“Give me five minutes,” Palewski said thoughtfully. When Alfredo had gone he adjusted his stock carefully in the mirror.
Damn, but he was so close!
He’d all but scripted the sultan’s speech. Now he murmured his own modest reply to the reflection in the glass. No credit for discovery… blah blah… painting of venerable ancestor… not from me… proud nation… day of deliverance… blah blah… your house among the greatest, and oldest, of friends… et cetera, et cetera…
Yashim had been right, as usual-tracking down the Bellini was the coup of the year. Abdulmecid would eat from his hand.
He sighed and pulled on his overcoat.
51
Sometimes Maria would wake up wondering where she was and, as the truth returned, try to fend it off for a few more moments, but her swollen lip and the cord around her wrists that chafed and bit into her skin made it impossible to resist the dread reality.
More than anything, perhaps, she hated to be alone.
She got gingerly to her feet. Her leg ached where she had cracked it on something. With her back to the wall she worked her way around her cell, groping with fingers stiff with cold across the smooth walls, searching for anything she could use. She found the door, and kicked on it and shouted until her feet were bruised. It was a thick, heavy wooden door but it had a handle, too, and after many attempts she succeeded in using the handle to inch the blindfold off her face.
The darkness remained absolute.
Something that felt like a low stone table stood in the middle of the room. For a while she worked at trying to rasp the cord against the edge of the table, but it was her wrists that suffered. Eventually she gave it up and shuffled back to her original position against the wall, knees drawn up to her face, whimpering with cold, and pain, and the terrible fear of knowing nothing and expecting anything.
She would not tell them anything about Signor Brett, come what may.
But by the time they came, she could scarcely remember her own name.
She had lost track of time; she felt no pain. She moved her thick tongue in her mouth and very quietly sounded out the only word she knew: acqua!
52
Alfredo was waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“I’m here, as you see,” Palewski said drily. “But explain to me, clearly and simply, why tonight?”
Alfredo took his arm. “Come,” he said. “I will tell you as we go.”
A gondola was waiting on the water stairs. Both men climbed in, and the gondolier pushed off.
“You see, Signor Brett, it is something you must understand about the people we deal with-the old nobility of Venice. In former times, when Venice was a great power, these people were very careful to do what was good for the state. Only the youngest son was allowed to marry, for a start. His brothers, they fought in wars or put their energies into trade. So the inheritance was undivided, to the advantage of the state.”
“I’ve read about that.”
“Of course, signore. But today, in these times, it is a little different.”
“So?”
“So maybe the older brother, he decides to have a share. He says-I have no wars, no trade, and the Republic is finished. Please, brother, share with me!”
Palewski nodded. “I understand. The youngest son, in practice, took the lot-but legally, he wasn’t entitled to it. Very shrewd.”
Alfredo gave a relieved smile and patted Palewski’s hand. “There-I am very glad you understand, Signor Brett. I like you. I think America is a good country. We have no problems together.”
Palewski was vaguely aware that Alfredo hadn’t really answered his question, but the air of bonhomie was hard to break. Alfredo looked happy and relieved.
“The owner has arranged a special viewing,” Alfredo was saying. “But I should say, he asks us to be very discreet. The palazzo is in very many hands.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “In former times, just the family-but today, when things are hard for these people, they must divide and divide. But you understand how it is for them,” he added, with an encouraging smile.
“We don’t want to disturb the neighbors, you mean?”
“If you like, signore. Because of-the friends.”
Gli amici: the epithet was universal, and wholly ironic.
“I imagine that the friends do not approve of our undertaking?”
Alfredo gave his wince again in half agreement. “You never quite know with friends,” he said.
Palewski chuckled. If this thing came off, it wouldn’t be just Poland exalted. It would be the Austrians discomfited, too. He found himself half looking forward to the sultan’s ball, just for a sight of the imperial ambassador swelling up in impotent fury, like a nervous frog.
Lamps on the canal were being lit by barefoot men with long tapers, and a few windows shone feebly overhead. By day, when large swathes of the buildings were shuttered up, perhaps half abandoned, the canal had a forlorn and forgotten look, like a silted creek. By night, in spite of the lamps, it was almost sepulchral, and the shutters showed like dark caves in some ancient cliffside necropolis.
“En avant, legionnaires,” Palewski muttered, and at the same moment the gondolier made a pass with the oar and brought the elegant dark prow swooping around in a tight quarter turn that made the water hiss against the frail hull. With another twist of the oar the gondola shot forward into a cavernous boathouse.
Palewski had seen these canalside openings, and heard about them, before, but he had never actually been into one, with the gondola sweeping beneath the low arch, the gondolier bowing, and shadows racing in the sudden gloom. It was more like the entrance to a prison than a palace, Palewski thought, as the gondolier unhitched his lamp and raised it overhead. Above, he saw only the curve of the damp stone vault. To one side of the ancient water gate was a narrow pavement, which led to a wooden door banded in iron. The pavement was slimy with algae, and the base of the door, also tinged with green, was ragged and in need of repair.
Alfredo was the first out, onto the ledge. He put out a hand.
“Be careful, Signor Brett. The floor is wet and we don’t want you to fall in.”
Palewski accepted the hand and stepped up onto the pavement. In spite of the warning he almost skidded: only Alfredo’s surprisingly strong arm prevented him from falling backward.
“Thank you, my friend.” He smiled.
“The palazzo is divided, as I said.” Alfredo’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I do not think anyone uses this entrance so much.”
“So how do we get in?” Palewski, too, was whispering. It’s like a bloody dungeon, he thought: the Rescue of Mehmet the Conqueror!
Even as he spoke he saw a flickering light growing beneath the ratholes of the moldy door, and in a moment someone was drawing back bolts and the ancient hinges were creaking on their rusty pins.
“This is Mario,” Alfredo whispered. “He works for my patron also. We can go quietly, I think.”
They stepped through the door and into a narrow passageway faced with well-dressed stone. Mario nodded at Palewski. He was a sturdy man with very short-cropped hair and wide, Slavic cheekbones, and he held a candelabra with three candles that guttered in the draft.
“Signor Brett very kindly agreed to come tonight,” Alfredo explained. “So, we are expected?”
Later, it was this curiously stilted introduction that Palewski would remember, the moment when he should have wondered who, exactly, was in charge.
