The Devil's Chord

UPON DISEMBARKING AT Marco Polo Airport, Annja felt refreshed. It was 6:00 a.m. and the day was bright. Ian was also chipper. He’d had extra bags of peanuts and a couple of free drinks and was currently balancing his equipment on one shoulder, his backpack across both shoulders.

“We’ll eat after checking into a hotel. Deal?” Annja asked.

“Deal.”

Annja strode directly to the cabstand and was greeted by a tall, solemn man in black trousers and black turtleneck who held a placard with her name neatly written in block letters.

“Miss Creed. I am Paulo. Your driver here in Venice.” He spoke English well. “I’ve picked up the diving gear, as was requested by Monsieur Roux. Two sets. I’ve had them delivered directly to the boat docked in the canal.” He nodded to Ian. “Welcome to Venice.”

The men shook hands.

“You’re punctual,” Annja said. “I appreciate that. On to Venice?”

“I’ve a car waiting. There’s a bit of a traffic bind, I’m afraid. Accident as I was coming toward the airport. We may have a wait. And then we’ll travel on a water shuttle to the island. I live in the city, so I’ll be at your service. I do have a car and a boat.”

“Thank you. We’d like to head straight to the hotel. If you could recommend a good place to eat nearby, that would be great.”

“I’ll bring you there myself.”

Three hours later—indeed, the traffic had been backed up for kilometers while a crane worked to clear away lumber from an overturned truck—Annja and Ian dropped their things in their respective rooms at the hotel. Then they accompanied Paulo to a quiet restaurant that seemed lacking in tourists yet had immense personality. The cook sang from the back room, and the waitresses giggled as they delivered plates to the tables. Though they’d both skipped breakfast, Annja cautioned Ian against the full plate of pasta if they planned to dive anytime soon, and he reluctantly ordered the smaller size.

After they’d eaten and Paulo had given them directions, Annja and Ian strolled down the streets in the Cannaregio, where they were to meet Scout Roberts dockside.

“They say the city is sinking nearly a tenth of an inch a year,” she remarked as they passed a wet tiled courtyard sandwiched between two buildings.

“Point zero eight, to be precise,” Ian replied. She gave him a look that said she was impressed. “Two years ago I spent a summer here filming at San Michele.”

Named after the archangel Michael, the Isola di San Michele was located in the Venetian lagoon, northeast of the Cannaregio. It was about half an hour away. One of the first Renaissance churches in Venice, it had been built on the island sometime in the mid-fifteenth century. The same island that had also once served as a prison.

“The team I was traveling with was actually a forensic unit from New York City,” Ian explained. “They were digging up bones in the cemetery. One of the women was full of interesting details about Venice. You know the city is tilting, as well.”

“Yes, I had heard that. But let’s hope it doesn’t topple over while we’re here. I haven’t gone diving in these waters,” Annja said.

“I had the displeasure while at San Michele.”

“Displeasure?”

“The waters around the island were not bad at all. That’s fresh seawater. It’s the canals in the city proper. They’re not really fit for leisurely dives, especially during the hot summer months.”

“Right. Like now.”

Since the canals were the Venetians’ principal method of travel, cars in the city were rare and the water became unhealthy and murky. She wasn’t even going to think about it. On the other hand, the tidal flushes should remove much of the sewage. She’d think positive—only way to go.

Though, now that she’d begun to think about it, she picked up the salty wet-wood scent in the air. The sun was high today, and she sensed it wouldn’t be long before the obnoxious odors would really blossom.

“I understand there’s a crew of volunteer divers who have made it their goal to do an underwater version of street sweeping through the Grand Canal,” Ian added. “They’ve collected quite a bit of rubbish.”

“Good for them. You’ve got to hand it to grassroots efforts. They will improve our world one project at a time.”

“Most of the canals are only about three meters deep. I’ve a headlamp on my camera. I certainly hope there are lamps included with the diving gear. We’ll need them. You didn’t say exactly what artifact you are diving for. Something about Leonardo da Vinci? I can’t imagine we’ll find one of the master’s paintings lying at the bottom of a canal, surely.”

“It’s a cross that once belonged to Leonardo. It was stolen from a museum six months ago.”

“Fascinating. I’m not much for old stuff myself.”

She shifted her backpack, which held a few personal things and her laptop, higher on her shoulder.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You like the unknown.”

“Actually, I’m all about finding the truth. That’s why I’ve partnered with your television show on occasion. Legends and myths fascinate me. Their origins and how they grow and take on a life of their own, becoming real to some, is intriguing.”

“For a guy who doesn’t like old stuff, you must run into a lot of history searching for truths.”

“I do. Like it or not.” Ian chuckled. “It’ll be a good adventure, as you’ve said. I just wish I could get Sirena out of my head.”

Annja offered, “I made sure she got the number for a women’s shelter. And she has my number, of course. I told her if she wants to talk, she can call me any time.”

“Guys like Matteo don’t deserve anyone. And a girl so vulnerable and...beautiful like Sirena should be with someone who can appreciate her for whoever she is.”

Annja smiled. Her cameraman seemed smitten.

“I gave Doug a call, as well,” she said. “He’s psyched about this dive, even though I told him not to get his hopes up. I can only see this being of interest to the show if we run into sea monsters.”

“Always a possibility,” Ian suggested a little too cheerfully.

She and Ian walked on, taking their time as they followed Paulo’s directions to the dive site, as specified in Roux’s dossier. The spot they were heading toward was in the Cannaregio, a central neighborhood that was one of the largest of Venice’s six boroughs or, as the Italians called them, sestieres. Annja noted that Canal Regio was Italian for Royal Canal and that this district had once been the main route into the city before a railway from the mainland had been constructed.

“The Ca’ d’Oro,” Ian announced with reverence from behind her.

Annja swept her gaze up the Gothic facade of the fifteenth-century palace that had been heavily adorned with gilt. It had been built with a garden and courtyard. And it housed Giorgio Franchetti’s private art collection. She’d have to make a point to visit the gallery if she could find some free time while in the city.

She loved Venice. No matter what time of day, the city always seemed to glow as if the sun were constantly setting upon the ancient buildings and water. So few cars made it a joy to wander about, and even the constant barrage of tourists in the major piazzas didn’t bother her. So much history surrounded her, she was a bit awestruck.

“Off to find the treasure,” she murmured as they turned down a narrow passageway.

Could Scout have become a treasure hunter after he’d been ousted from the University of Columbia? It was what tended to happen to archaeologists who couldn’t stay away from the dig and the thrill of the find, yet who needed to subsidize their income to survive. She’d gotten a sense from the sparse details in the dossier that she may be dealing with a treasure hunter. In which case, he may not specialize in diving but rather be a jack-of-all-trades. A necessity when country hopping across the world in search of hidden wealth.

Speaking of hidden wealth, if and when the Lorraine cross was found, would Roux add it to his private collection of amazing artifacts, some of questionable provenance? Annja felt sure he would. They would have to come to terms about the ownership of the item if, and when, it was found.

Having dressed for a cool day, she was pleased to peel off her windbreaker to reveal a T-shirt because the sun promised a warm afternoon. Cargo pants and hiking boots were de rigueur, and generally a hat when digging under the hot sun. She’d gone with a ponytail today and left the hat behind. If she were heading underwater, a different sort of hat and gear would be required. She hoped the diving equipment was in good condition.

Making a right turn down an alleyway, she and Ian emerged onto a wide sidewalk edging a canal. Spying the boat named Piuttosto, their destination, she took a bridge across the Fondamenta della Sensa and went west until she arrived at the appropriate dock. Only one man stood on deck. He waved to her, but didn’t act as though he expected her. When she stepped onto the boat, he raised a brow.

Annja offered her hand. “Annja Creed. Scout Roberts is expecting me.”

“Oh, right. The babysitter,” the man said. “Name’s Kard. Not like the game, but with a K.”

“You work with Roberts often?” she asked.