“Vaguely,” she lied. She wanted no part of the memory. “Why are you interested in some dull story? Albania is drab and depressing. Only its birds warrant interest.”
“I have to ask you something.”
She sensed something terrible in the offing and it twisted her stomach into knots. “Have to? You’ve been ordered to ask me something?”
“It’s my idea, just mine. If you say no, it will not change what we have together.”
“Life is hard, Taras Ivanovich. A simple question can alter relationships. Is what you have to ask me worth such a risk?”
Their eyes locked. “It’s a matter of duty.”
“To whom?”
Bailov was not certain. “Duty is always a matter of individual choice,” he said finally.
“Duty is imposed by circumstance,” Raya said. The band had taken a break and the restaurant had quieted to a low buzz of voices.
“I want you to go to Albania,” he said. “The historian you met may have certain records of critical importance.”
“To whom?” She was tense now, her jaw set.
“National security.”
“You’re a Chekist,” she said, her horror undisguised.
“No, I’m only a soldier.”
“Soldiers do not ask civilians to perform tasks unless there is a war.”
“Not all wars are openly declared.”
She pushed back from the table and flung her arms up in frustration. “I have no choice.”
“It will be dangerous,” he said. “I want you to know that before you decide. If you say no, I’ll understand.”
“It’s not possible for me to refuse you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, it’s you who don’t understand,” she whispered. “I can’t say no to the man I love.”
Her answer made him queasy. It was the worst moment of his life.
120FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1961, 10:20 P.M.Murano, Italy
The police on the Lido were unexpectedly efficient. They had the passport number from the Excelsior and the name of the man who had phoned it in.
A thunderstorm had delayed their landing at the airport in Venice; the bay was foggy and water taxis crawled along tooting their foghorns. It was late afternoon when they finally reached the Excelsior.
The cashier’s name was Bellini, the general manager told them; normally he worked the day shift, but because of today’s weather he had not reported in. “He lives in Murano,” he said. “It’s an island.” He waved his arm in the general direction and assured them that Bellini was a dependable employee. The general manager obviously sensed a serious problem and wanted to protect the Excelsior’s reputation; he was red-faced and sweating heavily.
“We’ll need a launch,” Valentine said in a tone that suggested the general manager would provide the boat.
The man sighed. “Of course. I’m certain we can arrange something.”
Murano is a small island with ancient stucco and brick buildings, a medieval hump looming in the fog and darkness, and surrounded by putrid black water. Its streets are narrow, barely as wide as the hallways in a small American house, and smell of age, mildew and raw sewage. The address was in an unlit alley with stone steps that led upward into the darkness. The lips of the steps were worn in the center and seemed to sag. How many feet and centuries had it taken to erode stone? Valentine wondered.
The apartment was several levels up. The young man who came to the door was short and thin. He wore a black silk robe and leather slippers. “Sì?”
They showed him a photograph, but the light was poor and he had to step back to get a better look. It was a small place, one room with a black iron stove, several anemic plants in clay pots and a hammock for a bed. “What do you want to know?” he asked nervously.
“Do you recognize him?” Sylvia asked.
Bellini passed the photo back. “I see thousands of people every year. It’s their wallets I remember. My job is to see that they pay. The concierge remembers faces; that’s his job.” He raised his arms and tried to shoo them toward the door. “Please excuse me,” he said.
“You forwarded his passport number,” Sylvia said. She held up the photo again. “We don’t want to cause trouble for you,” she said, turning on her charm.
“Faces mean nothing.” The anonymity of guests was the cardinal rule of the Excelsior.
Suddenly Valentine grabbed the man’s face and squeezed his cheeks. “Even your own? Faces are delicate things. Bone, tissue and millions of nerves. Injure a muscle and it recovers, but not a face. Damage persists.”
The cashier reached for the photograph again.
“We’re waiting,” Valentine said.
“The face is familiar. I see that now.”
“You remember him?”
The man shook his head slowly. “Familiar, that’s all. I’m sorry.” He remembered the man, of course, though he had changed since the photograph had been taken. He was light blond now, with a short, neatly trimmed beard and heavy glasses, but it was him. He made it a practice to memorize faces; he wouldn’t always be a cashier. Someday he would be the general manager of a fine establishment and then it would be his job to remember faces, at least the important ones. Also to practice discretion, this being an equally essential value. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, averting Valentine’s angry eyes.
Sylvia made eye contact with Valentine, who in releasing Bellini gave him a hard shove. “We’re registered at the Excelsior,” she said. “As guests of the general manager,” she lied. “We’re meeting him tomorrow at eight A.M. If you remember anything, please see us.” She left the photograph on a table.
Valentine stopped at the door and pointed at the cashier. “It’s important that we find this man,” he said. “Extremely important. Your general manager understands this and is helpful. We wouldn’t like to report that one of his people is uncooperative, or . . .” He smiled and said “Arrivederci” as they left.
“He recognized Frash,” Sylvia said. “It was in his eyes.”
Valentine grinned. “I know.”
“Would you have hurt him?”
“Don’t know,” he said. What he didn’t add was that in the old days he would have cut off the little bastard’s head if it meant getting what he needed.
121FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1961, 11:40 P.M.Tirana, Albania
“One more time,” Haxi Kasi said. “Go.” He started the stopwatch.
Lejla brought the weapon to her chest with both hands and rapidly fired nine rounds into the carcass of a goat suspended on a rope. All nine rounds struck the chest, five in a tight cluster, the other four slightly scattered. With these explosive bullets any of the hits would have been lethal.
“Rest,” Kasi said. “Weapon down.” She did as she was told. “New target.” She slid the shattered carcass to one side and swung another into place. The room was cold and the girl was nude, her lips blue. Numb all sensations, Kasi had told himself, gut her values, keep her confused. It was going beautifully; whatever he asked she did without hesitation, and her shooting was consistent now. Her ears were unprotected, but she no longer flinched. He wanted her accustomed to the sound of the shots and slugs smashing real bone and tissue. “Back up,” he said. “Kneel.” When she was down he picked up a can filled with fresh goat’s blood and dumped it over her head. No reaction. He held out a new clip. “Load.” She pulled out the empty clip, let it fall to the floor, inserted the new clip and locked a round in the chamber. “Just under ten seconds that last time,” he said. “We need to have you under eight.”
Steam rose off the blood that covered her. She folded her right index finger, mopped her eyes clear and raised the pistol.
122SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1961, 7:00 A.M.The Lido, Venice
The bell to their suite sounded a sequence of harplike notes. Valentine answered the door. The cashier’s hair was slicked back, his cheeks pinched with color, his charcoal-gray uniform crisp and pressed, brass buttons sparkling and black shoes freshly shi
ned, but he looked drawn and his eyes were red as if he had not slept. “Buon giorno,” Valentine said.
Bellini thrust the photograph and a carbon copy of a hotel bill at him. The man’s name was Albert Van Geer, Dutch passport, from Amsterdam, here as a tourist. Valentine saw that the passport number matched one on their list. “He’s changed,” the man continued. “He’s no longer the same as in the photograph, but I recognized him. His hair is blond and he has a beard, a small one. Dark glasses with thick lenses.”
Sylvia came out of the bedroom wearing a white terrycloth robe with the Excelsior crest over her left breast.
“He checked in late the afternoon of April 15 and checked out the morning of April 20.”
“Did he have a reservation?” Sylvia asked.
“No.”
“But the Excelsior is an exclusive establishment,” she said. “Can anybody just walk in and get a room so easily?”
“There are exceptions, but our business here is basically seasonal. Even at peak we hold a few rooms open. Signor Van Geer asked for one of our better rooms.”
“Did he pay cash?”
“Yes, in lire.”
Sylvia and Valentine exchanged glances. As elsewhere, money talked at the Excelsior.
“What did the money look like?” Valentine asked. The cashier seemed puzzled. “Was it rumpled, well used?”
“Crisp,” Bellini said after a moment. “As if it were new.”
Banks often paid large withdrawals with new bills, Valentine thought. “Where did he go?” he asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes,” the cashier said. “Just him.”
“Did he act funny?”
Again the man looked confused. Sylvia interceded. “Was there anything about his behavior that seemed odd or unusual?”
“Only when I asked for his passport. He said it was in his briefcase but then he found it in his pocket.”
“What was odd about that?” Sylvia asked.
Bellini paused. “He seemed upset. Perhaps confused is a better word, but I didn’t really think about it. People with money don’t like to be bothered with details, so it seemed normal that he would not like to be asked for his passport.”
“Still, it caught your attention.”
The man shrugged. “For a moment I had the feeling that he would walk away without giving it to me.”
“He tried to walk away?”
“No, it was only a feeling, but I insisted on having the passport and then he found it in his jacket.”
“How much baggage did he have?” Sylvia asked.
“One suitcase of dark leather. Very expensive. It looked new. No scars or blemishes.”
“He left as soon as he paid?”
“Yes. He went down the front steps.”
“Did somebody take his bag for him?”
“He carried it himself.”
“You’re sure he was alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he take a launch or a cab? Did anyone pick him up?”
“He just walked down the street,” the cashier said. “There was a woman beside him, pushing a bicycle.”
Sylvia jumped on this. “You saw him walk down the street?”
“From the window.”
“With a woman?”
The cashier wrinkled his brow. “I thought for a moment that I knew her. I thought it was a local woman, Sultana Fregosi. She owns a tailor shop not far from here. But that couldn’t be.”
“Why not?” Sylvia asked.
“I’m not sure it was her, and in any event it’s impossible. She doesn’t like men. Everyone in the Lido knows this.”
Sylvia’s intuition was in high gear. “But initially you said you thought it was her. That was your first impression.”
“But when I saw the face I knew it was impossible.”
“You saw her face?”
“It was more a profile, a flash of the side of her face.”
“But you thought it was the woman who runs the tailor shop. What’s her name again?”
“Fregosi. Sultana Fregosi. She’s very striking, but as I said, she’s not a man’s woman.”
“All right,” Sylvia said. “Anything else?” she asked Valentine.
“That’s all for now.”
“You’ll tell the general manager I cooperated?” the cashier asked.
Sylvia smiled. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“One last thing,” Valentine said.
“Anything,” Bellini said, clearly glad that his business with them was nearly finished.
“Check with the concierge and everyone else to find out if anything was delivered to Van Geer while he was here.” Valentine knew that exclusive tailor shops the world over provided personal service to customers who stayed in places like the Excelsior.
“Right away.”
Bellini was back in an hour. “One of our domestics saw Fregosi in the hotel on Wednesday morning,” he reported.
“What time?” Valentine asked.
“Early.”
“Business hour early or earlier?”
“Much earlier,” the man said. It was astonishing, but the maid was adamant that it had been Fregosi.
“Where is her shop?”
Bellini gave them directions.
The facade of the building was fashionably shabby, but the inside was plushly carpeted and the walls filled with pigeonholes stuffed with bolts of expensive cloth. Sylvia went in and pretended to look at the merchandise; Valentine followed several minutes later and asked to see the manager.
Sultana Fregosi wore a white blouse and a pale blue linen skirt. Her short black hair was slightly damp and she had sunglasses propped on top of her head. Immediately she sized him up. “A large frame,” she said. “We can make a nice suit for you and give you a good price.” She reached for a bolt of tan cloth. “For summer,” she said. “Italian wool. It breathes and keeps you cool.”
She was aggressive in a pleasant way. “No suits,” Valentine said. “Just looking.”
“A double-breasted blazer, then? Or some shirts? We have very reasonable prices and guarantee our workmanship.”
“No, thanks,” Valentine said with a friendly smile. Sylvia was hunched over several bolts of cloth, but he saw her studying the layout.
American, Sultana Fregosi told herself, but not a rich one. His shoes said he was middle-class—a salesman, perhaps. You could always judge people by their shoes. “There must be something I can help you with.” Adolf had been especially passionate this morning. She had intended to be in the shop at nine but he had been randy again, and after she had finished her bath and dressed he had coaxed her back to bed. So much passion! She had always thought of the Dutch as a stolid people, but not Adi. If she could get rid of the Americans and return to the house he would be ready again. What was it in men that made them so? She liked the idea that she excited him.
The American took a photo out of his coat and showed it to her. “Do you know this man? His hair is blond now, and he has glasses and a beard. He’s an old friend of mine. He’s supposed to be vacationing here and I’d like very much to see him. He’ll enjoy the surprise.”
“Why ask me?”
“He has a fetish for clothes,” Valentine said. Pretty lame, he thought. You’re losing your touch.
She tried not to show her surprise. It was Adolf in the photo; he was thinner now and his hair was different, but it was him. “No,” she said. “Sorry.” Could this American really be her Adi’s friend? Something inside her urged caution. Was he in trouble? He had said virtually nothing about his past, and she had not pressed him because for now it didn’t matter. Then it struck her. What if he went away? It dawned on her that she had assumed he would be permanent, like a favorite chair, a possession; his departure would bring terrible loneliness. His libido was overwhelming, but it was a small price to pay for company; besides, most of the time it felt rather pleasant. To be single was to be alone; having fo
und Van Geer, she had no desire to return to her old life, but how should she tell him about this? She turned on her charm for the American. “If there’s nothing else, I have work. You’re certain you don’t want a suit? We do excellent work.”
Valentine thanked her for her time, went outside and crossed to the grassy median on the boulevard. Sylvia joined him a few minutes later. “She’s seen him,” she said. Valentine waited for an explanation. “She has the look.”
“Which look is that?”
“Give me a break,” she said. “I saw it in her eyes when you showed her the photo. She knows him.”
“We’ll wait,” Valentine said, sitting down.
“For what?”
“Until she comes out. Then we’ll follow her. This close to Frash, we pursue every possibility. The sooner we nail this asshole the sooner we can say adios to all this shit.”
Sylvia sat down on the grass and hiked her skirt up to her knees. “Going to be hot,” she said. The air was heavy enough to cut.
“I’ll take the back,” Valentine said.
She watched him dart between two red automobiles and disappear down the block, not bothering to look back. When this was over would he also disappear without looking back?
123SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1961, 11:00 P.M.The Lido, Venice
Valentine appeared out of the darkness and sat down on the grass beside Sylvia. The shops in the area had closed two hours earlier. “Did we miss her?” she asked.
“Maybe she’s still inside.”
“No lights, and the rest of her employees left two hours ago. One of them locked the doors.”
“Maybe she lives above the place.”
“No lights up there either, and no curtains. If there was somebody up there we’d know.”
He saw that she was right. “Maybe she turned into a bat and flew away.” They both smiled.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 45
