Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (37 page)

“They'll definitely want identification, too,” Demos said. “If her name isn't listed on the account, they won't divulge anything. They may call the police.”

Caro leaned against the wall, feeling a headache trying to break loose behind her eyes. Uncle Nigel's instructions had led her to Venice. She had to follow them.

Jude crossed the room and squeezed her shoulder. At first, she thought he was trying to comfort her, but the pressure intensified. She looked up.

“What about your uncle's passport?” he asked.

“Yes, what of it?” She blinked.

“It might be useful.” He looked at Demos, who was leaning against the wall, picking his teeth with his fingernail.

Jude shrugged off his jacket and picked at the seam. He pulled out Uncle Nigel's passport and handed it to Caro. She glanced at Demos, then her uncle's photo. Father Aeneas joined them and studied the picture, too. He looked at Demos. “Uncanny,” he said.

“They're around the same age,” Jude said. “Even the white hair is the same.”

This won't work
, Caro thought.

“He'll need a haircut,” Jude said. “And the beard would have to go.”

Demos stopped picking his teeth and scowled.

“It could work,” Father Aeneas said.

Jude opened his bag and pulled out scissors. “Caro, you should alter your appearance, too. The bank will have video cameras. Did you bring a dress?”

“No. Why?”

He handed her a fistful of euros and sent her to a boutique with instructions to tart up, without veering too far from her passport photo. She walked to the door and hesitated. Was it safe to go out alone? She started to ask Jude to come with her, but he was already steering the loudly complaining Demos into the bathroom.

She hurried out of the hotel and dashed over the bridge, past tattoo artists and men selling fake Louis Vuit-ton and Fendi handbags. She cut down a narrow alley and turned into a shop. Her headache vanished when she pulled a black dress from the rack. Finally she was doing something normal. The dress wasn't her size or style, but at six euros it was a bargain. She folded the garment over her arm and reached into a sale basket, scooping up a handful of bangle bracelets. On her way to the register, she grabbed a mannequin's black sweater.

Five minutes later she'd changed clothes and was on her way back to the hotel. Her dress swirled around her knees as she stepped into Father Aeneas's room. The monk did a double take. Jude looked at her legs, and his eyes widened. Before he could speak, Demos emerged from the bathroom. His hair was neatly trimmed, and the beard was gone.

Caro thought she might cry. Demos looked eerily like her uncle.

Jude handed her a black expandable bag, the type that tourists favored for trinkets, then began firing off instructions.

“When you walk into the bank, keep your head down. And when you open the box, put the contents in this bag. Don't look at the camera, either.”

Jude pulled her aside. “Find a teller who isn't paying attention. Avoid the obsessive ones. Look for a messy desk.

Offer minimal information, and give it in increments. If the officer prohibits you from accompanying Demos to the vault, insist that he suffers from palsy and needs your help. Demos, shake a little.” Jude demonstrated. “Caro, if anyone recognizes you, run like bloody hell. You, too, Demos.”

“Okay.” She dropped her uncle's keychain into the nylon bag.

“Scared?” he asked her.

“Petrified.”

“You can do this,” he whispered.

Behind him, Demos was pacing. “I do not look like myself,” he complained. “I do not resemble my own passport photo. How will I get back into Greece?”

“Your beard will grow,” Father Aeneas said.

“In a few weeks, yes.”

“Be thankful we didn't shave your head,” Father Aeneas said.

Demos's forehead puckered. “You laugh, but I am serious. It is illegal to use a false ID. I am too old for this trouble.”

“After it's over, I'll buy you a hat,” Caro said, handing him her uncle's passport. He started to thumb through it, but she put her hand on his. “And sunglasses,” she added. “I'll buy you sunglasses.”

Demos eyed her. “I want my hair.”

“Demos, my friend,” Father Aeneas said, “you complain more than fifty nuns on a fast.”

Caro followed Demos along the Grand Canal, the afternoon light streaking on the water. The back of her neck tightened, and she had the feeling again that someone was watching. She spun around. A gondola glided by, its reflection moving in the dark green water. In one end of the gondola, a man with a dark ponytail aimed a video camera at a girl with curly, ash-blond hair. A Burberry scarf was looped around the man's neck.

“What is wrong?” Demos asked.

“I don't know.” She pressed a fist against her chest. Never in her life had she experienced a premonition, but she felt a sense of doom around that couple.

Demos followed her gaze. “The girl, she looks like you. Except her hair is frizzy.”

Caro blinked. The girl's curls spiraled around her shoulders, and the man had an uncanny resemblance to Jude before he'd cut his hair.

Demos dismissed the couple with a wave. “Come, we must hurry or the bank will close.”

She tucked her hand into the crook of Demos's arm and they headed to the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro. They stepped into the marble lobby, and Caro looked around for a distracted employee. A policeman stood beside a teller's cage. His gaze lingered on a skinny brunette in a tight beige dress who sat on the edge of a desk, surrounded by messy folders. She yelled into the phone, lifting her free hand and making a fist. Dozens of gold bracelets rattled. Caro picked out a few Italian phrases—
Dove eravate
and
Perché telefonate
—and decided that a man had stood up the brunette.

The woman slammed her fist against her desk. Several tellers glanced in her direction and smiled at each other.
“Bastardo,”
she cried.

Perfect
, Caro thought. She steered Mr. Demos toward the desk and waited. The woman's eyes flashed as she slammed the receiver over and over. She glared at Caro and Demos, clearly irritated by the intrusion.

Caro explained that her uncle needed to examine his safe-deposit box. She wrote her uncle's name on a Post-it note and slid it across the brunette's desk. The woman blinked at the note and rolled her eyes, chattering under her breath in Italian about old paper and water.

Not a good sign, Caro thought.

The woman spread her arms on the desk, the bracelets chinking, and cast a petulant glance at Demos.
“Posso vedere la vostra identificazione?”

“He's British,” Caro said. “He doesn't speak Italian.”

The brunette shrugged. “May I please see ID?” she asked in English.

Demos flashed the passport. The woman glanced at the photograph, then looked at Demos. He sealed the deal by winking at her. She slid off her desk and eased into a chair, then turned to a computer terminal. As her fingers clicked over the keys, she frowned. Caro began to panic. What if this was the wrong bank? What if Interpol had flagged the account?

“This way please,” the clerk said in Italian. She slid off her desk and walked down a hallway, her high heels clicking. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were following, then she turned up a winding staircase. Demos was gasping when they reached the top.

“This is the vault for paintings and documents,” the woman said in halting English. “It is small but far away from dampness. And, it is climate-controlled.” She passed through the rounded vault door into a room with green marble walls. Fitted into the walls were numbered brass boxes, the smaller ones on top, with larger ones running along the bottom. The woman stepped around a corner and pointed to the top shelf. “Box 514356,” she said. “May I see your key?” The woman extended her hand, the long tapered fingers curling.

Caro hesitated. She wasn't at all sure of the procedure. She pulled the rabbit's-foot keychain out of her bag and held it out. The brunette narrowed her eyes at Demos.

“His eyesight is failing,” Caro said. “It's difficult for him to distinguish the keys.”

The brunette exhaled, and her bangs lifted from her forehead. She picked out a small key with a round top and slid it into the keyhole. The tumblers clicked. Standing on her toes, the woman slapped open the door and yanked out a metal box. She carried it to a table and set it down, bracelets clanging, then tossed down the key. The violent jangling continued when she pointed to a clock above the door.

“The bank will be closing for siesta in one hour,” she said.

“We won't take long,” Caro said.

As the woman stepped out of the vault, Caro glanced around for a camera. She didn't see one. Demos sat down with an exaggerated groan, as if he'd fallen ill. His hand slipped under the table, his index finger pointing above the vault door. A tiny black camera hung down from the ceiling, blending into marble veins that ran along the wall.

Caro turned away from the door and opened the nylon bag. Demos stood, blocking the camera's view with his rounded shoulders. Caro ran her hands over the box. She didn't see a lock. She raised the lid. Inside was a smaller cardboard box.

“We'll open it later,” she whispered and slipped it, and her uncle's keychain, into the bag.

“Walk behind me,” Demos said. He walked through the round door. Caro remembered the camera and lowered her head. She followed Demos down the stairs, back to the lobby. The policeman moved away from the teller's cage and strutted down the aisle, his hands clasped behind his back. He squinted at Caro's bag. Demos steered her toward the main entrance. Halfway to the door, their clerk yelled,
“Arresti!”

Demos stumbled, and Caro reached out to steady him. His eyes rounded in horror. She leaned over and whispered, “
Arresti
means ‘stop.' ”

She turned, forcing herself to smile. The clerk tottered over to Caro and Demos, her lips curved into a smile.

“Signore, I checked your account. It has well over two million euros.” The woman spoke in perfect English now, and directed her comments to Demos. “If you would like to set up an appointment tomorrow, I can explain how your money can earn dividends.”

He lifted one eyebrow and sketched a giant capital
L
. It took Caro a moment to realize that he'd drawn the British pound sign; he meant for her to collect the money.

Caro tilted her head to the side. It was tempting to empty the bank's coffers, but it would take days, even weeks, for the bank to complete the paperwork. And they would need a steamer trunk to haul the money. A bigger question loomed: How had her uncle squirreled away two million euros on a professor's salary?

“Il mio zio penserà a questo proposito,”
Caro said.
My uncle will think about it
.

The brunette handed Caro a business card, bracelets skating over her thin arm.
“Arrivederci.”

“But . . .” Demos sputtered.

“Time for your pill, Uncle,” Caro said, and pulled him out the door.

Caro and Demos walked into the hotel room. Jude and Father Aeneas were stretched out on the beds, watching an Italian soap opera on TV,
Un Posto al Sole
.
A Place in the Sun.

Jude sat bolt upright. “How did it go?”

“It was a piece of cake,” Demos said, tucking her uncle's passport into her bag. “Except when Caro lost two million euros.”

“It's not lost,” she said and explained about her uncle's mysterious fortune.

“Caroline, you made a wise decision.” Father Aeneas frowned at Demos. “You can always collect the money later.”

“If there is a later.” Demos snorted. “She is wanted by the authorities. She will never get her inheritance under her real name. This was her only chance.”

“It was a chance for both of you to get arrested,” Father Aeneas said.

Demos's cheeks turned red. “But—”

The monk cut him off. “Do you not see the dangers? Are you mad?”

“I resent that.” Demos lifted a finger over his head. “And I do not like the haircut you gave me, either.”

While Father Aeneas and Demos argued, Caro unzipped the nylon bag, removed the cardboard box, and set it on the bed. She pulled off the lid and saw ten vellum sheets, each one lavishly illustrated. Magenta knights held shields, each one woven with infinity symbols, and below the knights, a dead stag lay with its neck ripped open. Many pages showed graphic, alluring illustrations of sex and vampirism.