'Emma, I love you.'
He severed the line and put the cell phone away. By that time the food had come. He ate without tasting a thing. With the information about Emma and Jenny buzzing in his head he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
The light was fading. Along Trabzon's crescent shoreline the sea was zebra-striped. Boats lay at anchor or in their slips, rocking gently as if they were children drifting off to sleep. In the heart of the Old City, Damon Cornadoro turned a corner, went down the block toward Mikhail Kartli's carpet shop. He had his orders and, like all loyal soldiers, he would carry them out to the best of his abilities, and he would succeed. With all the bewildering variables in the world, Cornadoro was grateful that his skills weren't one of them. He was absolutely confident in himself. He did not, like others, feel fear. The sensation was unknown to him-ever since, on a dare, he had stuck his arm in the flames of a Venetian street fire. He had been sixteen at the time, but street-smart beyond his years. Though a scion of one of the Case Vecchie, he preferred to slum. When he'd been challenged, he knew just what to do. He'd turned away, rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together, as if preparing himself for the ordeal. In fact, that was precisely what he was doing, though not in the way any of the onlookers understood. He was coating his right arm with axle grease.
During this time he was keeping up a steady stream of boasting, daring more people to bet against him, furthering his odds. Classic misdirection, diverting the onlookers' attention from seeing how he was protecting his arm. Then, so quickly it brought a gasp to those crowded around, he thrust his right arm up to the elbow into the crackling fire, held it there for a full thirty seconds, before removing it. Holding up the arm, he laughed at the looks of astonishment on their faces, and jovially collected his winnings.
Now as Cornadoro came upon the Georgian's shop, he felt no trepidation, simply a desire to accomplish his task. Camille had warned him not to underestimate Kartli; Cornadoro had learned to take her warnings seriously.
The young girl Irema, the Georgian's daughter, who Kartli had ordered home during his altercation with Braverman Shaw, had not, in fact, done as her dear papa had ordered but had melted into the throng, hanging at the fringes, moving here and there, watching the shape of her father's anger. Cornadoro had noted this, and he would not forget. He passed her now as she at last decided that it was time to leave.
One of her brothers was folding small rugs, taking them off the rickety wooden stands outside the shop, preparatory to bringing them inside for the night.
'We're closed,' he said without looking up or pausing in his work. 'Please come back tomorrow morning.'
'I must see Mikhail Kartli,' Cornadoro said.
The young man glanced up. 'Must?'
'I've come a long way to see him.' Cornadoro stood his ground. 'All the way from Rhodes.'
At the last word, the young man stopped folding rugs. Something swam in his eyes-what was it? Fear, consternation, perhaps a bit of both. So it should be; Rhodes was the home of the Knights of St. Clement. Cornadoro was pleased.
The young man put down the rug. 'Please wait here,' he said as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the interior of the shop. Lights, the yellow of a mongrel's tooth, were coming on all over the city. New reflections turned the shopwindows into blind eyes.
Mikhail Kartli appeared in the doorway, spent a moment warily eyeing his visitor. At length, he emerged onto the street. 'What can I do for you?'
'I think it's more what I can do for you.'
Cornadoro stepped briskly forward but stopped when the Georgian held up his hand.
'First, your weapon of choice. The push-dagger, if you please.'
Cornadoro laughed good-naturedly. 'I commend you, Georgian, your intel is excellent.' He produced the push-dagger he'd used to slit Father Damaskinos's throat, held it out, handle first. Kartli nodded and his son took it.
'For safekeeping,' Kartli said. 'It will be returned to you when you leave.'
Cornadoro inclined his upper torso in a slightly ironic mock-bow. He now produced a small metal tin, which he held out to the Georgian.
'What is this?'
'A gift,' Cornadoro said, 'from one connoisseur to another.'
'Open it, please,' Kartli commanded.
'By all means.' Cornadoro freed the latch, raised the box's top. At once, a delicately aromatic scent perfumed the air.
Kartli's eyes opened wide. 'Bai Ji Guan.'
Cornadoro nodded. 'White Rooster Crest, a first generation tea, as you know, one of the four WuYi Mountain rock oolongs.'
'Very rare, very costly,' Kartli said, taking possession of the box.
Cornadoro shrugged. 'If it pleases you, there's more where that came from.' Inside he was smiling broadly; Camille had been right again, they'd scored a direct hit.
'Come with me,' Kartli said, leading the way into the interior of the shop. Oil lamps had been lit, spilling pools of warm light across the magnificent tapestry of the rugs. The son brought coffee-no tea and no food. This form of the ritual told Cornadoro that the meeting was preliminary, the intentions of his host at this point neutral.
He sat on a pile of Tabriz carpets, accepted the coffee with-out sugar. After they had both partaken of the coffee, he put aside his cup. The son lounged in the background, text-messaging on his cell phone.
'You know me.'
Kartli nodded. 'Damon Cornadoro. Knight of St. Clement.'
'Not so, I never took the formal vows.'
Kartli cocked his head. 'Am I wrong, are you not working for the Knights?'
'On occasion I do,' Cornadoro acknowledged. 'I am, however, an independent operator.'
'Then we are the same, you and I. As of today, I have severed my affiliation with the Order.'
This comment piqued Cornadoro's interest. Had he not observed the Georgian's falling out with Braverman Shaw with his own eyes, he would have been suspicious of such a radical change.
'One avenue closes,' he said, 'others open to take its place. It is said that Cherry Bateman trained you.'
Cornadoro inclined his head. 'Bateman is the avenue I chose-or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he chose me.'
'Bateman is an American.'
'I am Venetian and you are Georgian. What of it?'
'All across the globe,' Mikhail Kartli said, 'nationalism is on the march. It is a source of strength nothing else can match.' He eyed Cornadoro shrewdly. 'I think you know this.'
'Cherry Bateman is an American by birth only. He is a citizen of Italy, he has renounced America. He has renounced his son Donovan, who remains in America.'
'This would make a difference.'
'Of course. It is important to see things as they are, rather than as they seem to be.' Cornadoro spread his hands. 'You and Bateman. I could be mistaken, of course.' He allowed himself a smile. 'It wouldn't be the first time. But in the event I'm not wrong I would be prepared to arrange an introduction. You might find your time in the Veneto extremely constructive-as well as potentially helpful to the Georgian cause.'
'And in return, you would want… what?'
'Information.' Cornadoro smiled outwardly, even as he relaxed inwardly. He felt the unmistakable tug of the hook going in. 'Information on Braverman Shaw.'
Chapter 26
