The man on the bridge

OCTAVO Episode 32

PUBLISHER’S EMAIL

Are you kidding me? Peter? I knew he was leaving the country, but I thought he was on a shopping mission with his fiancé. I don’t believe this. My head is spinning. I’m utterly flabbergasted.

8VO_80

SCARLETT: Lucky me. No shopping mission. Rescue mission. Peter was the person on the bridge. He was watching out for me the whole time. But I’m not finished, Ms. Cavel.

Before I can even say thank you, Dickson is up on one knee. He draws a second gun from the holster in his vest and fires at Peter, hitting him in the shoulder.

Now I’m furious. Never make me mad. Never. Every cell of my body is screaming for justice.

I kick the gun out of his hand with such force that it flies into the rafters before clattering to the floor. I pick up the pot and spin around, catching him full in the face. He arcs backward and lands on his back. Particles of soot rain down on his unmoving body.

I let out a growl that seems to rise from the depths of the Inferno. A growl so full of frustration, of recrimination, of primordial anger, that Peter steps back in alarm, his hand clutching his shoulder. I fling the pot through the kitchen window, shattering the glass and breaking tiles on the roof below.

I scream at Peter. What the hell are you doing here? You could have been killed!

Scarlett...

I raise my hand. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My shoulders slump as the adrenaline drains away to a manageable level. I bend down and brace my hands on my knees.

Sorry, Peter. Sorry.

He and I are standing together in the silence of the kitchen. Salvatore is dead. Not sort-of-dead. Not temporarily inconvenienced. Dead dead. Dickson looks like a goner, too, so I check him. A pulse, thank God. It feels like a prayer.

Suddenly we see lights bobbing around in the stairwell. Boots clatter up the stairs, and three armed men charge into the flat. Their black jackets say Carabinieri ROS in white reflective letters. Two of them check the bodies on the floor, and another takes us into the sitting room. This is going to be awkward.

I realize I’m not exactly presentable. My face is smeared with soot and splattered with blood and black-ash pasta sauce. I try to pull my blouse closed, but it’s like playing whack-a-mole. Too many rips and missing buttons. But somehow modesty doesn’t seem like a top-ten concern. Peter struggles out of his parka and throws it over my shoulders. There’s a dark red bloom spreading across his shirt.

The agent who’s taking our information shuts his book and leads us slowly downstairs. At the bottom there’s a crowd forming on the fondamenta. Patrol boats shiver against the edge of the canal, blue lights flashing like crazy. I rifle-fire a gaze across the water and see Artie in the window of our room. She tosses a small wave.

The crowd parts and an older man in a dark suit approaches me. You must be Scarlett, he says. He hands me a business card. I study it. Artie’s been schooling me on typography. She says the smaller the type, the more serious the firm. This card has very small type.

My name is Bernardo Lucchini. Katherine Cavel asked me to assist you.

How did you find me?

He lifts his chin toward Peter. Your young man gave me the address, he says. I believe he is working with you?

My young man.

Here is the situation, he says. The ROS is collaborating with the FBI to investigate your client. Your client was colluding with other partners to surveil a number of governments, including the government of Italy. Do you understand?

I think so.

This man has been quietly moving his business from cyber-security to cyber-surveillance. He may be selling information and software services to anyone who can pay for it, and this would include our adversaries. Capisci? In addition, it is known that he posesses a number of artifacts that rightfully belong to Italy. I believe the two agencies now have proof.

Signor Lucchini, are we in trouble with the police?

The attorney takes a deep breath, looks toward the hotel, and turns back to me. Yes, he says, you are in trouble. This cannot be denied. You stole an artifact of considerable value to Italy, and perhaps it belongs to private citizens who will press charges.

But of course, the authorities are conflicted. On the left hand you stole something that does not belong to you, and on the right hand you saved an important piece of Italian history. Beyond that, there is the delicate matter of murder.

However, he says, I know the ROS. They are good people. Reasonable.

Will they arrest us?

I think perhaps too much paperwork. You are, what they say in America, small fish. If you promise to leave the shores of Italy and not return, I believe they would be happy to ignore your involvement. I can talk with them.

The gears in my brain start to engage. Why would they ignore us? The real reason would not be the paperwork. Not even the risk of embarassing the FBI by implicating an American. The real reason would be the near certainty of complicating a clean collar. If they can sweep the details under the rug, they can claim victory immediately. Their story would be something like, of course these criminals had enemies. Let’s focus on the real culprits and tie up the loose ends later. By then I’ll be gone and impossible to find.

I flash the attorney a look of soulful gratitude. Va bene. Grazie, Signor Lucchini.

And, signorina...

Yes, Mr. Lucchini?

Please do not burn any buildings as you leave Italy.

I’m starting to appreciate the Italian way of life. When the rules get in the way, ignore the rules. Shrug your shoulders and do the reasonable thing. Live and let live.

I don’t know how to thank Peter. There’s a water ambulance waiting at the side of the canal, but he walks me to the door of the hotel and says goodnight. The hotel receptionist comes out from the back room and recoils at the sight of me. No surprise there. I can see her making a mental note about the untidy lives of movie people.

Me, I’m looking forward to the longest bath in recorded history. I won’t be able to sleep. The adrenaline is jacking my system like a thousand-foot string of firecrackers.

Artie opens the door and her face goes white. She pulls me into my bedroom and plops me onto the bed. She runs to the bathroom to soak a fluffy hand towel, comes back, starts wiping my face.

I was so worried, she says. I thought you might have died! Look at you. You’re a mess. Your face is bleeding.

It feels hot, I say. I think a bullet creased my cheek.

Oh, Scarlett, come here. She enfolds me in her arms and starts stroking my hair. Scarlett, Scarlett, you poor girl. It’s enough to knock your soul sideways. What you’ve been through, my darling girl, my brave girl.

I have to say, Ms. Cavel, I’ve never been treated like a real daughter before. I found it overwhelming. I collapsed in a flood of shuddering sobs, unable to keep the dam from breaking. I’ve never heard such moans, such pitiful cries, such godawful howls—and they were coming from me. The tough girl who thinks emotions are stupid.

I let her fuss for a few more minutes, and then, when all the water has drained into the sea, I pass out in her arms, emptied, exhausted, and feeling as if I were home for the first time in my life.

PUBLISHER’S EMAIL

Scarlett, I am so relieved. And incredibly grateful. That’s the most heroic thing I’ve ever heard of. I think you may have saved our book, the company, and Western civilization all at once. I exaggerate only slightly.

And what got into Peter? He’s a good man, but an action hero? Did he really bean Dickson with a post?

I guess we don’t have to call Dickson Dickson from now on, but for me, he’ll always be Dickson, and you’ll always be Scarlett.

I hope Artie is holding up under the strain of her situation. Our hopes and prayers are with her. I’ll be sending a medical team to Venice as soon as we get your location from Peter. I understand you’ve already spoken with Bernardo Lucchini. Don’t say anything to the police.

8VO_81

SCARLETT: The medics came about an hour after I got your email. Thanks, Katherine. Peter was able to go out and buy me a blouse before they showed up. He’s a great shopper, that Peter, even with his arm in a sling.

Artie refused to be examined, but then she agreed on the condition that they examine me first. I’m fine, just a few bruises and some stitches on my cheek.

Artie’s in bad shape, Katherine. The prognosis is dire—an accelerating decline, lasting anywhere from a few days to a week. She’s already lost weight and sleeps most of the time. When I think about how she worked for three days with hardly a break, I’m so ashamed—and so amazed. The woman is a dynamo in spite of everything.

The medics wanted to arrange for hospice, but it turns out palliative care isn’t a thing in Italy. In any case, Artie refused to allow it. She says letting strangers into our room is bad tradecraft. I never realized how funny she is. I asked if I could get her something to read, you know, to take her mind off the inevitable, and she says, yes.

Death in Venice.

She asked me to stay with her. Me and nobody else. The head of the medical team gave me a number to call when she’s getting close, or if she suddenly passes.

Last night, while I was battling Dickson, do you think Artie sat around wringing her hands? Of course not. She went right to work on Melzi’s letter to Bembo.

Ms. Cavel, this is a remarkable document. I think you’ll want it for the book. I’ll be back in touch when she feels up to reading it. Right now she’s sleeping again.

PUBLISHER’S EMAIL

Thanks, Scarlett. Please call me Katherine.

We just saw the news that Dickson has been arrested in the hospital. Apparently, he’s expected to live. The same article said he just won a humanitarian award for his work on privacy. The irony is delicious.

The article also said the Italian authorities are sending Salvatore’s remains back to the States. His real name is Vincent Delbosco.

Here’s the article from the Times.

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Billionaire Arrested in Deadly Scandal

Stephen Creed found unconscious, accomplice dead

by Donathan Haig and Suze Arganbright

Stephen Creed, Jr., founder of Cybex International, has been implicated in a scheme to sell highly sensitive data to multiple national governments. He and his accomplice, Vincent Delbosco, were discovered last night in Venice, Italy.

The two men were tracked by ROS agents—the Italian equivalent of the FBI—to an Airbnb flat in the Santa Marta area of Venice, which had been the site of a fire earlier in the evening.

Mr. Delbosco was discovered dead of a neck wound on the kitchen floor. Mr. Creed was lying next to him, unconscious from blows to the head and face. A spokeswoman from the fire department said the two men were not in the building at the time of the fire.

The FBI and the ROS had been collaborating for several months to gather evidence for an arrest. Four days ago, the ROS received information from a faculty member at the University of Bologna, alleging that Mr. Creed had appropriated a valuable painting from the Lombardy town of Bergamo. Acting on a tip, a team from the FBI raided his home in Silicon Valley. There they uncovered a substantial cache of illegally purchased Italian artifacts. Hours later in Venice, the ROS closed in on the two men in the Airbnb flat.

It is still unclear why Mr. Delbosco was killed, and Mr. Creed rendered unconscious. Agents found a possible murder weapon, an antique engraving tool, and a burnt piece of timber that may have been used as a bludgeon. They also found two handguns, each with a missing round. Mr. Creed was dressed in military-style gear.

A special item of interest, a half-burned manuscript, was discovered by the ROS in a kitchen cabinet. A forensics team is analyzing the manuscript to determine its relevance to the case.

Separately, it was announced on the day of the incident that Stephen Creed Jr. had won the European International Humanitarian Award for Protection of Privacy. The honor was established in 1992 to recognize contributions to the field of cyber-security.

The assailant or assailants are still at large. Currently there are no leads. This is a developing story.

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Talk soon.

8VO_82

SCARLETT: Katherine, Artie’s awake. She has short periods of lucidity before she gets tired again and needs to rest. She’d like to read as much of Melzi’s letter as she can. I’ll go get her.

ARTIE: Hello, Ms. Cavel. I hope you’re well. We’ve had quite a series of adventures after scarpering off to Venice with the manuscript. Thanks to Peter, the document is now in the hands of my former student, one of the deans at Unibo. I believe it will be safe with her.

Shall I read the letter?

Many thanks for your solicitous letter concerning the death of my master, Leonardo da Vinci. I have taken a great deal of consolation from your kind words. May I also send my own condolences regarding the death of Her Ladyship, Lucrezia Borgia, only three weeks later. I understand that you and Her Ladyship were close. You must be deeply saddened by this event.

You have asked me whether it might be more respectful to the memory of Her Ladyship to postpone the publication of my octavo, perhaps indefinitely. You need not worry on this account, Messer Bembo. I wrote my narrative on the request of my master, partially to keep pressure on the guilty parties, and also to allow Messer Manuzio to profit from its publication.

Sadly, he died before he could begin the project. His partner and successor, Andrea Torresani, showed little interest in printing the book, believing, as do you, that the truth might cause more harm than good. The manuscript has since disappeared, the result of a theft of Leonardo’s studio in Amboise.

You also asked me about my master’s death—whether he took the Last Rites, whether he died in a state of grace, and whether he spoke any final words on his deathbed. I am pleased to report that he did die in grace, and I have filled my notebook with his final thoughts.

Messer Bembo, many people considered Leonardo a non-believer, a heretic, because of his views on the Church. I myself was fearful that he might be denied entry to the Kingdom of Heaven. And yet he possessed almost every virtue encouraged by the Church, including those of respect, kindness, honesty, charity, humility, patience, compassion, diligence, commitment, and generosity.

His conception of God was expansive, perhaps akin to the vastness and power of Nature itself, the tremendous force of life which animates our universe. His manner of worship, in my view, was both original and deeply felt. He preferred to test the laws of Nature directly, not to accept a reality mediated by priests and philosophers.

If this is a sin, I wish fervently to be a sinner.

You may judge for yourself whether Leonardo was a man of great devotion. He once told me, “Nature has a thousand times more imagination than do men. When you live within the laws of Nature, your wants and desires fall away and what is left is love—the love of everything and everyone—love as the meaning and purpose of life. In the end,” he said, “all our questions may be unanswerable except by this single word. Love obeys no laws. It sees no barriers. It flies over forests, burrows through soil, and breaks down walls to bask in the heavenly light of its object.”

Messer Bembo, do these sound like the thoughts of a heretic?

He then said, “Humans will never discover an invention more beautiful, more economical, nor more elegant than that of Nature. In her creations nothing is wanting and nothing is wasted.”

The recurring patterns of Nature had inspired in him a sense of wholeness, of motion, of transformation. He believed everything must continually change.

“But Master,” I asked, “will you not miss the beauty of life when you have left this earth?”

“Miss it how?” he answered. “Our lives are like rivers, Checco. They begin as rushing streams, confined within narrow banks, crashing against rocks, hurtling over cliffs. As we grow older, the banks widen and the river slows. We feel its weight, its might, its purpose. Finally, before we are fully aware of the change that is happening, the river flows into the majestic sea, where there are no banks, no rocks, no cliffs, nothing but a vast unconscious oneness with Nature and Time.”

“Do you speak of the afterlife?” I asked.

He sighed as he thought about what to say.

[Artie coughing]

SCARLETT: Artie, would you like a glass of water? Do you need a short break? She does. I’ll hit the stop button.

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