The place seemed more desolate and abandoned than ever. He remembered the secret valley the day they had found it, running down exhilarated across the grass; Natasha stooping to admire the wildflowers that she couldn’t name, Birgit moving with a slow, simmering grace, her hem rustling across the grass. Doherty so genial, waving his stick, spouting scripture, ranting about dispossession and the loss of the good land. Everyone, it seemed, liberated to be the man or the woman they were. A sort of paradise.
“Imagine, Yashim!” Doherty had flung his arms wide, flushed with the good food and the cold champagne. “The return to Eden! Forever summer, the sun shines, the trees bear all manner of fruit. The rude habitation of the first man and the first woman—scarcely decayed. This, Yashim, is immortality!”
How different it seemed tonight. The old house watching the slope and the woods silent and withdrawn.
Yashim raised his head. Surely something had moved: his ears had caught a crack, above the drone of crickets in the long grass. He narrowed his eyes, and glimpsed something stepping out of the shadow of the trees. It seemed too long to be a man. Perhaps a deer, drawn to the lush pasture and the silence of the valley.
But it was not a deer. First one figure, then another, broke out of the deep shade and into the moonlight: two men, one behind the other, very close together.
Yashim strained his eyes, and then his heart stopped. The figure in front was not a man but a woman: he could see the tilt of her shoulders and the bulge where she held her skirts above the damp grass. She was making her way very slowly down the slope, and barely a pace behind her came the man.
He seemed to move more cautiously than the woman. Yashim heard a short bark and almost at once the woman paused, waited, then walked on. The man was wearing a wide-brimmed saturno, and the woman was Natasha.
No sooner had Yashim made them out than he heard a tiny rustle from the house, like someone shifting their balance.
75
DOHERTY made the most of the cover the girl afforded him, stooping slightly and careful to keep her always between him and the windowless house.
Yashim had no doubt that the boys were watching now: the shutter, banging in the wind, had fooled him momentarily. Three men—or two?—watching from the recesses of the windows. He wondered if Giancarlo was there, resting his gun on the ledge, squinting down the barrel. He would not be able to take a shot unless he was prepared to kill Natasha first.
The priest had a gun, too: Yashim had not expected that. But the Catholic house was bound to have arms for its own protection: the Catholics were not popular and it was all too easy for a mob to gather at its gate. Doherty would have known where to find it. He was using it now, lowered at Natasha’s back, as they advanced slowly and deliberately down the grassy slope.
Yashim could only hope that he was invisible in the shadow of the wall. Doherty could not possibly guess the disposition of forces against him: but nor could Yashim. If only Giancarlo were to arrive now, late, and take Doherty out from behind: shoot him from the safety of the trees. But no: even that was not certain. He’d be likely to hit Natasha.
If Giancarlo was already in the house, would he try to shoot Yashim, too?
Yashim grimaced. Which of the Boutets had he snatched from the hall—the working gun, or the broken one?
Natasha was making no effort to keep quiet. Once she stumbled, and gave a little cry: Doherty hissed at her, and Yashim saw him drop to a crouch, sheltering behind her. Natasha knew that Yashim was down at the farm, and she was giving him warning, making sure he noticed their approach.
If they tried for the front door, then they would pass scarcely ten yards from where he lay. But it was more likely that Doherty would seek the shelter of the outbuildings, as he had.
He dropped back silently along the wall. At the corner he almost stumbled over some fallen stones in the grass, but there was a narrow gap between his building and a small goat pen, deep in shade. He moved into it and waited.
He was not a moment too soon: Doherty had seen the advantage of the shadows, too. He could hear the sound of Natasha’s stumbling feet, even the rasp of Doherty’s breath, as they slipped in beside the wall where he had been hidden. Everything depended on the position they had adopted: Who was closer to him? Natasha, or the priest?
Then he heard Doherty whisper. “Stay down, girl.”
It was now or never, before the priest had time to work out the lay of the land. Surprise was Yashim’s sole advantage over an armed man with a hostage.
Yashim reached for a stone and flipped it over the wall: it landed on the far side of the outhouse. Natasha gave a gasp.
Yashim launched himself from his heels, swiveling around the corner of the outhouse. In a split second he recognized Doherty’s broad back turned to him, and jumped.
Had Doherty been standing, Yashim would have gone for his legs, knocking him backward so that the gun flew up. Instead he sprang onto Doherty’s shoulders, pressing his gun arm forward and downward as the priest flung out his hands to meet the ground.
Doherty was more powerful than Yashim had expected. He reared up. Yashim was flung aside, still clinging to Doherty’s arm, wrenching the muzzle of his pistol away from Natasha but toward him.
His knees scrabbled against the ground. He flung his hand into the air. The barrel of Doherty’s pistol rose a fraction, then dropped, and Yashim was staring into its muzzle.
Had Doherty been any good with a pistol, perhaps Yashim would have died then. Instead he heard a dry click as the trigger engaged—but no report. In a second he had recovered his balance. He rolled back into Doherty’s legs. The priest folded over, sprawling across Yashim.
Yashim twisted beneath his weight. Doherty lunged forward: the gun had spun out of his hands and now lay a few feet away in the grass. As the priest scrambled toward it, Yashim reared and clawed at his legs, dodging his heavy boots.
Doherty rolled over, freed one leg, and delivered a crashing blow that snapped Yashim’s neck back.
He grunted and shook his head. Doherty sprang to his feet, breathing heavily. He stood three feet away, his hands wrapped around the gun, his thumb firmly wedged against the hammer, and as the darkness cleared Yashim found himself for the second time looking down the barrel of a pistol. Doherty’s grip was unsteady: the mouth of the barrel floated in the air.
Yashim reached for a stone, anything he could throw.
“They were falling apart, man!” Doherty gasped. “Turning to dust! And Agapios a blind man at that.”
Yashim stared. “Dust?”
“The parchments belong to us!”
Doherty brought up his free hand to steady the pistol. “Forgive me, Lord.”
They were the last words Yashim heard Doherty say. The priest had his aim, and Yashim saw him brace: and there was a spark, and then a crash, as the gun went off.
76
DOHERTY’S face splintered.
For a moment he stood still, and then keeled forward into the ground.
Giancarlo stepped forward, still pointing the gun at the space in the air where Doherty’s head had been.
His mouth hung open in surprise.
Yashim got slowly to his feet. He took care not to alarm the man who had just saved his life—and might, for all he knew, decide to take it.
But Giancarlo made no move to reload. Instead he stared at the body of the priest, awkwardly slumped at Yashim’s feet.
“I thought I would feel good,” he said.
“Where’s Natasha?”
Giancarlo pushed his hair behind his ear. “I saw her go into the house. Come.”
At least she had not waited, Yashim thought.
He rubbed his neck. Doherty had been stronger and faster than he had expected. But also less experienced, which gave Yashim no cause for pride. He had not fought better than the priest. He had been clumsy and too slow: underestimating Doherty had been a fatal mistake. Doherty fought with a wild passion.
But Doherty had made a stupid error, not prim
ing his gun. Stupid and surprising.
Yashim pressed his fingers to his neck, on either side, and rolled his head. Lights were still going off, and there was a steady ringing in his ears.
I thought I would feel good, Giancarlo had said. That was another illusion. It never felt good to kill. Yashim glanced down at the slumped figure of the priest, and felt nothing good at all. He didn’t even feel relieved, just bruised and tired and disappointed. He leaned back against the wall, preparing himself for the next encounter: the solution to the whole unhappy riddle.
And he began to move only when he heard Natasha’s scream.
77
THE first, irrational thought that flashed into his mind was that Giancarlo had shot her. But Giancarlo was there, in front of him.
Yashim tore around the corner of the shed, and raced toward the dark front door, almost colliding with someone stumbling out.
“Oh, Yashim!” She flung her arms around his neck.
“I heard you scream.”
“There was someone—in the dark. I think he’s dead.”
Giancarlo had joined them in the moonlight. “What was it?”
“I don’t know, Giancarlo. We need a lamp.”
Giancarlo went in first. After the moonlight, they had to blink to let their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. At the far end of the house the moonlight streamed through the broken roof, but here it was very dark.
Giancarlo bent down, searching for something. Yashim saw Giancarlo’s silhouette rise against an empty window as he stood a lamp on the ledge.
“Matches!”
Giancarlo crouched to run his hands over the cobbled floor. Yashim drew Natasha to him, back to his chest, sliding his arms beneath her arms, leaning his tired head on her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair.
By the window a match fizzed, and Yashim saw Giancarlo’s face, like a boy’s, tongue held between his teeth, as he carefully ferried the bright light to the lamp. He heard the snap of the lever as he raised the mantle, and in a moment the darkness lifted, like a curtain, on the final act.
78
RAFAEL was lying on the floor. He was dead. The lamplight reflected gently in his open eyes.
He looked peaceful, even comfortable, like a boy lazing too long in bed.
Yashim held Natasha tight.
“Where’s Czartoryski?” Giancarlo said.
Natasha unclasped Yashim’s hands, and strode toward a bundle of hay that lay in the corner.
“Isn’t that what this is all about?” she said.
“All what?” Yashim asked, woodenly. He took a step toward Rafael. “He’s dead.”
Giancarlo nodded slowly. “It was what it was all about.” And he began to cry, silently, the great tears coursing down his cheeks.
Yashim sank to his knees by the corpse on the cobbled floor and with his thumb and forefinger he closed Rafael’s eyes.
Giancarlo wiped his handsome face with both hands. He stepped into the doorway and seemed to hang there for a moment, one hand on the jamb, and then he walked out into the moonlight without another word.
79
NATASHA stirred the heap of straw with her foot.
“Nobody here,” she said.
“Rafael,” Yashim said. “The one who wrote the note.”
Natasha looked up into the sagging rafters.
“I hope you don’t feel you’ve wasted your time,” Yashim said.
“My time?”
“In Istanbul.” Yashim got up and came and stood by the pile of straw. “Perhaps they killed him after all.”
She turned and looked at him curiously.
“Who?”
Yashim folded his arms, and looked at her.
“Czartoryski. The liberal prince. He might be dead.”
She nodded, slowly. “Maybe, Yashim.”
“Doherty wouldn’t care. He died for his manuscripts. That’s what he cared about. Getting his stolen parchments back to Rome.” He ran his hands across his face.
Natasha stepped forward, took his wrists, and laid his hands on the sides of her face.
“He would have killed you for them.”
“But he didn’t have to.” Yashim’s fingers laced through her strong black hair and touched the hollow at the back of her neck. “It wasn’t my affair. But it’s how you brought him here, Natasha.”
Her head swayed, and she closed her eyes. “When I saw his trunk, all packed with scrolls, and books…” Her neck rolled under his fingers. “He was terrified I’d tell.”
“So you told him that I knew?”
Natasha arched her back. “That’s it, just there. Mmmm.”
“And on the path, when you heard him coming past … It was clever to make him take you hostage.”
“People—” she faltered. “People are afraid of being shot.”
Yashim nodded. She had staged her entrance very well.
“I did think La Piuma was Doherty,” he said.
“I don’t see why the Pope should have those documents, Yashim. They aren’t his.”
She bent upward and took his lip between her teeth, and kissed him.
Yashim drew back.
“But why?”
“His job. To steal anything that made the Pope look like a ruler.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Natasha took a step back, and shook out her hair. “Don’t talk to me anymore, Yashim. Come.”
The questions buzzed between them like plucked strings of a guitar.
She held out her hand. “I want you now. Here. In this dirty straw.”
“No.”
She frowned. “Now, Yashim.”
Ghika had told the truth: Ghika, who watched everything, noticed everything. Ghika, of all people. After Natasha and Yashim left Birgit upstairs in the apartment, no one left and no one came. And Giancarlo wasn’t there.
“When we made love,” Yashim said thickly, “Birgit was already dead.”
“Don’t.”
Doherty could not have killed Birgit. When Birgit died, Doherty had been talking to Palewski. Drinking his brandy.
“You told the Italians to shoot Czartoryski. But you weren’t sure they had. So you killed Birgit when you got back from the baths. Before we—went home.”
Natasha’s head jerked.
“There are two Natashas, aren’t there? That’s what you said. Natasha who taught at school, and Natasha—the other one,” Yashim said slowly.
She shook her head, letting her dark hair fall around her shoulders.
“But the boys had disappeared. You thought that by killing Birgit you could flush them out, finish them off. They’d be swept up and hanged. A judicial murder. But then you realized that Doherty was the perfect villain. So you went to see him, as you said. To discover his weakness. He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“Shhh.” She knelt down in the straw. “Nobody touches me except you. Come.” She reached down for her skirt and began to pull at the hem, shifting her knees.
Yashim didn’t move. She raised her chin.
“Do you remember about the tall one? Petovski’s friend?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Well, I stabbed him in the end. Last spring. He died. I didn’t try to run away.”
“No.”
“So they sent me here, instead. Told me to be La Piuma. Protect my father.”
“Natasha.”
“Yes.” She raised a hand toward him. “Come.”
Giancarlo came running back to the house. Yashim had quite forgotten him. He was shouting. “Yashim! Yashim! There’s—”
Something snapped outside. Not once but several times, very loud.
“What’s that?” Yashim went to the doorway and looked out.
Ten yards away, Giancarlo lay sprawled on the grass with his hands flung over his head. He was not moving.
Natasha rustled in the dark behind him. She went to the window and leaned on the ledge. Presently a beautiful sprinkling of stars seemed to twinkle among the t
rees at the top of the slope. Snap! Snap! Crack!
Something whirred past Yashim in the darkness and smacked into the ground, with a sound of chipping stone.
“Get down!” He reeled back, away from the door.
Natasha was slow to react.
“Get down! Gunfire!”
She took a step backward, put her hand to her cheek, and sat down abruptly on the floor.
Yashim ran over and put his arms around her. “Someone’s shooting. Are you—”
The question died on his lips. Her hand was clamped to her cheek, and through her fingers a welling black flood was spreading across her hand.
She looked at him with her big dark eyes, frightened and inquiring, and tried to speak. But only a jumble of sounds fell from her lips.
“Don’t speak.” He smoothed her hair. “You don’t have to speak.”
“Ya-Yachim.”
He heard the blood in her voice. Nothing was clear to him, only a sudden bright light that flashed in at the window, illuminating the broken spars, the body of Rafael still warm on the floor, the woman in his arms.
A thunderclap sounded behind them, and the house shook.
“Ra—ch—ael. Fael.”
“Rafael? You didn’t need to—it’s when I knew.” His fingers searched her hair, to find that hollow spot on the back of her neck. He rubbed it, gently.
Natasha let her hand drop from her cheek. The side of her face had been shot away.
She reached up and placed her palm on his cheek.
“Uv. I—uv. You did it.”
“Love?” He thought of Birgit and the boys and Doherty, who’d died.
Her fingers slipped back around his ear, pulling at it, drawing it around. “For you. Uv. Y-Ya-chim.”
He looked down at her ruined face. Everything that was whole was still impossibly beautiful: her nose, her arched brows; a little scar on her lip that still cast a tiny shadow.
Her eyes welled up, and in her tears he saw the bright flash again, and the sparkling white trace that lit up the whole sky.
Yashim slipped his knee beneath her back, to hold her up, and cradled her head in his arms.
The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) Page 26
