Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Camille took a deep breath, let it out slowly. This information changed everything.

Possibly Mikhail Kartli felt the same way, for he said, "I don't know where Braverman Shaw is."

Something passed across Jenny's expression. No more than a flicker, it was nevertheless picked up by Camille's keen eye. Friend or foe, this was how Jenny was coming to judge everyone she met. If they couldn't help her-or wouldn't-they became her enemy. For her the middle ground had disappeared, had been rendered meaningless by the betrayals she had suffered on this assignment. It would be wise to keep in mind her new way of looking at the Voire Dei, her rapid learning curve, Camille decided.

"In that case," Jenny said now, "I could really use a handgun."

"Luger or a Witness?"

"Is the Witness a Tanfoglio?" Jenny said. "I like the way the Italians make it."

Kartli smiled, as if she had passed a test. "The Tanfoglio Witness will cost you more."

"And extra ammo," Jenny said. "I aim to get my money's worth."

As Bravo went into a defensive stance, Adem Khalif raised both hands palms outward in an unmistakable gesture of placation.

"I mean you no harm, Bravo, truly."

"What about those two behind me?"

"They mean you no harm, either."

"Bullshit They belong to Mikhail Kartli."

"True enough," Khalif acknowledged, "but Kartli is no more your enemy than I am."

"Now I know you've lost your mind." It was maddening trying to keep track of both Khalif and the two bearded men at the same time, surely their intention. "I don't have to remind you that I offended Kartli. Mortally. He's out for my blood."

Adem Khalif inclined his head slightly. "So it would seem to anyone observing the incident."

There was a short pause, during which Bravo digested the implications of this comment. The feral dog had reappeared, no doubt lured by the prospect of fresh meat. One of the bearded men lofted an empty beer bottle in a low arc over Bravo's head, striking the animal in the side. It yelped in pain and vanished.

"Someone was observing us?" Bravo said.

"It was why Mikhail ignored my advice to take the argument inside his shop." Khalif ventured the ghost of a smile. "I wondered about that at the time. It is foolish to air one's business in public, and Mikhail Kartli is anything but foolish."

"True enough," Bravo nodded.

"I have more to tell you," Khalif said, "but, I beg you, somewhere more pleasant, yes?"

"What about the Glimmer Twins over there?"

Khalif's gaze shifted to the two bearded men behind Bravo. "Bodyguards for you. Kartli's express orders. I wouldn't disobey them"-he shrugged-"though I suppose it is your choice."

Bravo waited a beat, considering. "I can dismiss them at any time."

"Of course."

Khalif's brown eyes met his without any hint of deception.

"All right," Bravo said. "Lead on."

A twenty-minute walk through the maze of the bazaar brought them to an unmarked door in a seedy building on a street sticky with beer. Here and there, garishly painted Natashas lounged and leered fiercely.

The door, its green field of peeling paint sadly faded, opened at Khalif's first knock, and they entered. The interior looked like Hollywood's idea of an Oriental opium den circa 1950-red wallpaper, yellow songbirds in bamboo cages, huge brass hookahs beside plush sofas, women in long, sleek, high-slit shantung silk dresses. On one wall, a painting of a lush naked woman, erotically sprawled on a divan, smiling with enigmatic malice.

The four men were completely ignored by the women, whose languid movement about the rooms reminded Bravo of exotic fish in a tank. Khalif nodded to an older woman with an inch of pancake makeup on her face, who directed them to a private room, then closed the door firmly behind them.

On the central table was a flagon of raki, eight bottles of beer, a decanter of single-malt scotch and a fistful of glasses. Bravo and Khalif took seats. The Glimmer Twins remained outside, presumably flanking the door.

Khalif gestured at the liquor, but Bravo shook his head.

"Mikhail suspected that you were being followed," Khalif said. "Further, he felt there was only one way-sure and quick-to find out. He gave the impression of a serious falling out. I played my own part-unwitting, as it happens-of trying to be the mediator between two hotheads. His ruse worked. Not an hour after you left his shop, a man arrived. By that time I, too, had departed, though in the company of one of Mikhail's sons-to keep me from contacting you, or so I believed."

Khalif drew out a cell phone, turned it so Bravo could see the color photo on the screen. "Taken by one of Mikhail's sons. Look familiar?"

"Yes." Bravo frowned. "That's a man named Michael Berio. He met us in Venice, hired by a friend of mine."

"I'm afraid your friend's been duped-and so have you," Khalif said. "His real name is Damon Cornadoro. He's a member of one of Venice's Case Vecchie."

"One of the twenty-four founding families of Venice." Bravo nodded. "Like Paolo Zorzi."

"More importantly for you and for me," Khalif said, "he works for the Knights of St. Clement. In fact, he's their top assassin."

"Christ, and he's here."

"Here, and asking after your whereabouts. This is what Mikhail told me after his son summoned me back to his shop." Khalif opened one of the beers, took a deep swallow, set the bottle down. "Bravo, I must tell you that the fact that the Knights have sent this man after you is the worst possible news. He is powerful, determined, clever, and very, very nasty. These traits have been bred in his bones, in his very blood."

"And now he's insinuated his way into my best friend's good graces." Bravo shook his head and took out his cell phone. At once, Khalif stayed him. "What are you doing?"

"Calling my friend Jordan. I have to warn him-"

"The moment you do that, you alert Cornadoro you're on to him. Think, Bravo-is that what you really want?"

"If he's half as nasty as you make him out to be, you bet I do."

"And then what will happen, do you think?"

Bravo fought to put aside his anxiety over Jordan's safety. Fought to bring himself back to the here and now. "You're right, of course. The Knights will send someone else, someone we won't know about, someone we have no hope of controlling."

Khalif looked shocked. "Mikhail and I were talking about killing Cornadoro. Controlling him is-"

"Terrifying, yes, I agree. But killing him now will have the same effect as my calling Jordan. The Knights want what my father was guarding, what he's leading me toward. They won't stop with Cornadoro's death."

"Obviously you have something in mind." Khalif opened the decanter of scotch and filled two tumblers. "Tell me, please. We are in this together."

Damon Cornadoro found Irema, the Georgian's daughter, at the Trabzonspor Club in the Ortahisar. It was named after one of Turkey's most famous football teams, and its decor showed their colors in pennants and photos signed by past and present team stars. All the serving girls wore team jerseys that came down to the middle of their bare thighs. Turkish techno music squalled from four large black speakers parked in the corners of the black-painted room. Television screens showed highlights of past games. The smell of beer and pot smoke hung like a pall.

Cornadoro sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Irema was sitting at a round table in the far left-hand corner with a number of her female friends. They were drinking and laughing. One of them, a heavyset girl with a flattish face, got up and danced while they laughed and clapped, and they bought her a beer when she sat down, flush-faced. It was all very innocent, which had immense appeal for him.

An hour and three beers later, he rose, went over to Irema and asked her very politely to dance. She looked up at him with her large, dark doe eyes, possibly to see if he was about to pull a joke on her-maybe he had come over on a dare from his buddies, maybe there was money riding on her response. But she saw only sincerity in his face-a handsome face, a face that was both sensual and sexual, a face that stirred her. She heard the laughs, the lewd encouragement from her half-drunk friends. Half-drunk herself, she held out her hand in a curiously formal gesture and allowed him to pull her gently onto the club's minuscule dance floor.