Scorpia

by Anthony Horowitz

  “Before you go.”

  Tom considered. “I’ll help you anyway, Alex,” he said. “Because that’s what friends are for. And if you really do want to tell me, you can save it until we’re back at school. OK?”

  Alex nodded and smiled. “Thanks.”

  He reached behind him for the sports bag he had brought with him from the hotel. Inside it were the various items he had bought that afternoon. Quickly he stripped off his shorts and T-shirt, then pulled on a pair of loose-fitting silk trousers and a velvet waistcoat that left his arms and chest bare. Next he took out a tub of what looked like jelly, except that it was coloured gold. Body paint. He scooped some out and rubbed it between his palms, then smeared it over his arms, neck and face. He signalled to Tom, who grimaced and then finished his shoulders. All his visible skin was now gold.

  Finally he brought out gold sandals, a white turban with a single mauve feather, and a plain half-mask, just big enough to cover his eyes. He had asked the costume shop to supply him with everything he would need to become a Turkish slave. He hoped the overall effect didn’t make him look as ridiculous as he felt.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Tom nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You know, you do look a bit sad,” he muttered.

  “I don’t care … so long as it works.”

  “I think you’re completely mad.”

  Alex watched as more people arrived at the palace. If his plan was going to work, he had to choose the right moment. He also had to wait for the right guests. They were still coming thick and fast, milling around the main entrance while the guards checked their invitations. He glanced over at the canal. A water taxi had just pulled in and a couple were climbing out, a man in a frock coat and a woman in a black cloak that trailed behind her. Both were masked. They were perfect.

  He nodded to Tom. “Now.”

  “Good luck, Alex.” Tom took something out of the sports bag and darted forward, making no attempt to avoid being seen. Seconds later Alex stole round the edge of the square, keeping to the shadows.

  There was a snarl-up at the entrance. A guard was holding an invitation and questioning one of the guests. That was helpful too. Alex needed as much confusion as possible. Tom must have seen that this was the right moment, because suddenly there was a loud bang and all heads turned to see a boy capering in the square, laughing and shouting. He had just let off a firework and, with everyone watching, he lit another.

  “Come stai?” he shouted. How are you? “Quanto tempo ci vuole per andare a Roma?” How long does it take to get to Rome? Alex had picked the phrases out of a guidebook. They were the only Italian Tom had been able to learn.

  Tom threw the second firework and there was another bang. At the same time, Alex hurried down to the canal just as the two guests climbed the steps to the square. His sandals flapped on the paving stones as he ran, but nobody noticed him. They were all staring at Tom, who was singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at the top of his voice. Alex bent down and picked up the train of the woman’s cloak. As she headed towards the main entrance he walked behind her, holding the material off the ground.

  It worked exactly as he had hoped. The crowd quickly tired of the mad English boy who was making a fool of himself. One of the guards had already been sent to deal with him. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Tom turn and run away. The couple reached the door and the man in the frock coat handed over their invitation. A guard glanced at the new arrivals and ushered them through. He had assumed that Alex was with the guests; they had brought a Turkish boy with them as part of their disguise. Meanwhile, the guests had assumed that Alex worked in the palace and had been sent to escort them in. Why else would he have appeared?

  The three of them passed through the door and into a grand reception hall with a domed, mosaic-covered ceiling, white columns and a marble floor. A pair of double-height glass doors opened onto a courtyard with a fountain surrounded by ornamental shrubs and flowers. At least a hundred guests were gathered there, chatting, laughing and drinking champagne from crystal glasses. It was obvious they were all pleased to be there. Servants, dressed identically to the ones outside, circulated with silver trays of food. A man sitting at a harpsichord played Mozart and Vivaldi. In keeping with the atmosphere, all the electric lights had been turned off, but there were beacons mounted on the walls as well as dozens of oil lamps, their flames bowing and dancing in the evening breeze.

  Alex had followed his lord and lady into the courtyard but now he dropped the cloak and slipped away to one side. He looked up. The palace rose three floors above him, connected by a spiralling staircase like the one he had seen at the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo. The first floor opened onto a gallery with yet more arches and columns, and some of the guests had made their way up there and were strolling slowly together, gazing down on the crowds below. Looking around him, Alex found it hard to believe that it really was the twenty-first century. A perfect illusion had been created within the palace walls.

  Now that he was here, he was unsure what to do. Had he really found Scorpia? How could he be sure? It occurred to him that if Yassen Gregorovich had been telling the truth and his father had once worked for these people, they might be happy to meet him. He would ask them what had happened, how his father had died, and they would tell him. He had no need to creep around in disguise.

  But suppose he was wrong? He remembered the look of fear on the old woman’s face when he had mentioned the name Scorpia. And then there were the hard-eyed men working outside the palace. They spoke no English and Alex doubted he would be able to explain what he was doing if they caught him. By the time someone had laid their hands on an English dictionary, he might find himself floating face down in the canal.

  No. He had to find out more before he made his move. Who was this woman – Mrs Rothman? What was she doing here? It seemed incredible to Alex that a grand masked ball in a Venetian palace could in any way be connected to a murder that had taken place fourteen years ago.

  The notes of the harpsichord rang out. The conversation was getting louder as more and more people arrived. Most of them had removed their masks – it was impossible otherwise to eat or drink – and Alex saw that this was truly an international gathering. The guests were mainly speaking in Italian but there were many black and Asian faces among the crowd. He caught sight of a short Chinese man deep in discussion with another man who had a diamond set into one of his front teeth. A woman he thought he knew crossed the courtyard in front of him, and with a start he recognized her as one of the most famous film actresses in the world. Now that he looked around he saw that the place was packed with Hollywood stars. Why had they been invited? Then he remembered. This was the beginning of September, the time of the Venice International Film Festival. Well, that told him something about Mrs Rothman if she had the clout to invite celebrities like these.

  Alex knew he mustn’t linger too long. He was the only teenager in the palace and it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed him. He was horribly exposed. His arms and shoulders were bare. The silk trousers were so thin he could hardly feel them on him. The Turkish disguise might have enabled him to get in, but it was awkward and unhelpful now that he was actually here. He decided to make a move. There was no sign of Mrs Rothman on the ground floor. She was the person he most wanted to see. Perhaps he would find her somewhere upstairs.

  He made his way through the party-goers and climbed the spiral staircase. He reached the gallery and saw a series of doors leading off into the palace itself. It was less crowded here and a few people glanced curiously at him as he proceeded. Alex knew that the important thing was not to hesitate. If he allowed himself to be challenged, he would soon be thrown out. He went through a door and found himself in an area that was a cross between a very wide corridor and a room in its own right. A gold-framed mirror hung on one wall above an ornate antique table, on which was a large vase of flowers. A huge wardrobe stood opposite. Apart from this, the area was empty
.

  There was a door at the far end and Alex was about to continue towards it, when he heard muffled voices approaching. He looked around for somewhere to hide. There was only the wardrobe. He didn’t have time to slip inside, but he slid against the wall next to it. Like the courtyard, this floor was lit by oil lamps. He hoped the bulk of the wardrobe would cast a large enough shadow to conceal him.

  The door opened. Two people came out, talking in English: one a man, the other a woman.

  “We have received the release certificates and the batch will be on its way the day after tomorrow.” The man was speaking. “As I explained to you, Mrs Rothman, timing is everything.”

  “The cold chain.”

  “Exactly. The cold chain cannot be broken. The boxes will be flown to England. After that.”

  “Thank you, Dr Liebermann. You have done very well.”

  The two of them had stopped, just out of sight from where Alex was hiding. However, leaning forward slightly, he could see their reflections in the mirror.

  Mrs Rothman was stunning. There was no other way for Alex to describe her. She was more like a film star than any of the actresses he had seen downstairs, her long black hair falling in waves to her shoulders. She had a mask, but it was in her hand, on the end of a wooden rod, so he was able to see her face: the brilliant dark eyes, the blood-red lips, the perfect teeth. She was wearing a fantastic dress made of ivory-coloured lace, and somehow Alex knew that it wasn’t a costume but a real antique. A gold necklace set with dark blue sapphires circled her throat.

  Her companion was also wearing fancy dress – a long, fur-lined cloak, a wide-brimmed hat and leather gloves. He too was holding a mask but it was an ugly thing with small eyes and a long beak. He had come as a traditional plague doctor and, Alex thought, he hardly needed the disguise. His face was pale and lifeless, his lips flecked with saliva. He was very tall, towering over Mrs Roth-man. Yet still, somehow, she dwarfed him. Alex wondered why he had been invited.

  “You do promise me, Mrs Rothman,” Dr Liebermann said, taking off a pair of heavy glasses and wiping them nervously. “Nobody is going to get hurt.”

  “Does it really matter?” she replied. “You’re being paid five million euros. A small fortune. Think about it, Dr Liebermann. You’re set up for life.”

  Alex risked another glance and saw the woman standing side-on, waiting for the man to speak. Dr Liebermann was frozen. Caught between greed and fear.

  “I don’t know,” he rasped. “Perhaps if you were paying me more.”

  “Then maybe we’ll have to think about doing just that!” Mrs Rothman sounded completely relaxed. “But let’s not spoil the party by talking about business. I’m coming down to Amalfi myself in two days’ time. I want to be there when the batch leaves, and we can talk about money then.” She smiled. “Right now, let’s go and have a glass of champagne and I can introduce you to some of my famous friends.”

  They had started walking again and as they talked they went past Alex. For a moment he was tempted to show himself. This was the woman he had come to find. He should approach her before she disappeared into the crowd. But at the same time he was intrigued. Release certificates and cold chains. He wondered what they had been talking about. Once again he decided it would be better to find out a little more before he revealed himself.

  He stepped out into the corridor and went down to the door through which Mrs Rothman and her companion had come. He opened it and found himself in a huge room – and one that could truly be called palatial. It must have been at least thirty metres long, with a row of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave wonderful views over the Grand Canal. The floor was polished wood but almost everything else was white. There was a massive fireplace made of white marble with a pale tiger-skin rug (Alex winced; he could think of nothing more disgusting) spread out in front of it. White bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with leather-bound books, and, next to a second door, Alex saw a white antique table on which lay what looked like a remote control device for a TV. In the centre of the room stood a solid walnut desk. Mrs Rothman’s? Alex went over to it.

  The surface was bare apart from a white leather blotting pad and a tray with two silver fountain pens. Alex imagined Mrs Rothman sitting here. It was the sort of desk a judge or a company chairman would have, a desk designed to impress. He looked around quickly, checking there were no security cameras, then tried one of the drawers. It was unlocked but it contained only writing paper and envelopes. He tried the next drawer down. Surprisingly, that one opened too and this time he found himself looking at some sort of brochure with a yellow cover and a name printed in black:

  CONSANTO

  ENTERPRISES

  He opened the brochure. On the first page was a picture of a building. It was obviously high-tech, long and angular with walls made entirely of reflective glass. There was an address at the bottom: Via Nuova, Amalfi.

  Amalfi. That was the place Mrs Rothman had mentioned a few moments earlier.

  He flicked over to another page. There were photos of various men and women in suits and white coats. The staff of Consanto, perhaps? One of them – in the middle of the top row – was Harold Liebermann. His name was printed underneath but the text was in Italian. Alex wouldn’t be able to learn anything from it. He closed the brochure and tried another drawer.

  Something moved.

  Alex had been sure he was alone. He had been surprised that there was no sign of any security in the room, particularly if this was Mrs Rothman’s study. But he was suddenly aware that something had changed. It took him a few seconds to realize what it was, and at once he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

  What he had taken to be a tiger-skin rug had just stood up.

  It was a tiger, alive and angry.

  A Siberian tiger. How did he know it was Siberian? The colour, of course. The stripes were more white and gold than orange and black, and there weren’t so many as usual. As the creature turned its gaze on him, weighing him up, Alex tried to remember what he knew about this rarest of species. There were fewer than five hundred Siberian tigers left in the wild, with only slightly more in captivity. It was the largest living cat in the world. And … yes! It had retractable claws. That was a very useful piece of information to consider as the animal prepared to tear him apart.

  Because Alex had no doubt that that was exactly what was about to happen. The tiger seemed to have awoken from a deep sleep but its yellow eyes were now fixed on him and he could almost hear the messages being sent to the brain. Food. That was another thing, he remembered now. A Siberian tiger could eat one hundred pounds of meat in a single sitting. By the time this one finished with him, there wouldn’t be a great deal left.

  Alex’s mind was in a whirl. What exactly had he stumbled on in the Widow’s Palace? What sort of woman didn’t bother with locks and security cameras but kept a live tiger by her desk? The creature stretched. Alex saw the perfect muscles rippling beneath the thick fur. He tried to move but found that he couldn’t. He wondered what had happened to him, then realized. He was terrified. Rooted to the spot. He was just steps away from a predator that had, for centuries, inspired dread across the world. It was almost beyond belief that this animal should have found itself imprisoned in a Venetian palace. But it was here. That was all that mattered. And whatever the surroundings, the carnage would be the same.

  The tiger growled. It was a low, rumbling noise, more terrible than anything Alex had ever heard. He tried to find the strength to move, to put a barrier between them. But there was nothing.

  The tiger took a stride forward. It was preparing to spring. Its eyes had darkened. Its jaw hung open, revealing two lines of white, dagger-sharp teeth. It growled a second time, louder and more continuous.

  Then it leapt.

  FLOOD TIDE

  Alex did the only thing he could. Faced with five hundred pounds of snarling tiger hurtling towards him, he fell to his knees, slid along the wooden floor and disappeared under the desk. The
tiger landed above him. He could sense its bulk, separated from him only by the surface of the desk – and he could hear its claws gouging into the wood. Two things went through his mind. The first was the sheer improbability of coming face to face with a live tiger. The second was the knowledge that, if he didn’t find a way out of the room fast, this might be the last thought he would ever have.

  He had a choice of two doors. The one he had come in through was the closest. The tiger was half on the floor, half on the desk, momentarily confused. In the forest it would have found him at once, but this world was alien to it. Alex seized his chance and scrambled forward. It was only when he was out in the open, away from the scant protection of the desk, that he realized he wasn’t going to make it.

  The tiger was watching him. Alex had twisted round, his hands behind him, his legs bent sideways, in the act of standing up. The tiger’s front paws were resting on the desk. Neither of them moved. Alex knew that the door was too far away. There was nowhere else to hide. A surge of anger flooded through him. He should never have come in here. He should have been more careful.

  The tiger roared. A deep, rattling blast of air that made every nerve tingle. It was, quite simply, the sound of terror.

  And then the second door opened and a man came in.

  All Alex’s attention was fixed on the tiger, but he noticed that the man wasn’t wearing a costume. He was dressed in a polo-neck jersey, jeans and trainers; the clothes looked quietly, confidently expensive. And from the way they clung to the muscles in his arms and chest, Alex could see that he was extremely fit. He was young, in his mid-twenties. And he was black.

  But there was something wrong.

  The man turned his head and Alex saw that one side of his face was covered in strange white blotches, as if he had been involved in some sort of chemical accident or perhaps a fire. Then Alex noticed his hands. They too were different colours. The man should have been handsome. But in fact he was just a mess.