It was an odd pairing. Sabrina was stunning in a no-makeup, naturally-beautiful way that could stop traffic even in a city filled with gorgeous women, whereas Ben, while decent-looking — his nose a little too big, his eyes a hair too close together — was naturally withdrawn and introspective. She was the life of most parties, whereas he was a loner, but somehow circumstances conspired to bring them together, and their passion could have powered a small city. By the time their first month together had passed she was living with him, and both were convinced this was it.
When his scooter had crashed into the VW, he’d flown over the front fender and hood. Sabrina hadn’t been so lucky, and her trajectory had carried her headfirst into the car’s roof. The emergency medical technicians who’d appeared on the scene within ten minutes said she’d died instantly from the broken neck and had probably felt no pain. That was slim consolation to Ben, whose waking hell on earth was only relieved by the ever-present morphine they’d given him for the pain. Once he’d been discharged, he’d been weaned off the meds and given less powerful painkillers, but they had virtually no effect, and his suffering had been ongoing.
The counselor at the hospital had been of the opinion that much of his discomfort was mental, but Ben didn’t see how that theory helped or changed anything. He was miserable, physically and spiritually, and even after the plastic surgeons had repaired him to the point where he didn’t frighten small children, he’d felt like his life was over and he was running out the clock on a tortuous existence.
The first time he’d smoked heroin it had numbed the pain, and by the time he’d moved to skin-plinking, his chemical romance was firmly established. It was only a matter of time before he’d moved to shooting up, the progression inevitable. Ben wasn’t stupid, and he understood that he was dancing with the devil each time he injected himself, but a part of him was dead, and the drug helped him get through the day. Heroin was plentiful in Italy, a function of the trafficking from North Africa and Afghanistan, so he never had any problems copping. But the cost was a killer — it took ever larger doses to achieve the same effect, and he’d watched his meager savings leak into his arm. He’d tried reducing the amount gradually, but in the end it was no good, and he now found himself in a different kind of hell.
He was still one of the fastest and best coders around, making a more than livable wage, but when the hunger was riding you like a pony it was never enough. And his weekly sexual holidays with the working girls cost him dearly as well. Since the accident, he hadn’t sought out any company other than that of professionals. He knew that there was no way a broken, addled and addicted wreck would be able to attract any kind of a mate, so he didn’t waste his time in a depressing, doomed-to-failure pursuit, preferring to stay with the prostitutes who would pretend he was normal as long as he could afford their charms.
He splashed some water on his face and studied the scars in the mirror, wondering how long he could continue like this. He needed to figure out how to get his hands on more money, or every day would be this kind of purgatory, where the dose was never sufficient to make him feel good and barely kept the howling void at bay.
Ben was loyal and thought of himself as a basically good man, but the monkey on his back had its own agenda. And the monkey needed its medicine. No medicine, and the withdrawals would come, and perhaps worse, the dreams — the recollection of Sabrina, fun and filled with life, and then the crumpled heap of lifeless flesh next to a car door, the victim of half a second’s carelessness in a lifetime of perfectly-timed events.
Whatever it took, he wanted to avoid the dreams.
Dreams of Sabrina, glaring accusingly at him with only half a face.
CHAPTER 16
Sia Amieri’s oversized frame filled the doorway of the private detective’s offices in Florence. Seated in front of the mouse-like investigator, Dr. Morbius Frank was all polished relaxation in his hand-tailored lightweight navy blue suit, worn, as was his custom, with no tie, the shirt opened one button, with a red cravat hugging his neck. The investigator, Paolo, was explaining the steps he’d taken, while Frank nodded periodically in approval.
“Besides that, I also have two of my staff making inquiries with Cross’s employees, as instructed, to see what sort of accommodation can be reached for helping us with anything of potential interest,” Paolo explained.
“I’m not price sensitive…within reason,” Frank underscored.
“Yes, and I’ve shared that. Perhaps it would help if we knew precisely what we were looking for?” Paolo suggested, for the second time during the meeting.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not completely sure. Anything related to cryptography, or ancient parchments. Failing that, information on where Cross can be found.”
“I think you’ll agree that I’ve been quite thorough. I’ll pass everything along to your associate, just as you wish.” He shot a nervous glance past Frank to where Amieri stood impassively by the far wall, in tan slacks and a dark brown leather jacket. “I would hope we have something within a day or two, at most. We’re doing everything we can. Now we just need to wait for the fly to come to the spider,” Paolo assured him.
“Time is, alas, our most precious commodity at the moment. Please stay in touch, and get me whatever you find, no matter how seemingly inconsequential,” Frank ordered, then pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Paolo’s outstretched hand. The tense moment passed, and Paolo exhaled a sigh of relief when the pair had vacated his office. The money was stupendous, but both men exuded pure menace. He’d bent the law before, which is why Frank had contacted him, but even so, these two were in a completely different league than his customary jilted wives or corporate espionage clients. They stank of death, which Paolo recognized as clearly as he understood the value of their cash. In troubled times like the present, he couldn’t be as selective about his customers as in times of prosperity — and Frank was paying top dollar.
Which in the end, was what mattered.
Paolo lifted the telephone handset from its cradle and dialed a familiar number.
Natalie peered over Steven’s shoulder at the screen.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“It’s the first step. The program established a character substitution pattern, so now we have a cypher. The problem is that we need to organize the letters into something coherent. That will take a little while, but I seem to remember that this was written in Latin, so that will shorten the time required for me to figure it out. It was a long time ago, but I still remember the basics of this document. Give me some space and some quiet and I can nail it,” Steven advised.
“You have the floor. I’ll go pack. We need to make tracks sooner than later.”
Natalie left him to his devices. He entered the string into the program that would perform the painstaking process of trial and error to structure the seemingly gibberish letters into a lucid order. Soon, he had the Latin organized coherently, and it was just a matter of translating it so it made sense.