and in several more she'd never even considered. Her head throbbed in sympathy, and she rubbed her temples before she realized that she was supposed to be asleep.
Beside her, she could hear small sounds, and she wondered what Bravo was doing. He was an enigma, impossible to read. Every time she thought she had a grip on who he was, something cropped up to prove her wrong. Take that photo of himself as a child, for instance. You'd think he would have been happy to know that his father carried it with him wherever he went. Instead, she had sensed his instant withdrawal. But in truth, she knew he wasn't the only one to blame. Her own secrets loomed large, feeling like a chasm she was less and less able to cross to get to him.
With an effort, she turned her mind away from Bravo, and once again took that mental step backward, struggling to gain perspective on the big picture. Yes, it was true, she didn't like that big picture, but for the life of her she did not know why.
'I'm having second thoughts about whom I assigned to the Venice task,' Jordan said to his mother.
They were gliding through the glittering Parisian night in one of Lusignan et Cie's fleet of limousines. In the low light, sitting side by side, they could be mistaken for brother and sister.
'Perhaps I should use Brunner instead,' Jordan continued.
'From Lucerne?' Camille said, her voice unnaturally sharp. 'I'm sure that was Spagna's idea. As I've said before, darling, this man has altogether too much influence over your decisions. Besides, Cornadoro is already en route to Venice to be their protector.'
Outside, the Seine glimmered beneath the cool blueish light of a half-moon, glimpsed between the sentinel rows of horse chestnuts beneath whose leafy arms Bravo and Dexter Shaw had walked and spoken in secret for almost the last time.
'I can always recall him.'
'The decision has already been made.'
'You're not angry, are you, Mother?'
'Certainly not.'
Camille took a moment to stare out the window at the lovers strolling the cobbled banks and the ornate bridges of the river. Oh, to be young and innocent and in love, she thought. Then, as quickly as she had conjured it up, she banished the thought from her mind, and she was in full control again. Those days were long gone, part of another life, when she had been a different person. Or had she ever been different? Lately, she found it difficult to know. She did not even know whether she would want that life back again because, in the end, it had been nothing more than a cruel mirage, slipping like sand through her fingers.
'I am surprised, however,' she went on. 'You know Cornadoro's reputation as well as I do. He's the best we have. The very best.'
'As Spagna pointed out, he has an exceptionally strong personality and can be headstrong as well as willful.'
'He's also extremely clever, utterly ruthless and absolutely loyal.' Camille leaned forward, murmured a location to the driver, who immediately turned away from the Seine, heading into the Left Bank's upscale seventh arrondisement. 'Now that Ivo and Donatella are gone, it seems to me that he's the perfect choice.'
'He's not subtle enough to be able to lure the Guardian away.'
'Sometimes women don't respond to subtlety. Surely you know his reputation with women,' Camille said. 'It's my considered opinion that in this area Jenny Logan is terribly vulnerable. St. Malo gave me the measure of the Guardian. Has Spagna even met her?'
'You have a point.'
'This is anything but an ordinary operation, my love. A mistake now could prove irreparable.' She looked out as they turned into rue de la Comete, searching for the shop lights.
'Bien. Cornadoro it is,' Jordan nodded. 'On one condition.'
The limo had stopped in front of a shop whose hand-painted sign said Thoumieux Couteaux. They got out, Camille leading the way into the shop. It was small and cramped inside. The walls were covered with photos of knives, the small glass case at the rear displayed three neat tiers of elegant knives, all handmade.
'Bon soir, Madame Muhlmann.' The small man bustled out from behind the display case. He had a bald head and the long fingers, elegant as his knives, of a surgeon.
'Is it ready?' Camille asked.
'Bien sur, madame.' He smiled shyly. 'Precisely to madame's specifications.' He held a small knife in his open palm.
Camille took it. It was a small stainless-steel folder with pearl scales. She touched the hidden mechanism and the blade popped open. He slid across the counter copies of the two photos she had taken and sent to him via her cell phone. Consulting them, she satisfied herself that he had made an exact replica the knife she had found hidden away in Jenny's compact.
She thanked the knife-maker as she paid him. Outside the shop, she turned to Jordan. 'What is your condition for using Damon Cornadoro?'
'I've told him to use the name Michael Berio. Jenny Logan will recognize his real name, I'm quite certain.' Jordan smiled the secret smile he reserved only for her. It was an expression of intimacy, and of complicity. 'You're right: we've waited patiently, planned for too long-at this stage we cannot afford any mistakes. You'll monitor him in the field, keep him on a tight leash. Just be careful.'
'You know I will,' Camille said, entering the limo with him.
The long black car edged away from the curb, turned a corner. In a moment, it had vanished into the stream of nighttime traffic.
Chapter 14
Bravo and Jenny arrived in Venice more or less on time. As Jordan had promised, they were met at Marco Polo Airport by a man who introduced himself as Michael Berio. He was tall and very fit-looking, with wide shoulders, sturdy runner's legs and not an ounce of fat to be seen. His hair, cut long in the current Venetian fashion, was thick and prematurely white, curling at the nape of his neck. His face was wide, with prominent cheeks and jawline and unblinking eyes the color of the lagoon at night. He was dressed in loose black clothes and seemed to move on gimbals, in the manner of a martial arts expert. His eyes lingered on Jenny-not just her face, but her body as well.
He led them outside into the humid night. 'I have a private motoscafo waiting for you,' he said in a mild voice that belied his physical presence. And there it was, rocking gently at its mooring several hundred yards from the terminal doors, the mahogany facing gleaming, the brass fittings glittering in the moonlight.
As Jenny was about to step onto the motorboat Berio caught her around the waist and swung her onto the deck. He held her a moment too long, his eyes locked on hers, then he went to cast off the lines as Bravo came on board. The guttural sound of the engines echoed off the stone facade of the bulkhead, and they nosed out into the black water.
At all times of the day, Venice appeared suspended between sea and sky, but it was at night when it seemed like a city out of a fairy tale, its design resembling a gigantic seashell. Crossing the flat water of the lagoon at speed, Venice was twinned, its perfect reflection spread across the water like a mirage. The moon, painted as if by Tiepolo in the midnight pigment of the sky, burst across the water in ten thousand tiny scimitars, as if reminding these new guests of the city's Eastern roots, the fabulous trade with Constantinople that in centuries past had made the fortunes of the merchants and doges of the Serene Republic.
Here and there, stars glimmered, their light, along with that of the moon, frosting every detail of the Gothic campaniles, Byzantine basilicas, Renaissance libraries, Flamboyant Gothic palaces.
Standing beside Bravo, Jenny could feel him relax. It was as if the outermost layer he had donned during their flight had been peeled away by the soft wind of the lagoon.
'I feel like I'm home.' His voice was tinged with wonder, as if it was filled with the same starlight that made city, sky and sea gleam as one. He took a deep breath, let it out. 'Smell that, Jenny? All the centuries, year by year, lie beneath the water, waiting to be resurrected.'
