I felt the blood turn solid in my veins. Here was some glimpse of paradise, perhaps, or a vision of some coming hell. Paralysed, I stood transfixed by that window, wishing I could reach out through the glass and touch this apparition which lived and breathed somewhere in the universe, quite unaware of my presence. Or so I thought.
Then, beneath me, on the stern of one of those great iron vessels, a face stared back at mine. A young child, a girl in a white dress, looked up, and — like me, cursed with some third eye — peered full into my face across whatever vast chasm of existence separated us. This ghost of the future saw. And what she saw sent such screaming terror through her mind… at the sight of me.
One lifetime is insufficient. Some of us have more to atone for than a single span can embrace. I watched the child’s dread gaze, stared at my bloody hands, and, like a beast, I roared.
62
The treasure trove
Massiter told the water taxi to drop them at the western end of the Zattere waterfront. Here the ancient city met the fringe of modern blocks that ran from the port north towards Piazzale Roma. There was the smell of marine fuel on the air and, beyond that, car fumes from the vast parking arena which sat at the city’s landward limit. But there were old buildings, too, low, stately shapes lurking in the half-lit streets. They walked away from the Giudecca canal, then crossed a small bridge, dodged through a pitch-black alley, and came out in a cobbled campo by a featureless church.
Massiter came to a halt in the square, next to a column topped by a small, winged lion just visible in the puny yellow spotlights of the church. He looked around them, sniffing at the air.
“Do you see anyone?” he murmured. Daniel scanned the square and said he could not detect a living soul in the neighbourhood.
“I imagine you’re right,” Massiter agreed. “This is one of the oldest parts of the city, you know. If they dug a little hereabouts, I can’t imagine what they’d find. San Niccolò there is half-Byzantine, and only a little modernised by the vandals.”
“It’s late,” Daniel said. “Let’s finish our business, Hugo.”
The older man surveyed the empty campo once more. “Of course. You won’t let me down, will you?”
“Meaning what, precisely?”
“Oh, Daniel. Please. I’m doing you a great favour here. I’ve had this private storeroom a decade or more, and hardly a soul outside my circle has seen it. Some would love to know its location. Thieves.”
“I know no thieves, Hugo.”
“Really? The police, then.”
“I see no police.”
“No.”
Massiter set off at a brisk pace to the northern corner of the square. Daniel followed.
“I had a cousin in the movie business,” Massiter explained. “He worked on that Roeg film. They made it in that church, mostly. We got together now and then and…”
They crossed a small bridge, moving into darkness. “The point is, a man needs a haven. Somewhere, in those days, where we could take a couple of women. Smoke something. Be private. And later…”
“What happened to your cousin?”
“Dead,” Massiter declared without emotion. “An accident. He was a poor businessman. Tragic, really. I felt terribly let down.”
They turned a corner into a narrow alley and, after a few paces, stopped in front of a modern metal door, which Massiter swiftly opened. Daniel followed him inside. A series of fluorescent lights came on. He stared at row upon row of packing cases.
“A friend’s shipping business,” Massiter explained. “Nothing to do with me, you understand. But here…”
He walked along the left-hand wall, then halted in front of a battered green door closed with several heavy padlocks. Massiter took out a set of keys and began to throw the bars back, cursing the stiffness of the mechanisms. Then he reached inside, flicked a light switch, and Daniel saw, leading down into the earth, a narrow brick-lined tunnel with a worn floor of stone steps.
“My fancy,” Massiter said, “is that it was a wine store at one time. Perhaps converted from some ancient crypt. Who knows? You did pull the outside door shut, didn’t you? Damned if I can be bothered with all these padlocks until we go out again.”
“Of course,” Daniel replied.
“Good,” Massiter said, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black handgun. “Here. Take this. If we’re interrupted, shoot the bastards.”
Daniel stared at the weapon. “Hugo, this isn’t my business.”
The older man’s eyes flared. “But it’s very much your business. What’s the problem? I can make a single phone call and have the evidence out of here in a flash. It won’t be the first time, you know.”
“I see.”
“Oh, dear!” Massiter said, smiling. “Daniel, you’re a fraud, an impostor. You could have been in jail by Monday if you’d gone ahead with this nonsensical notion of baring your breast to the public. Please. Don’t play the innocent with me now.”
Daniel held out the gun. “I won’t use this thing.”
“Just hold it for me, then,” Massiter answered, and set off down the stairs. Daniel followed slowly, leaving the door open as he had with the outer entrance. There was as yet no sound behind. Giulia Morelli had warned him her timing might be difficult. The gun sat cold in his hand.
After twenty steps, the low ceiling disappeared and a maw of darkness stood in front of them. Massiter threw another light switch on the wall. Daniel suppressed a gasp of astonishment. They stood on the threshold of a vast, curved crypt supported by a forest of columns, each surmounted by a gentle brick arch. The place was spotless, as if it had been recently swept. The worn cobblestones had a dull sheen. Arranged around the capacious floor was a collection of objects hidden under wraps: furniture, the rectangular outlines of paintings, and other shapes he could not recognise. In the far corner, out of place, sat a low, modern bed.
He followed Massiter across the room, towards the crumpled sheets on the low divan. Massiter sniffed. There was the unmistakable outline of bloodstains in the centre of the white cotton.
“Damn,” he said. “The trouble with these secret places is one must, from time to time, look after them oneself. I omitted to clear up after my discussion with your friend Rizzo. But then I didn’t realise I’d have a visitor.”
Daniel’s head whirled. “Rizzo?”
“Ah. You never knew his name? The thieving little bastard who sold you my Guarneri. Told me so himself eventually, though I had guessed already, naturally. Never trust a Venetian, Daniel. They always let you down in the end.”
Daniel said nothing. Massiter laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“No offence taken on my part. I was grateful for it. Finally convinced me I had a pupil on my hands.”
“I am not—”
“Of course not! Well, what shall it be?”
Massiter set off around the room, snatching the wraps off each treasure as he passed.
“We have a very full collection here. Some Russian gold, liberated by the Nazis? A Bosnian ikon, perhaps? A reliquary from Byzantium? Or some porcelain by way of Shanghai? No…”
He dashed across the room and removed the cover from a large painting. Daniel was unable to keep his eyes off the work. It was vast and set in a fine gilt frame. The artist’s hand was plainly Venetian and familiar. It depicted, with a fluid, savage grace, two naked men grappling to the death, one wielding a flashing silver knife over the other.
“Titian, or Tiziano, if you prefer,” Massiter noted. “Cain slaying Abel. Better than the one in Salute, I’m sure you’ll agree. That was the trial run for my darling here.”
“Where do you get these things, Hugo?”