‘Indeed it does.’
She turns to him and pushes up her sunglasses so that, for a moment, he’s caught in her amber gaze. ‘If you look behind you, in that cold-box, you’ll find a shaker and some glasses. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink?’
He retrieves the ice-frosted shaker and a tall glass. ‘Can I give you one?’
‘I’ll wait until we get to the island. You go ahead.’
He pours, drinks and nods appreciatively. ‘This is . . . very good.’
‘It’s a limoncello cocktail. Perfect, I always think, for a morning like this.’
‘Delicious. So tell me about this island we’re going to.’
‘It’s called the Ottagone Falieri. It was once a fortification, built to protect Venice from invaders. One of my ancestors bought it in the nineteenth century. We still own it, even though no one goes there any more, and it’s pretty much a ruin.’
‘It sounds very romantic.’
She gives him a veiled smile. ‘Let’s see. It’s certainly an interesting place.’
They’re holding a steady course now. The Giudecca is far behind them; ahead Rinat can see only grey-green water. The limoncello is creeping through his veins with glacial slowness. He feels, for the first time in as long as he can remember, at peace.
The fortification looms, quite suddenly, out of the haze. Walls of cut stone, and above them a few sparse treetops. Soon, a jetty becomes visible. Tied up to it is another, smaller motor launch, with a black-painted hull.
‘We have company.’
‘I asked someone to come ahead with the lunch,’ Marina says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
Rinat nods. Of course. Everything about this woman charms and impresses him. Her unusual beauty, which over the last couple of hours he has had considerable opportunity to examine at close range. Her easy familiarity with wealth. Old-money wealth, of the kind that doesn’t need to proclaim itself, but nevertheless makes its presence felt with unambiguous force. It’s not enough to be rich, Rinat knows. You have to be connected, to know the secret signs by which real insiders recognise each other. Insiders like Marina Falieri.
Katya, it’s increasingly clear, has to go.
Marina ties up the motoscafo, and as they make their way along the sun-bleached planking of the jetty, Rinat hears a faint clinking sound. There are steps built into the wall, and at the top is an octagonal compound, perhaps a hundred metres from end to end. At one extremity are the ruins of a brick and tile building, shadowed by stunted pines. Elsewhere the ground is rough scrub, quartered by a pathway. At the end of the compound furthest from the steps, a strongly built young woman with cropped hair is wielding a pickaxe, swinging it steadily at the stony ground. In her bikini top, military shorts and combat boots, she cuts an unusual figure. As Rinat watches, the woman turns, briefly meets his gaze, drops the pick, and saunters towards the ruined building.
Ignoring her, Marina leads Rinat to a table covered by a white cloth at the centre of the compound. At either side of the table is an ironwork garden chair. ‘Shall we?’ she asks.
They sit. Beyond the stone wall there is no land in sight, just the vast stillness of the lagoon. Behind him, Rinat hears the rattle of a tray. It’s the pickaxe woman, with chilled wine and mineral water, antipasti and tiny, exquisite pastries. A faint sheen of sweat covers her muscled body, and her calves and combat boots are dusty.
Marina ignores her, and smiles at Rinat. ‘Please. Buon appetito.’
Rinat tries to swallow a forkful of mortadella, but for some reason his appetite has deserted him, and he feels mildly nauseated. He forces himself to chew and swallow. Soon the steady clinking of the pickaxe resumes.
‘What’s she doing, exactly?’ His voice sounds distant, disembodied.
‘Oh, just some gardening. I like to keep her busy. But let me pour you some of this wine. It’s a local Bianco di Custoza, I’m sure you’ll like it.’
Wine, local or otherwise, is the last thing that Rinat feels like, but politeness compels him to tender his glass. He can hardly hold it steady as she pours. Sweat is running down his face and back; the horizon shimmers and sways. Some still-observant part of him notes that the clinking of the pickaxe has been replaced by the steady, rhythmic thudding of a spade. He tries to drink some mineral water but gags, and regurgitates the wine and mortadella onto the tablecloth. ‘I’m . . .’ he begins, and slumps back heavily in his chair. His heart is racing, and his arms and chest have started to prickle and burn as if fire-ants were creeping beneath his skin. He claws at himself, panic rising in his chest.
‘That sensation’s called paraesthesia,’ Marina explains in Russian, sipping her wine. ‘It’s a symptom of aconitine poisoning.’
Rinat stares at her, his eyes widening.
‘It was in the limoncello. In less than an hour you’ll die of either heart failure or respiratory arrest, and looking at you right now my money’s on heart failure. Until then you can expect—’
Twisting convulsively in the ironwork chair, Rinat vomits for a second time and then voids his bowels, not silently, into his ivory silk slacks.
‘Exactly. And as for the rest, I won’t spoil the surprise.’ Turning, she waves to the other woman. ‘Lara, detka, come over here.’
Lara lays down the spade and walks unhurriedly over. ‘I’ve pretty much finished digging out that grave,’ she says, and after some thought selects one of the pastries from the box. ‘Oh my God, kotik, these are so good.’
‘Aren’t they heaven? I got them from that pasticceria in San Marco where we had the cream cake.’
‘We must go back there.’ Lara glances at Rinat, who has fallen off his chair and is convulsing on the ground, blowflies buzzing around his soiled slacks. ‘How long till he’s actually dead, do you think?’
Marina wrinkles her nose. ‘Half an hour or so? It’ll be good
