the evening breeze.
Alex had followed his lord and lady into the courtyard but now he dropped the cloak and slipped away to one side. He looked up. The palace rose three floors above him, connected by a spiralling staircase like the one he had seen at the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo. The first floor opened onto a gallery with yet more arches and columns, and some of the guests had made their way up there and were strolling slowly together, gazing down on the crowds below. Looking around him, Alex found it hard to believe that it really was the twenty-first century. A perfect illusion had been created within the palace walls.
Now that he was here, he was unsure what to do. Had he really found Scorpia? How could he be sure? It occurred to him that if Yassen Gregorovich had been telling the truth and his father had once worked for these people, they might be happy to meet him. He would ask them what had happened, how his father had died, and they would tell him. He had no need to creep around in disguise.
But suppose he was wrong? He remembered the look of fear on the old woman’s face when he had mentioned the name Scorpia. And then there were the hard-eyed men working outside the palace. They spoke no English and Alex doubted he would be able to explain what he was doing if they caught him. By the time someone had laid their hands on an English dictionary, he might find himself floating face down in the canal.
No. He had to find out more before he made his move. Who was this woman—Mrs Rothman? What was she doing here? It seemed incredible to Alex that a grand masked ball in a Venetian palace could in any way be connected to a murder that had taken place fourteen years ago.
The notes of the harpsichord rang out. The conversation was getting louder as more and more people arrived.
Most of them had removed their masks—it was impossible otherwise to eat or drink—and Alex saw that this was truly an international gathering. The guests were mainly speaking in Italian but there were many black and Asian faces among the crowd. He caught sight of a short Chinese man deep in discussion with another man who had a diamond set into one of his front teeth. A woman he thought he knew crossed the courtyard in front of him, and with a start he recognized her as one of the most famous film actresses in the world. Now that he looked around he saw that the place was packed with Hollywood stars. Why had they been invited? Then he remembered. This was the beginning of September, the time of the Venice International Film Festival. Well, that told him something about Mrs Rothman if she had the clout to invite celebrities like these.
Alex knew he mustn’t linger too long. He was the only teenager in the palace and it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed him. He was horribly exposed. His arms and shoulders were bare. The silk trousers were so thin he could hardly feel them on him. The Turkish disguise might have enabled him to get in, but it was awkward and unhelpful now that he was actually here. He decided to make a move. There was no sign of Mrs Rothman on the ground floor. She was the person he most wanted to see. Perhaps he would find her somewhere upstairs.
He made his way through the party-goers and climbed the spiral staircase. He reached the gallery and saw a series of doors leading off into the palace itself. It was less crowded here and a few people glanced curiously at him as he proceeded.
Alex knew that the important thing was not to hesitate. If he allowed himself to be challenged, he would soon be thrown out. He went through a door and found himself in an area that was a cross between a very wide corridor and a room in its own right. A gold-framed mirror hung on one wall above an ornate antique table, on which was a large vase of flowers. A huge wardrobe stood opposite. Apart from this, the area was empty.
There was a door at the far end and Alex was about to continue towards it, when he heard muffled voices approaching. He looked around for somewhere to hide. There was only the wardrobe. He didn’t have time to slip inside, but he slid against the wall next to it. Like the courtyard, this floor was lit by oil lamps. He hoped the bulk of the wardrobe would cast a large enough shadow to conceal him.
The door opened. Two people came out, talking in English: one a man, the other a woman.
“We have received the release certificates and the batch will be on its way the day after tomorrow.” The man was speaking. “As I explained to you, Mrs Rothman, timing is everything.”
“The cold chain.”
“Exactly. The cold chain cannot be broken. The boxes will be flown to England. After that…”
“Thank you, Dr Liebermann. You have done very well.”
The two of them had stopped, just out of sight from where Alex was hiding. However, leaning forward slightly, he could see their reflections in the mirror.
Mrs Rothman was stunning. There was no other way for Alex to describe her. She was more like a film star than any of the actresses he had seen downstairs, her long black hair falling in waves to her shoulders. She had a mask, but it was in her hand, on the end of a wooden rod, so he was able to see her face: the brilliant dark eyes, the blood-red lips, the perfect teeth. She was wearing a fantastic dress made of ivory-coloured lace, and somehow Alex knew that it wasn’t a costume but a real antique. A gold necklace set with dark blue sapphires circled her throat.
Her companion was also wearing fancy dress—a long, fur-lined cloak, a wide-brimmed hat and leather gloves.
He too was holding a mask but it was an ugly thing with small eyes and a long beak. He had come as a traditional plague doctor and, Alex thought, he hardly needed the disguise. His face was pale and lifeless, his lips flecked with saliva. He was very tall, towering over Mrs Rothman. Yet still, somehow, she dwarfed him.
Alex wondered why he had been invited.
“You do promise me, Mrs Rothman,” Dr Liebermann said, taking off a pair of heavy glasses and wiping them nervously. “Nobody is going to get hurt.”
“Does it really matter?” she replied. “You’re being paid five million euros. A small fortune. Think about it, Dr Liebermann. You’re set up for life.”
Alex risked another glance and saw the woman standing side-on, waiting for the man to speak. Dr Liebermann was frozen. Caught between greed and fear.
“I don’t know,” he rasped. “Perhaps if you were paying me more…”
“Then maybe we’ll have to think about doing just that!” Mrs Rothman sounded completely relaxed. “But let’s not spoil the party by talking about business. I’m coming down to Amalfi myself in two days’ time. I want to be there when the batch leaves, and we can talk about money then.” She smiled. “Right now, let’s go and have a glass of champagne and I can introduce you to some of my famous friends.” They had started walking again and as they
