At the mouth of the canal he revved the engines and maneuvered out into turbulent water. He finally switched on the boat’s running lights and set a course around Torcello for the main channel that would lead to Venice and San Marco.
He heard a noise and turned.
Stepping from the aft cabin was a woman.
Gun in hand.
FORTY-FOUR
SAMARKAND
2:30 A.M.
VINCENTI SCOOTED THE CHAIR CLOSER TO THE TABLE AS THE waiter positioned his food before him. Most of the city’s hotels were bleak tombs, where little or nothing worked. The Intercontinental was different, offering five-star European-quality services with what the establishment advertised as Asian hospitality. After the long flight from Italy he was hungry, so he’d ordered a meal brought to the room for both himself and a guest.
“Tell Ormand,” he said to the waiter, “that I don’t appreciate it taking thirty minutes to prepare these entrées, especially after I called ahead. Better yet, have Ormand come up here after we’re finished and I’ll tell him myself.”
The waiter nodded his assent and retreated.
Arthur Benoit, sitting across from him, spread a cloth napkin onto his lap. “Do you have to be so hard on him?”
“It’s your hotel. Why weren’t you on his ass?”
“Because I wasn’t upset. They prepared the food as fast as they could.”
He could not care less. Shit was happening and he was testy. O’Conner had gone ahead to make sure things were ready. He’d decided to eat, rest a bit, and accomplish some business over a middle-of-the-night meal.
Benoit gripped a fork. “I assume the invitation to join you was not because you wanted the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we cut through the garbage, Enrico. What do you want?”
He started to eat. “I need money, Arthur. Or should I say, Philogen Pharmaceutique needs money.”
Benoit tabled the fork and sipped his wine. “Before my stomach becomes upset, how much do you need?”
“A billion euros. Maybe a billion and a half.”
“Is that all?”
He smiled at the sarcasm. Benoit made his fortune in banks, which he still controlled across Europe and Asia. He was a billionaire several times over and a longtime Venetian League member. Hotels were a hobby and he’d recently built the Intercontinental to cater to the influx of League members and other expected luxury travelers. He’d also relocated to the Federation, one of the first League members to do so. Through the years, Benoit had several times provided money to fund Philogen’s meteoric rise.
“I assume you’ll want the loan below international prime.”
“Nothing less.” He crammed a forkful of stuffed pheasant into his mouth, savoring the tang.
“How much below?”
He heard the skepticism. “Two points.”
“Why don’t I just give it to you.”
“Arthur, I’ve borrowed millions from you, every dime repaid on time, with interest. So yes, I expect preferential treatment.”
“At present, as I understand it, you have several outstanding loans with my banks. Quite sizable.”
“Every one of which is current.”
He saw that the banker knew that to be true.
“What would be the benefit of such an arrangement?”
Now they were getting somewhere. “How much Philogen stock do you own?”
“A hundred thousand shares. Bought on your recommendation.”
He speared another chunk of steaming bird. “You check yesterday’s quote?”
“Never bother.”
“Sixty-one and a quarter, up a half. It’s really a sound investment. I bought nearly five hundred thousand new shares last week myself.” He swirled pheasant into some smoked mozzarella stuffing. “In secret, of course.”
Benoit’s expression signaled that he got the message. “Something big?”
His fellow League member may have been a hotel dabbler, but he still liked to make money. So he shook his head and feigned, “Now, Arthur, insider trading laws forbid me from giving that kind of information. I’m ashamed you’d even ask.”
Benoit smiled at the rebuke. “There are no insider trading laws here. Remember, we’re writing the laws. So tell me what you’re planning.”
“Not going to happen.” And he stood on his refusal, waiting to see if greed, as usual, would overtake better judgment.
“When would you need the billion-or billion and a half?”
He washed down a mouthful with a swallow of wine. “Sixty days, at the latest.”
Benoit seemed to consider the request. “And the length of the loan? Assuming, of course, it’s even possible.”
“Twenty-four months.”
“A billion dollars, with interest, repaid in two years?”
He said nothing. Just chewed, letting the revelation simmer.
“Like I said, your corporation is heavily in debt. This loan would not be viewed favorably by my approval committees.”
He finally voiced what the man wanted to hear. “You’ll succeed me on the Council of Ten.”
Surprise came to Benoit’s face. “How would you know that? It’s a random selection from the membership.”
“You’ll come to learn, Arthur, that nothing is random. My time is about up. Your two years will begin shortly.”
He knew Benoit desperately wanted to serve on the Council. And he needed friends there. Friends who owed him. So far, four of the five members who would not cycle off were friends. Now he’d just bought one more.
“Okay,” Benoit said. “But I’ll need a few days to broker out the risk among several of my banks.”
He grinned and continued to eat. “You do that. But trust me, Arthur, don’t forget to call your broker.”
FORTY-FIVE
ZOVASTINA CHECKED HER LOUIS VUITTON WATCH, A GIFT FROM the Swedish foreign minister during a state visit a few years back. He’d been a charming man who’d actually flirted with her. She’d returned the attention even though little about the diplomat had been stimulating. The same was true of papal nuncio Colin Michener, who seemed to delight in irritating her. For the past few minutes she and the monsignor had wandered the basilica’s nave-waiting, she assumed, for the altar preparations to be completed.
“What brings you to work for the pope?” she asked. “Once the papal secretary to the last pope, now a mere nuncio.”
“The Holy Father likes to call on me for special projects.”
“Like me?”
He nodded. “You’re quite special.”
“And why is that?”
“You’re a head of state. Why else?”
This man was good, like that Swedish diplomat and his French watch, quick with thoughts and words, but lacking in answers. She pointed at one of the massive marble pillars, its base wrapped with a stone bench and roped off to prevent anyone from sitting. “What are the black smears?” She’d noticed them on all of the columns.
“I asked that once myself.” Michener pointed. “Centuries of the faithful sitting on the benches, leaning their heads onto the marble. Hair grease absorbed into the stone. Imagine how many millions of heads it took to leave those impressions.”
She envied the West such historical nuances. Unfortunately, her homeland had been tormented by invaders who’d each made a point of eliminating all vestiges of what came before them. First Persians, then Greeks, Mongols, Turks, and finally, worst of all, Russians. Here and there a building remained, but nothing like this golden edifice.
They were standing to the left of the high altar, outside the iconostasis, her two guardsmen within shouting distance. Michener pointed down at the mosaic floor. “See the heart-shaped stone?”
She did. Small, unobtrusive, trying to blend with the exuberant designs that swirled around it.
“Nobody knew what that was. Then, about fifty years ago, during a restoration of the floor, the stone was lifted and beneath they found a small box containing a shriveled human heart. It belonged to Doge Francesco Erizzo who died in 1646. I’m told his body lies in the church of San Martino, but he willed his innermost being to be buried close to the patron saint of Venetians.” Michener motioned toward the high altar. “St. Mark.”