Days Without Number (37 page)

His route lay along the Calle dei Fabbri, north from San Marco. It was narrow and crowded going, past innumerable small shops. Nick paid them little attention and quite why, as he rounded a bend in front of one firmly shuttered establishment, he glanced up at the sign above the door, he could not have explained. But what he saw halted him in his tracks. Valerio Nardini, Carte Antiche.

It was a strangely disturbing coincidence. Nick went into a nearby bar and ordered a grappa and a beer. The past seemed closer in Venice than ever it had in England. He was wandering abroad in a museum-city where every exhibit might conceal a threat. Jonathan Braybourne had died here.

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So had Valerio Nardini. Maybe Basil too. Nick swallowed the grappa in two gulps, but it could not burn away his fear. The palpitations were a different matter, though. They faded as the alcohol kicked in.

Nick took his mobile out of his pocket, intending to check for messages. But it had lost its charge, as he should have foreseen. Nor did he have the charger with him. Though that, he conceded, was probably immaterial, given the likely condition of the electrics at the Zampogna. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started on the beer.

Later, after a second beer and a ham roll, Nick headed on north to the Rialto Bridge. He had decided to walk all the way to the Falcetto in order to fill the time until 3.45. The route he took was a circuitous one, even by the standards of a circuitous city, but he was able to stop at a bar near San Tom�

for a doppio corretto before presenting himself at the palazzo.

Alcohol and caffeine on an emptyish stomach were not what his doctor would have recommended, of course, but, for the moment, they kept Nick a degree removed from the scale of the risk one part of his brain knew he was taking. And that was where he needed to be.

Who was Demetrius Paleologus? What had he been to Michael Paleologus? Something beyond mere cousinhood tied them together. Them and Digby Braybourne too. Something that had started on Cyprus during the War, or maybe even at Tintagel in the 'thirties. Old men, with still older secrets. Portolans and stained glass and Knights Templar and the Holy Grail - and the cipher buried within them all; the zero point where every mystery converged and a single answer awaited. Towards it, down the Calle Falcetto, that seemed to narrow as he advanced, Nick walked. It was 3.52 p.m.

The sleepy young man answered the bell, his unshaven chin a few hours darker. A flash of his eyes deep in the peak-shade of his Nike baseball cap was the only sign of recognition.

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'Is Signor Paleologus in?'

'Si:

'Can I speak to him, please?'

'You have appointment?'

'No.'

'Your name?'

'Paleologus. Nicholas Paleologus.'

'Paleologus?' The man smiled, as if in recognition of a good joke. 'OK.' He held the gate open and Nick stepped through. 'Wait here.'

Nick watched the man walk away through a high, open doorway into a dust-fogged stairwell where two other men, older and more smartly dressed, one of them holding a clipboard, were deep in conversation. The conversation was interrupted. The young man gestured with his thumb. The other two glanced past him at Nick. Then one of them advanced.

He was a slim, good-looking fifty-something, clad in couture casuals beneath an Aquascutum raincoat slung loosely over his shoulders, blond highlights camouflaging the grey in his hair, tinted glasses the lines around his eyes. There was a glistening chunk of Rolex on his left wrist, a faint swagger to his walk, a trace of aftershave in the cement-scented air. Nick had no idea who he might be, but clearly he was not the person he was looking for.

'I am Paleologus,' the man nonetheless announced in barely accented English. 'Are we related?'

'I'm looking for Demetrius Paleologus.'

'You have found him.'

'I don't think so. There must be some mistake. He's an older man. Demetrius Andronicus Paleologus.'

'Ah. I understand. I am Demetrius Constantine. Demetrius Andronicus was my father.'

'Was your father?'

'Yes. I am afraid you cannot speak to him. He is close to a year dead.' Demetrius Constantine plucked off his glasses and gave Nick a concerned look. 'I am sorry. You are a long time too late.'

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

'I am sorry,' said Demetrius Constantine Paleologus for the third or fourth time since Nick's arrival. 'This is not the condition in which I would wish a Paleologus to see the Palazzo Falcetto.'

They were standing at the top of the vast if dilapidated marble staircase leading to the piano nobile. To their right, through an open doorway, stretched a still vaster and yet more dilapidated ballroom. Below, drilling could be heard, growling beneath the workmen's banter and the tap of hammer on chisel.

'My father allowed the palazzo to moulder around him, especially after my mother's death. I am restoring it to its former glory. I plan to convert it into a luxury hotel. It has not been easy. And it is not proceeding as swiftly as I would like. But, when it is finished, it will be beautiful. It will be ... magnificent.'

'How long has your family lived here?'

'For more than two hundred years. My great-greatgreat-grandfather, Manuel Paleologus, bought the palazzo from the heirs of the last of the Falcetti in seventeen eighty seven. But we have lived in Venice ever since the fall of Byzantium in fourteen fifty-three. I must tell you that I have never heard of an English branch of the family. If we 313

are cousins, you and I, I could not say which ancestor we share.'

'I believe our fathers met in Cyprus during the War.'

'It is possible, though Papa never mentioned it. He moved there in the Thirties, when the Fascists started to make life difficult for him here. He was no friend of Mussolini. I was born in Cyprus. We returned here when I was a child, after the death of the man Papa had let it to.'

'Did your father say much about his wartime experiences?'

'No. I had the impression there was little to say. There was no fighting on Cyprus. As an Italian citizen living in a British colony, he must have been lucky to escape internment. If he was related to a British officer based there, it may have helped. But he never spoke of it to me. Ah . . .' Demetrius nodded at the hard-hatted, middle-aged workman climbing the stairs towards them. 'We have news, I think.'

Demetrius had explained earlier that no-one had yet mentioned Basil's visit to him. Work had been in progress over the weekend and it was not clear who Basil might have spoken to. The foreman had been instructed to look into the matter while Demetrius showed Nick round. The foreman's investigation now appeared to be complete.

There was a conversation in rapid-fire Italian, during which the foreman did a good deal of shrugging. Then he retreated, leaving Nick to a few more moments of suspense. It was evident that Demetrius did not propose to explain until they were alone again. This seemed odd, since the foreman presumably spoke no English. But such a minor oddity made no impact on Nick. He was assailed by many greater mysteries.

'Someone did call here on Saturday afternoon,' said Demetrius once the foreman had vanished from sight. 'He spoke to Bruno Stammati, my business partner. I did not know Bruno had come here, but this stuff your brother was told about me avoiding the Carnival makes sense now. Bruno is fond of jokes. Some of them are funny, some not. Anyhow, we will call Bruno and sort it out.' Demetrius plucked a spectacularly slim and elegant mobile from his pocket and 314

pressed a single digit. A few seconds later, he frowned and spoke briefly in a message-leaving monotone, then rang off and grimaced apologetically. 'It seems Bruno is taking his weekend today. Tipico. No matter. I will catch him later. Whether that will help you find out where your brother is now' - he shrugged, tilting the epaulettes of his raincoat at 45 degrees - 'I cannot say.'

'I'm really worried about him,' said Nick. 'Anything you can do . . .'

'Of course, of course. It is much easier for me to make enquiries than for you. I know Venice. Who to ask. How to ask. So, why not leave it with me? Give me twenty-four hours. If there is information, I will get it.'

'That's very kind. I--'

'Not at all. We are Paleologoi. It is my duty to help.' Demetrius smiled. 'And my pleasure.'

Nick left the Palazzo Falcetto in a state of shock. A wholly unconsidered possibility was now revealed as the truth. And the truth mocked all that had gone before. Michael Paleologus had bequeathed Trennor to a dead man. His late and hastily drawn will would presumably have counted for nothing. If so, it had been as self-defeating as its destruction. But it had not been the only thing destroyed. Andrew and Tom and maybe Basil too had been dragged down in the wake of that single collusive act.

A chilling suspicion began to form in Nick's mind as he wandered aimlessly through the fading afternoon. Could his father have deliberately drawn up an invalid will? Had it been a last, sick joke at his family's expense - an elaborate dare designed to test how far they would go to counter a threat that did not really exist? It could not be so, Nick told himself. The old man had acted in haste, without pausing to confirm that his cousin was still alive. That was surely the truth. That had to be the truth.

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Even if it was, it did not help Nick find Basil. Demetrius's enquiries were likely to be more fruitful than his own. But the idea of doing nothing for twenty-four hours was quite simply appalling. He could not just sit on his hands. Night was falling by the time he arrived, somewhat to his surprise and by an unretraceable route, at the Rialto. He had Demetrius's business card and a Telecom Italia phonecard in his wallet, representing between them about the only practical steps he had so far succeeded in taking. He joined the commuter crowds aboard a northbound vaporetto, got off at the next stop and picked as direct a path as he could through the calles of Cannaregio to the Zampogna. It was a destination of sorts and, though that was about all that could be said for it, it was, in the circumstances, quite a lot. There existed, after all, the faint possibility that Basil had returned to the hotel in Nick's absence.

But Basil had not returned. There was nothing waiting for Nick at the Zampogna.

He sat in his room for twenty minutes that seemed like more than an hour, until it was close enough to opening time at the Old Ferry for him to be sure of speaking to Irene when he phoned. He could not have borne screwing up his nerves for an abortive attempt. He still did not know what he was going to say to her. But he knew he had to say something.

He headed out to make the call. He had spotted a card phone in Strada Nova, just after getting off the vaporetto, and planned to use that if he did not come across another on the way. But first he needed some Dutch courage.

'Signor Paleologus,' Luigi grinningly greeted him as he stepped into the bar. 'You must have known.'

'Known what?'

'I have a package for you.' From beneath the counter Luigi flourished a large, bulkily filled envelope, on which NICHOLAS PALEOLOGUS was written in felt-tip capitals.

'What's this?'

'I don't know. It came this afternoon. I was taking a piss,

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while there was no-one in. When I came back, it was here.' Luigi tapped the counter for emphasis. 'Right here.'

'That doesn't make any sense.'

'It's what happened.'

Nick picked the package up, frowning in bemusement. Quite apart from what the envelope contained, the mystery of its arrival troubled him. How could anyone be sure he would ever receive it? It would have been safer to drop it off at the Zampogna. Or would it? He looked quizzically at Luigi. 'No-one knows I'm here.'

'Someone does. You want a drink? Something that kicks like a goalkeeper, maybe?'

'Sounds good.'

'I didn't say good. Only the kick I promise.' He poured some clear liquid from a dusty bottle into a small tumbler. 'Are you going to open that package or try to X-ray it, doltoreT

'OK, OK.' Nick ripped up the flap of the envelope and peered inside. 'It's a book,' he announced.

'I like a good book. Mickey Spillane. That kind of thing.'

Nick slid the book out on to the counter and flinched with surprise. It was a dog-eared copy of Drysdale's biography of Richard of Cornwall: The Left Hand of the King.

'Not Mickey Spillane,' said Luigi.

'Definitely not.' Nick took a sip of the goalkeeper fluid and flinched again. The kick was a punt deep into the other half. Then he picked up the book and opened it. As he did so, he noticed that something was marking a place about a third of the way through. He turned to the page and focused at once on the name Paleologus, adrift in one of the paragraphs.

Then his focus shifted to the place-marker itself. It was a business card. Valeria Nardini, Carte Antiche.

Nick was unsure whether Luigi had been able to read the card or not. He suspected, despite slamming the book shut the moment he himself saw the name and the disadvantage of his having to decipher the words upside down, that the barista 317

had probably managed to. But it could not be helped. Whoever Nick needed to protect himself against, it was not Luigi.

Nick retreated to the bleak privacy of his room at the Zampogna and reopened the book at the marked page. He stared at Nardini's card, certain that a message was being conveyed to him. But he did not even know which was the message: the card or the page.

His eye fell on the place where he had seen the name Paleologus. He began to read.

. . . Richard's meeting with Andronicus Paleologus at the citadel of Limassol on Cyprus in March 1241 was a more extraordinary event than has ever since been acknowledged. Relations between the Byzantine Empire and the Crusader states had never been warm and, since the sack of Constantinople by the Fourth Crusaders in 1204 and the subsequent seizure of significant portions of Byzantine territory by their Venetian allies, they had been positively hostile. Yet at Limassol Richard, temporary viceroy of Outremer, sat down to negotiate with Emperor John Vatatzes' megas domestikos.