The Orpheus Deception (2 page)
Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
The bitch had cracked his ribs.
Dalton, whose temper was never far from the surface, began to stumble after the blond runner, breathing through thinned lips, indignant outrage driving him, but she was quickly lost in the crush of a hundred other runners flowing around him, their feet pounding and thudding, the air thick with the animal reek of their sweat and their urine, their rapid panting breaths, and now Dalton was caught up in the flow of the marathon, carried along the quay like a leaf in a flood, staggering, his ribs sending jagged bolts of pain up into his chest. As the press of runners turned the corner by the Palazzo Ducale, he was finally cast out of the stream and into a narrow cloister. He put a hand on a pillar and rested there for a moment, his chest heaving, his cracked rib burning in his side, cursing, miserable—he looked angrily around for the blond runner . . .
. . . and there was Cora. Tall, her black hair flying in the wind-driven rain, her long blue trench coat flapping: she was hesitating by the steps of the Basilica, a sheaf of papers in her arms, watching the runners flowing around her, the pigeons swirling up like leaves. The piazza was packed with thousands of people and filled with a vast, roaring, thunderous cheering, wave after wave. He could hardly hear his own voice calling her name.
Cora heard a call, turned, searching the sea of faces. Finally, she found him, a flash of recognition—a fleeting smile—and then her expression changed into shock as she looked down at his hands . . .
IT WAS THE
morning of the next day; Cora Vasari and Micah Dalton were in Cortona, for Porter Naumann’s funeral. The same cold, slanting rain that had drowned Venice the day before was beating against the shuttered houses along the Via Berrettini. Cora Vasari was a little way ahead of him, going up the steep hillside between the overhanging roofs, the tilting walls of medieval villas lining the narrow, cobbled street. She was walking with the Carabinieri major, Brancati. She was wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a black silk coat, very long—she seemed to be in mourning, but her head was a fraction too close to Brancati, and her hand was on his arm, an intimacy that Dalton found just possible to overlook. Farther up the street, a group of men in black stood waiting—pallbearers, from the look of them—grouped around a huge rosewood casket.
morning of the next day; Cora Vasari and Micah Dalton were in Cortona, for Porter Naumann’s funeral. The same cold, slanting rain that had drowned Venice the day before was beating against the shuttered houses along the Via Berrettini. Cora Vasari was a little way ahead of him, going up the steep hillside between the overhanging roofs, the tilting walls of medieval villas lining the narrow, cobbled street. She was walking with the Carabinieri major, Brancati. She was wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a black silk coat, very long—she seemed to be in mourning, but her head was a fraction too close to Brancati, and her hand was on his arm, an intimacy that Dalton found just possible to overlook. Farther up the street, a group of men in black stood waiting—pallbearers, from the look of them—grouped around a huge rosewood casket.
Naumann’s
casket.
casket.
Dalton turned his collar up, pulled his coat tight, and plodded doggedly upward in a file of solemn carabinieri, rain dripping down his face; funeral weather, and the streets of Cortona breathing of the grave.
The column of men passed an open laneway, and, glancing to his right, Dalton saw through a curtain of dripping laundry the stone parapet that ran beside the Via Santa Margherita: beyond the parapet, in the cold, gray distance, he could see the faint outline of Lake Trasimeno. A familiar figure was leaning on the parapet, screened by a wall of rain, arms folded, white face staring. Dalton looked at this figure for a time, and then he called up the hill to Cora, but the rain drowned out his words, so he turned aside and stopped. The man standing there was Porter Naumann.
To be precise, it was the
ghost
of Porter Naumann. Naumann’s ghost raised a hand, beckoning him down the lane, and, in spite of the rain and the wind, Dalton could hear Porter calling his name, a faint sound, lost in the hissing of running water. Dalton glanced up the street, saw Cora turn and look back, her broad black hat glistening in the downpour.
ghost
of Porter Naumann. Naumann’s ghost raised a hand, beckoning him down the lane, and, in spite of the rain and the wind, Dalton could hear Porter calling his name, a faint sound, lost in the hissing of running water. Dalton glanced up the street, saw Cora turn and look back, her broad black hat glistening in the downpour.
He waved to her, lifted his wrist high, tapped his watch, and then stepped into the alley, hurrying away under the lines of dripping laundry. Water ran down his neck, but, oddly, the pain in his rib had suddenly disappeared. He reached the broad lane of the Via Margherita and crossed over to Naumann, a tall, elegant figure, leaning there with his arms crossed, smiling at him. He was wearing a pearl gray single-breasted suit over a pale pink shirt, a flaring charcoal tie held with a gold collar pin, and, over it all, his signature long blue Zegna overcoat. His face was as it had been in life, sharp, hard-planed, a great beak of a nose, pale blue eyes, bright and full of wry humor.
“Micah, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Porter. You’re going to miss your funeral.”
Naumann shrugged, grinned.
“I’m there in spirit. Walk with me a minute, will you?”
Dalton looked at Porter Naumann’s ghostly face for a time, trying to read his expression. There was something in his voice . . . a warning note?
“Can we do this later, Porter? Cora will be waiting.”
“What are they going to do? Start without me?”
A valid point,
thought Dalton, as they walked off down the hill, the flat Tuscan landscape stretching away on their left, Lake Trasimeno barely visible through the mist, Naumann striding ahead, Dalton a little behind, his thoughts moving between the funeral and the Agency, what Deacon Cather may be planning for him, what little future he had left to worry about in the first place. In the front of his mind, he was also idly wondering what had conjured up this final visitation from an old, dead friend. Naumann was carrying something in his hand, Dalton could see, a slender, shining thing, colored green, some sort of long glass bottle, and he was fingering it as they walked down the hill, wrapped in his own silence.
thought Dalton, as they walked off down the hill, the flat Tuscan landscape stretching away on their left, Lake Trasimeno barely visible through the mist, Naumann striding ahead, Dalton a little behind, his thoughts moving between the funeral and the Agency, what Deacon Cather may be planning for him, what little future he had left to worry about in the first place. In the front of his mind, he was also idly wondering what had conjured up this final visitation from an old, dead friend. Naumann was carrying something in his hand, Dalton could see, a slender, shining thing, colored green, some sort of long glass bottle, and he was fingering it as they walked down the hill, wrapped in his own silence.
“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Dalton, finally.
“Just a few blocks down. How’s the rib?”
“It’s fine. Hurt like hell yesterday, but I seem to be okay now.”
Naumann received the news with an absent nod, and they walked on. The gloomy sky was breaking up and the air around them was now glowing with diffused light. The broad valley below them was opening up as the mist burned away. They could see the distant lake, see pale sunlight glimmering on the water. Down at the bottom of the hill there was a large square: Dalton knew it very well, the Piazza Garibaldi, its broad stone pavilion surrounded by ancient oaks and cypress, extending far out over the cliff with the entire valley laid out before it, a medieval tapestry of green and amber and golden squares that stretched away into the purest smoky blue infinity. The square itself seemed to be full of people, a gathering or a reception of some sort. Naumann slowed his pace a few hundred feet from the plaza and turned to look at Dalton, his face showing affection, solemnity; an uncharacteristic display for Naumann.
“Look, Micah, do you know what this is?”
He held his hand out. In his palm was the slender green glass bottle.
“No idea. Looks like Murano glass.”
“It is. The old Venetian assassins used to use these.”
“I know. I’ve heard about it. They say that Murano glass is so fine that a single drop of poison will shatter the bottle.”
“That’s right. But that’s not what this is. This isn’t a bottle.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the hilt of a dagger. A dagger made out of Murano glass.”
“Yow! Nasty. Where’s the blade?”
“Well, that’s the thing.”
“The
thing?
What thing?”
thing?
What thing?”
Naumann stopped, turned, and looked him full in the face, his expression grave, his eyes gentle.
“The thing is, the blade is in
you,
Micah.”
you,
Micah.”
Dalton looked skyward, sighing theatrically.
“In me? The blade is in
me?
Oh for chrissakes, Porter. What the hell are you trying to say?”
me?
Oh for chrissakes, Porter. What the hell are you trying to say?”
“The marathon runner, in Venice, the blond girl who ran into you near the Bridge of Sighs? She used this on you when she ran into you.”
“Used it? On me? How . . . ?”
“You’ve been stabbed with it.”
“Stabbed? She broke a
rib,
Porter. A rib. Don’t go all blithering hysterical on me now. I broke a rib. I got better. I’m fine now. I’m . . .”
rib,
Porter. A rib. Don’t go all blithering hysterical on me now. I broke a rib. I got better. I’m fine now. I’m . . .”
Naumann shook his head.
“No you’re not. The wound is
mortal,
Micah. You’re dying. Now. At this moment. Can you understand?”
mortal,
Micah. You’re dying. Now. At this moment. Can you understand?”
Dalton stared down at the long green glass hilt.
“Stabbed? She
stabbed
me? With this?”
stabbed
me? With this?”
“Yes. The dagger is made of Murano glass; the blade is very long and very thin. It goes in deep, but it leaves only a narrow mark. The hilt breaks off, leaving the blade in the body. In
your
body, Micah.”
your
body, Micah.”
“The runner? She stabbed me? Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Serbs, for what you did to their people in Venice. Or maybe the Company. Cather. I don’t know why you’ve been stabbed. They don’t tell me these things. They just send you off on your mission. It seems that once you’re dead, you’re sort of out of the loop. But you
have
been stabbed. The blade went deep. The wound was mortal.”
have
been stabbed. The blade went deep. The wound was mortal.”
“Mortal?”
“Yes. They tell me the blade cut an artery near your liver. Sliced it open.”
Dalton felt his heart beating, a rapid, fluttering impulse in his neck and throat. Naumann’s pale eyes were kindly. Behind him, the sun was burning, and the day was now as warm as a summer afternoon.
“They? Who the hell is
they?”
they?”
Naumann shook his head, shrugged.
“The people running the . . . running wherever it is I am now.”
“Okay. Let me get this straight. You don’t know where you are and you don’t know who’s running Hell or Heaven or . . .”
“There’s no Hell, Micah.”
“Great. Heaven either?”
“So far, no sign.”
“Jolly. John Lennon got one thing right, dipshit hippie moron. So you don’t know about all that afterworld stuff, but you do know I’m . . .”
“Dying.”
“Jeez.”
“You’re bleeding to death. Inside. That’s what I’m here for. I’m here to explain this thing to you. To help you . . . adjust. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No. I sure as hell don’t. This is just some nasty dream. A nightmare. Anyway, dammit, no offense, Porter, but you’re
dead.
Over a month dead, not to put too fine a point on it. Cashed in your chips. Bought the farm. Vertically deployed into the terrain. Deceased. You’re now ex-Porter. A goner. Like the parrot. You follow? That sort of impeaches your credibility.”
dead.
Over a month dead, not to put too fine a point on it. Cashed in your chips. Bought the farm. Vertically deployed into the terrain. Deceased. You’re now ex-Porter. A goner. Like the parrot. You follow? That sort of impeaches your credibility.”
In spite of the circumstances, Naumann smiled.
“You’re starting to get on my nerves, kid. Here I am on a mission of fucking mercy, and you’re giving me these old Monty Python riffs.”
“Well, Jesus, Porter. You’re the corpse and
you’re
telling
me
I’m dead! How do you know you’re not just dreaming that you’re alive?”
you’re
telling
me
I’m dead! How do you know you’re not just dreaming that you’re alive?”
This concept seemed to give Naumann something to think about.
“Jesus. I see your point. Maybe a drink will help clarify the—”
“Micah!”
They both turned. Someone was calling Dalton’s name, a woman’s voice. It was Cora Vasari. She was standing a little way up the Via Santa Margherita, holding her wide black hat with a gloved hand, her hair blowing in the rising wind off the valley.
“Micah,” she called. “Where are you going? They’re waiting for you.”
“That’s Cora,” he said, turning to Naumann.
“I know who she is,” said Porter. “I’ve seen her before, remember? Stunner. Reminds me of Isabella Rossellini. If I’d known about
her
when I was still alive, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
her
when I was still alive, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“Look, Porter, setting aside the queasier aspects of you being both feet in the grave and still having a sex drive, I happen to have a life to go and live. I should go back.”
Naumann’s face became solemn, unreadable.
“Think about that. Do you really
want
to, Micah?”
want
to, Micah?”
Cora’s voice carried down the hill, calling his name again.
“Micah . . . ?”
Dalton’s face became set, his expression conflicted. Naumann looked up the laneway at Cora for a time, his face marked with longing.
“You know you can’t stay with her, don’t you?” he said, the wind plucking at his coattails. “Clandestine will send a team. Cather won’t back off until you’re dead. And if you’re with her when they find you, they’ll kill her too. That’s just policy. You might have told her. They can’t take a chance. Don’t pull her into this one. If you’re dead, it’s all over with. Let it end here.”
Dalton hesitated. Naumann pressed the point.
“Grief is coming, Micah. More than you know,” said Naumann, his eyes sharp and his face hard. “You could miss it all. Just let go. Come with me. We’ll go down to the piazza and have some wine. There are people there waiting for you.”
Dalton looked down at the crowd in the piazza. He could hear music playing, a string quartet, and the soft murmur of voices.
“People I know?”
“A few. You’re kind of hard on friends.”
“Any enemies?”
“None invited. Too many of them to fit on the piazza. How about it, Micah? ‘Home is the hunter . . . home from the hill . . .’”
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