ninety percent of the original demand: 16.8 million dollars.
“Number four. British CEO. Also wealthy major stockholder. Kidnappers are clear: No K and R, no Policia Civil. Huge ransom demand. Several of the corporation board members have pull in British government. Supersecret Special Event Team flown in under the radar of Brazilian government. But they're out of their league, lose a couple of guys, muck up the negotiations. They're pulled out just as secretly as they came in, tails between their legs. But they've caused a hell of a lot of trouble for the kidnappers. Immediately two other corporation employees die-in an automobile accident. Kidnappers notify family that other employees will die (accidentally) if ransom isn't paid. They pay up. The kidnappers got one hundred percent of the ransom they had asked for: 22 million dollars.”
When Burden stopped, Titus thought he saw a pleased expression that indicated that the case synopses he'd just been through drew some telling conclusions. But with the recounting of each incident, Titus only grew more depressed. In fact, Burden's serene demeanor was beginning to get on his nerves. Titus's entire life had been uprooted not more than fifteen hours earlier, and it was far from clear whether it could be salvaged. In light of that, he found Burden's composure and apparent lack of a sense of urgency offensive.
“I don't see any damn reason for optimism here, ”Titus said. His stomach was knotting. “I want to know where the hell you think you're going with all this.”
Burden's calm expression gave way to something more sober, and he reached over to a side table and picked up a remote control. The light rose on the long photograph on the wall, illuminating it slowly, subtly. The picture was stunning.
The nude woman reclined on her right side against a charcoal background and looked directly at the camera with a sad, penetrating gaze. Her hair, darker than the background, fell over her left shoulder and stopped just above her left breast. Her left arm lay languidly along the fluid line of her waist, hip, and thigh, while she supported herself on the elbow of her right arm. In her upturned right hand, which rested in a position equidistant between her breasts and the dark delta between her thighs, she held a tiny, huddling, jet black monkey so incredibly small that it was completely contained within her palm. This queer, startled little creature gaped at the camera with outsized eyes, as if he were seeing the most astonishing thing that a monkey could ever behold. Its silky, ebony tail was coiled desperately around the woman's pale wrist, his wee hands pressed together in an attitude of prayerful concern.
“She, ”Burden said, “is the sister of the Spanish executive in Tano's case number three, the widow of the man who was set afire in the driveway of the family home.”
“Jesus! ”Titus stared at the woman. “When was this taken?”
“Two weeks after her husband's funeral.”
“What?”
“Her idea. Every detail.”
“Why?”
Burden looked at the picture, studying it as if it were an image of infinite fascination for him, as if he could turn his attention to it at any time and find it provocative and of enduring curiosity.
“Often, ”he said, “with women, the why of how they express their grief over the violent death of someone they love is inexplicable. I mean, the ‘logic’of how they express it. It's an intensely inward thing. Deeply embedded. The fact that she seems, here, to be acting in a way that's the absolute opposite of private or personal”-he shrugged-“well, it only seems so. We misunderstand her.”
Titus looked at Burden studying the photograph and wondered what was going through his mind. He glanced around the room. There were framed black-and-white photographs in a variety of sizes hanging on the walls, propped against bookshelves, resting against the sides of his desk, sometimes two or three stacked one in front of the other. All of them, all that Titus could see, were of women, mostly portraits.
“It's my guess, however, ”Burden went on, “that if this woman's husband could know today what she has done in her grief, he would be shocked. The incident in extremis that prompted her behavior was his death, so as long as he was alive he would never have seen this… unusual aspect of her psyche.”
Church bells began ringing, first one and then another farther off, then another in a different direction, and still another. The air was singing with them.
Burden broke his gaze at the photograph and stood.
“I want you to remember this photograph and this story, Mr. Cain. As we decide how to address your dilemma, at some point along the way-this inevitably happens-you're going to be tempted to believe that you know best about how to extricate yourself from this ordeal that you are about to suffer. You're going to think that you don't need to listen to me, that you have better instincts for what ought to be done at some particular point or another.”
He paused a beat and almost smiled, his face taking on an expression that Titus didn't really understand and which made him uneasy.
“If you don't want me to see how your own wife might react to your death, ”he said, glancing at the photograph, “you need to listen to me. You need to do what I tell you to do… the way I tell you to do it.”
Surprised at Burden's abrupt conclusion, Titus stood, too.
“Lalia will be here in a moment to show you where you can freshen up, ”Burden said. “I'll join you downstairs for lunch in twenty minutes.”
Without any further explanation, Burden left Titus standing where he was and walked out of his study.
Chapter 12
Standing alone in the room, Titus looked again at the picture. Burden's rather creative warning was vivid and had blindsided him with its almost cruel undertone. It was unnerving, as he imagined Burden had intended it to be.
He picked up one of the books lying on a library table and read the title: The History, Culture, and Religion of the Hellenistic Age. He flipped through it and saw that the pages were heavily annotated in brown ink. He picked up another: Spanish Red: An Ethnogeographical Study of Cochineal and the Opuntia Cactus. Again heavily annotated. He bent down and looked at the book lying open, the fountain pen in its gutter: The Liar's Tale: A History of Falsehood. More marginalia in brown ink. The book next to this one had a dozen page markers sticking out of it: The Natural History of the Soul in Ancient Mexico.
Titus was surprised. He had expected to find books on intelligence systems, cryptography, international crime, terrorism, drug trade… kidnapping. None of that here. But clearly Burden had his resources. The room where the three women were working must have held a vast amount of information, and he remembered that in their telephone conversation Burden had mentioned his archives.
A shadow in the doorway caused him to look up. Lalia was standing there, smiling at him in her radiant colors. He followed her light, barefooted step around the balcony to the other side. She left him alone in a spacious bedroom where the linens smelled of lilac and the fireplace scents hinted vaguely of November fires.
While she waited outside the door on the loggia, he washed and splashed cool water on his face and combed his hair. He was tempted to call Rita-it was the dinner hour in Venice- but, again, he didn't have anything to tell her except that he was in trouble. That wouldn't do.
His neck ached, and he recognized the stiff beginnings of a tension headache. Tucking in his shirttail, he thought of the photograph of the Argentine widow and her monkey, and of how Burden had chosen to give it a position in his study that practically defined the place. Titus was sure that there was more to the picture than met the eye or that was hinted at in Burden's explication. And he was sure, too, that there was more to Garcia Burden than a lifetime of knowing him would ever allow anyone to understand.
He followed the colorful Lalia downstairs to a dining room, one entire wall of which was open to the courtyard. Sitting alone, he was served by two young Indian girls who urged him to go ahead and eat.
For a little while he enjoyed the food and beer. The echoing birdsong spilling out of the colonnades and dying into the undertones of the fountain were almost soporific, even comforting. Then, unexpectedly, this momentary peace caught in his throat like a sob, and he found himself on the verge of tears. Jesus, what was happening to him? He put down his beer and fought to control himself, baffled by the sudden burst of intense feelings. Embarrassed, he swallowed. And then swallowed again.
