comfort in something.”
The sarcastic tone triggered a flush up Petar’s neck.
> Vadim turned his wrath on his other man. “Guido, the uranium? Is it still hidden in the house?” he said in Italian.
The bodyguard’s thick fingers worried his driving cap as he shook his head. “I don’t know. The polizia still have the villa. I am told it’s a task force of the Polizia di Stato and an American agency. I can’t go inside yet. But I don’t think they have found it. They continue to search.”
“Bene,” said Vadim. Good. He could salvage diamonds from the ashes. “Getting inside could be difficult, but I will think of something.”
Soon. He couldn’t keep Ahmed waiting much longer.
If Sophie were silenced and the uranium recovered, all would be well. The terrorist would have his purchase. With one bomb he would destroy those he perceived as enemies—and Vadim’s competition. A victory for them both.
“You have another chance to redeem yourselves.” He switched to English, a language both knew. He glared at the two men, whose sweat soaked their dark shirts. Clearly they understood that failing him twice was not an option.
“The woman?” Guido asked.
“The polizia have arranged a safe house in Venice for her.” He handed Petar the address on a slip of paper. “You will wait for them to arrive.”
“If the task force sends more than one escort boat with her,” Petar said, “a dose of gasoline could take care of the house and all inside it.”
Vadim considered. Petar’s penchant for arson surpassed his other lethal skills. It might work. “Be prepared for that contingency. But only if they do not have the uranium with them or if you obtain it first. Arm yourselves well. They must not escape. I have encountered the American operative guarding Sophie. He is dangerous. Take him down first. Then the woman.”
By the time they left the villa, Sophie was tired but encouraged by having her handbag and the tote with its precious letters and the family saint figure. Her other meager possessions—medicine and her sandals—had left the hospital with her in a plastic bag. She didn’t count the big suitcase of boutique clothing stashed in the Fiat’s trunk.
Jack said nothing but appeared to be concentrating on coping with heavy traffic as they entered the Autostrade. Instead of a dress shirt with his khakis, today he wore a knit shirt the color of his eyes.
A naturally taciturn man, Sophie decided. He kept his emotions walled up inside except for hints of intense anguish. Oddly his silence didn’t bother her. His large presence and the musky scent of his aftershave both comforted and intrigued her. Relaxing, she settled in her seat.
When the sedan stopped, she opened her eyes to see docks lined with freighters and crawling with activity. She’d napped without realizing it. A printed sign announced the Port Authority of Mestre. So they were still on the mainland.
From there they climbed into an unmarked motorboat provided by the task force. Jack settled her into its cockpit. A canvas awning provided sun protection.
Another officer—a sleepy-eyed man named Leoni—handed Jack a sheaf of papers. “Here are the permits. You sure you want to try this without an escort? Venice canals can be a maze. And dangerous.”
“Safer if no one outside knows. An escort might attract attention.” He tossed the papers into the cockpit along with the bow line.
Sophie saw a map among the papers. “I can help navigate.”
“Go for it. I’ll be tracking you on GPS.” Leoni threw up his hands and went to untie the stern line. “Give the vaporetti wide berth.”
Jack slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. “You sure you can handle this? Are you okay?”
“Fine.” She was still tired and a little groggy, but she wanted to do whatever she could. Anything that would clear up this fog surrounding her.
“I should’ve asked if you have medicine to take,” Jack said as he spread the map on her lap.
“Something for pain if I need it. I have another medication to help me regain memory. Piracetam. It’s probably not approved in the States.” She smoothed the creased map and put a finger on their location. “Maybe it’ll sharpen my map-reading ability, too.”
Jack maneuvered them from the dock space and out into the Laguna, the waterway between the mainland and Venice. Shoving the throttle forward sent them cruising the six miles across the lagoon toward the entrance to Venice’s Grand Canal.
“I’m glad we’re going by boat,” Sophie said. “This may be my only chance to see Venice. And remember it, I mean.”
He cocked his head at her, but she couldn’t interpret his official mask, a blank expression that hid everything.
She knew he lay in wait for a slip that would betray feigned amnesia. If only.
She pulled her guidebook from her bag. “A guided tour along the Grand Canal. I can pretend this is a gondola.”
“Sophie, why do you think the injury wiped the entire trip from your memory?”
“You mean instead of just the moments before the impact?”
“Losing such a long span of time is unusual, the doctors said. What else does your brain want to push away?”
She wished she knew. Or maybe she didn’t. The painful knot inside her tightened another loop of dread. “Maybe when I found my relatives, they were mafiosi. Or losing my luggage—”
“Or being taken in by a rich lover twice your age?”
They passed a barge loaded with containers and a regular transport traveling from Mestre to the floating city. Gasoline and engine exhaust mingled with the salt air.
A strand of hair blew in her eyes, and she brushed it away. “You’re trying to trap me again, Jack. I was taken in by Vadim. That I believe. But I was not his lover.”
“If you don’t remember, how do you know?”
Sophie considered the photographs and videos she’d seen of her with Vadim. He’d seemed attentive and charming but no more. Not intimate.
For some reason of his own, Jack was leaping to a conclusion. Or his insistence on Vadim as lover was a tactic to trip her up. “Some things a woman knows.”
Soon they arrived at the Grand Canal. The causeway from Mestre rose on their left and ended at an enormous parking lot. Only foot and boat traffic were allowed in Venice.
Jack guided the powerboat around a vaporetto at the train station dock on their right and slowed to follow the sinuous course of the canal inside the city.
Other boats jammed the canal with traffic. Motorboats ruled the waterways—private boats, work boats, water taxis and the ubiquitous vaporetti. The picturesque gondolas fought constant chop as their long oars propelled them more slowly along the canals. Sophie smiled at the sight of a brown boat marked UPS and at a robin’s-egg-blue delivery “truck” carrying food to a market or shop.
“So where are we headed?” She hoped her question would sidetrack Jack from his inquisition.
The look in his eyes told her the change of topic was only temporary.
He handed her one of the other papers. “Here are the directions. We’re going to an apartment in the San Polo district. The street’s there on the paper. I checked the map, but don’t let me make a wrong turn.”
Fat chance, she thought as she perused the directions. This man never made a wrong turn. He was too controlled.
“It looks like we follow the Grand Canal as far as the Rialto Bridge.” She traced their route with her finger. “Then we turn right on the Rio di Meloni.”
“Rio? River? I wondered about that when I saw it. Aren’t these all canals?”
“Right. Canals run through the city’s hundred islands, but just the big ones are called canale.”
“And you know this because?”
“Not from memory, Sherlock.” She slid the guidebook from beneath the map and held it up as her source. Then her eyes widened in pleasure as she took in the scenery.
“Oh, look. One palace after another. Incredible! They seem to dance on the water. I can’t take my eyes away, but I need the guide to tell me what they are.”
They passed a Baroque church and beneath a bridge. The Ponte Scalzi,
Sophie told him. Then a Gothic palazzo with beautiful pointed arches, where she read that the composers Liszt and Wagner had once stayed.
As he asked questions and stared in awe, amazement swept through her. A new man, a laid-back and interesting man, replaced the grim ATSA operative. He still scanned the other boats as if trying to spot assassins, but he slowed the boat so she could enjoy the sights. His large, scarred hands rested on the steering wheel, and he turned his face to the sun. He enjoyed the moment as much as she.
She wanted to touch his angular jaw, to feel the strength in this hard man. What would it be like to feel his sinewy arms around her?
Sophia Constanza, you have way too much imagination.
The sling kept her from reaching for him even if she gave in to temptation. She kept her good hand on the guidebook and continued her commentary as they traveled the Grand Canal.
Fantastic palaces and famous architecture surrounded them, but Jack couldn’t keep his gaze from Sophie’s glowing face. Her espresso-brown eyes glittered with pleasure and her cheeks flushed pink with excitement.
How did she do it? She put aside all her trauma and anguish and threw herself into the experience of the moment. Her emotions were there, just beneath the surface, ready to light up or darken her beautiful face.
Maybe it was her youth—eight years younger than his thirty-five. But had he ever been that young, that free? If he had been, his light heart had been crushed five years ago.
He’d had her pegged as a sophisticate, a party girl. She was anything but. Her assertion that she hadn’t been in Vadim’s bed buoyed Jack’s spirits more than it should. Why he cared made no sense. Mainly he was relieved for her—if she was right. Or truthful. That was it. Nothing personal.
So if she wasn’t the party girl he’d pegged her for, was he wrong about the amnesia, too? Did she really not remember seeing Venice’s fading splendor?
Deadly Memories Page 5
