“I like you.”
He smiled. He was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, with a bright, round face and mischievous eyes. He was one of the few men she’d encountered who made her feel mentally inadequate, and she loved that feeling. He’d taught her so much.
“Coming here is one of the great perks of my job,” Ely said.
He’d told her about his retreat in the mountains, east of Samarkand, close to the Chinese border, but this was her first visit. The three-room cabin was built with stout timber, nestled in the woods off the main highway, about two thousand meters above sea level. A short walk through the trees brought them to this perch and the spectacular mountain view.
“You own the cabin?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The widow of a shopkeeper in the village owns it. She offered it to me last year, when I came here for a visit. The money I pay in rent helps her live, and I get to enjoy all this.”
She loved his quiet manner. Never raised his voice or uttered a profanity. Just a simple man who loved the past. “Have you found what you wanted?”
He motioned to the rocky ground and the magenta earth. “Here?”
She shook her head. “In Asia.”
He seemed to consider her question in earnest. She allowed him the luxury of his thoughts and watched as snow trickled down one of the distant flanks.
“I believe I have,” he said.
She grinned at his assertion. “And what have you accomplished?”
“I met you.”
Flattery never worked with her. Men tried all the time. But with Ely it was different. “Besides that,” she said.
“I’ve learned that the past never dies.”
“Can you talk about it?”
The barking stopped and the weak patter of some far-off rivulet could be heard.
“Not now,” he said.
She wrapped her arm around him, brought him close, and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Her eyes moistened at the memory. Ely had been special in so many ways. His death came as a shock, similar to when she learned that her father died, or when her mother succumbed to a cancer nobody knew she’d harbored. Too much pain. Too many heartbreaks.
She spotted a pair of yellow lights heading her way, the boat plowing a course straight for Torcello. Two water taxis had already come and gone, shuttling patrons to and from the restaurant.
This could be another.
She’d meant what she’d said to Malone. Ely had been murdered. She possessed no proof. Just her gut. But that feeling had always served her well. Thorvaldsen, God bless him, had sensed she needed a resolution, which was why he’d sent, without argument, the cloth bag she cradled in a tight embrace, and the gun snuggled at her belt. She hated Irina Zovastina, and Viktor, and anyone else who’d driven her to this moment.
The boat slowed, its engine weakening.
The low-lying craft was similar to the one she and Malone had rented. Its course was straight for the canal entrance and, as the craft drew closer, in the amber light from its helm, she spotted not a nondescript taximan but Viktor.
Early.
Which was fine.
She wanted to handle this without Malone.
STEPHANIE EASED ACROSS SAN MARCO SQUARE, THE HIGH GOLDEN baubles of the basilica lit to the night. Chairs and tables stretched out from the arcades across the famous pavement in symmetrical rows. A couple of ensembles stringed away in blithe disharmony. The usual rabble of tourists, guides, vendors, beggars, and touts seemed diminished by the deteriorating weather.
She passed the celebrated bronze flagpoles and the impressive campanile, closed for the night. A smell of fish, pepper, and a hint of clove caught her attention. Somber pools of light illuminated the square in a golden hue. Pigeons, which dominated by day, were gone. Any other time the scene would be romantic.
But now she was on guard.
Ready.
MALONE SEARCHED THE CROWD FOR STEPHANIE AS THE BELLS high in the campanile pealed out ten P.M. A breeze blew in from the south and swirled the mist-muffled air. He was glad for his jacket, beneath which he concealed one of the guns Thorvaldsen had provided Cassiopeia.
The brightly lit basilica dominated one end of the old square, a museum the other, everything mellowed by years of glory and splendor. Visitors milled through the long arcades, many searching the shop windows for possible treasures. The trattorias, coffee shops, and gelato stands, shielded from the weather by the arcade, were all doing a brisk business.
He surveyed the piazza. Maybe six hundred feet long by three hundred wide. Bordered on three sides by a continuous row of artistic buildings that seemed to form one vast marble palace. Across the damp square, through bobbing umbrellas, he spotted Stephanie, who was walking briskly toward the south arcade.
He stood beneath the north arcade, which stretched to his right for what seemed like forever from the basilica, toward the museum at the far end.
Among the crowd, one man caught his attention.
He stood alone, dressed in an olive green overcoat, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Something about the way he stopped and started down the arcade, hesitating at each archway, his attention focused outward, caught Malone’s attention.
Malone decided to take advantage of his anonymity and head toward the problem. He kept one eye on Stephanie and the other on the man in the olive coat. It only took a moment for him to determine that the man was definitely interested in her.
Then he spied more trouble in a beige raincoat at the far end of the arcade, the other man’s attention also directed out into the piazza.
Two suitors.
Malone kept walking, taking in the voices, laughter, a fragrance of perfume, the click-clack of heels. The two men joined together, then abandoned their positions, turning left, hustling toward the south arcade, which Stephanie had now entered.