The Devil's Chord

SO ROBERTS WAS the one who had gone to Roux with the information about the Lorraine cross. Interesting. Roux rarely trusted those not within his circle, so he must have a serious need for this thing. That it had possibly belonged to Joan of Arc and then Leonardo da Vinci made it valuable, but again, Roux had to know if Annja found it she would insist it be returned to the museum that had formerly owned it.

Dialing Roux’s number, Annja tugged up the zipper at the back of the wet suit using the long cord. She padded about in the small room belowdecks. Roux didn’t answer.

“You ready, Creed?” Scout called down from above.

“Always.”

On deck, Scout had laid out a laminated map on the bench beside the steering wheel. Kard sat back, visor cap pulled down to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun and a beer bottle in hand nestled against his stomach. Ian had suited up and looked over Annja’s shoulder as Scout explained what he’d learned about the heist.

“So the thieves, who were also lovers,” Scout said as he straightened the map, “snagged the stuff from the museum in Poland. They had intended to vacation in Venice, the City of Love.” He gave that label a dramatic tone.

Annja stepped forward, drawn into the man’s tale. And yet... “How do you know the thieves were lovers? A man and a woman?”

“It was in the police report. They were arrested, Creed. You should do your homework.”

She usually did. The police report should have been included in the dossier. She’d have to look into it as soon as she got a few minutes to fire up the laptop.

“But the man mistook the woman’s intentions—he thought she wanted a break from their relationship as much as he—and his partner revolted against him. An argument ensued as they were taking a gondola ride down the Fondamenta della Sensa, very near here.”

Scout circled the map where the boat was currently docked.

“As an act of spite, the woman tossed the attaché over the side of the gondola and took off. The man searched for it at the time, but it was hopeless that late at night. The case had been lost. Unbeknownst to both, the gondolier, a part-time fireman who spoke English well, called in the matter to his policeman friends. The couple, while escaping the city separately, were arrested, one at the Milan airport. The other managed to make it all the way to New York City, where a police escort waited for him.”

“Don’t tell me the gondolier didn’t try to find the dropped attaché?” Annja asked. “It should be fairly obvious that what was dropped would stay in the area.”

“The tides are pretty strong here. Only one more canal paralleling us, and we’re northernmost in the city.”

“Yes, but the moon is waning. We should be safe from high tides while we’re here,” Annja noted. “Whatever happened to the gondolier?”

Scout shrugged. “Still working the canals? The police reports reveal he had an idea that the couple was arguing about something that had been stolen. He wasn’t aware of what had happened with the case, until the man asked him to cruise back down the canal in search of it. So it’s been established he did not witness the drop into the canal, either. As well, he had no clue what was in the case. And the police did not divulge that information to him.”

Annja gazed out over the water. The scent was not unpleasant, though tendrils of rotting wood and sea flora lingered in the air. This canal was quiet, the sidewalk on one side wide and inviting for tourists; the opposite side featured only a small ledge, perhaps two feet wide but in some spots it narrowed to a foot, the docking worn from years of water running over it.

“Like you said, the canal is not that deep,” Annja said. “And despite the tides, if anyone wanted to find something that had been dropped half a year ago, I suspect it wouldn’t take long. And you just went down.”

“Yes, but only to test the equipment. The waters are dark. This headlamp only beams about two, three feet before me. It’ll take some time to scour the area. Come on, Creed, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Oh, I’ve got it in spades. You have a permit to dive here?”

She scanned the stone-fronted buildings, marking most as private residences. Here and there were canal garages, which she expected would provide an excellent nook for a lost suitcase surfing the tidal rhythms to wedge into. She briefly wondered if a resident had already come upon the case while using their private dock. A few were under construction and, she guessed, unoccupied at the moment.

“I did get permission to dive, Creed. And the authorities know exactly what it is I’m diving for. It’s all aboveboard, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s what they all say. And then they disappear.”

“Do I detect a bruised ego? Perhaps a tragic romance in your past for such a reaction?”

“Please. I don’t know you, Roberts, so I won’t be sharing.”

“What do I have to do to earn your trust, sweetie?”

“For starters? Stop calling me sweetie.”

“But I thought you were here to keep an eye on me.”

Grabbing the closest headlamp, she said, “Let’s go have a look around.”

* * *

THE VENETIAN CANAL swirled with sediment, murky at the lightest spots. The headlamps allowed Annja and Scout to see about four feet in front of them at the most, and less than two feet the majority of the time. The canal was a few meters deep, and the bottom was littered with timbers, stones and building materials that had been abandoned through the centuries of construction, remodeling and growth. Iron rebar was the most dangerous obstacle, and Annja brushed her hands over the rusted metal often.

Annja loved to scuba dive and had done so all over the world, from the indigo waters of Phuket in Thailand to the volcanic outcrops in Bali. She preferred the bright coral reefs of the Red Sea in Egypt, but the dark and manta ray–infested waters of Belize had fascinated her equally. There was something about the mystery of what lay immediately before her that kicked up her adrenaline and beckoned her forward to discovery.

Ian’s dive light, specially designed for underwater filming, cut a deeper and wider swath through the dimness. He intended to film some initial shots of the canal, then wait for her cue to continue filming. It wasn’t necessary to film the entire dive, and she wanted to reduce later editing.

This area of the canal hugged the buildings and Annja noted the crumbled cement chunks and lots of garbage, including tin cans and broken wood oars.

Venice’s buildings sat upon oak and pine pilings, most having existed since Renaissance times. Since the wood was embedded in airless, muddy soil, it did not decay or rot. It was the constant wetting, drying and shrinking of wood that caused it to rot and that only occurred in wood above the waterline. Another torment to the abovewater wood was decay from fungi and mold. She imagined upkeep on the pilings alone must tax the city’s budget.

Scout’s headlamp beamed in her face briefly, and she saw his hand gesture. Annja started to follow. Yet Scout swam quickly, and she was compelled to pause and beam her light down a narrow channel to her right. Looked like a passage under a building. Couldn’t be more than a foot wide. No way a diver could risk entering. Flashing the headlamp around, she looked for a glint, as the light would catch on the lost object. Scout had said it was in a silver attaché case, so that should stand out in the murk.

Marking off the channel, she pushed back and started in the direction Scout had pointed.

Annja felt something touch her arm, and she swung her head to the right to acknowledge Ian—but it wasn’t him. In fact, she caught a glimpse of the white glow-in-the-dark ribbon sewn down the diver’s arm. Scout hadn’t such a design on his wet suit. Ian had complained about his suit lacking the racing stripes.

There was another diver down here? What were the odds? Had Kard, manning the boat above, seen someone go down?

Veering to the right, where she had last seen Scout, Annja swam into a fizz of oxygen bubbles. An arm slashed across her headlamp beam. Silt stirred up from the canal floor. As she swam closer, she spotted blood in the water.

A pair of fins hung motionless, then kicked as she neared the person. Gripping Scout’s arm, she turned him to face her. His eyes were wide behind the goggles and he slapped his arm. Out spilled more blood in a red cloud. He’d been injured by the other diver?

She tugged him upward, passing Ian. Signaling to him that they intended to surface, the cameraman nodded.

Surfacing, Annja pulled off her mask and tugged out the breathing apparatus. She did the same for Scout. “What the—”

“Didn’t recognize the guy,” he blurted. “Thought it was the cameraman at first. He got me with a harpoon.” He lifted his arm to reveal the slash through the dive suit. “It’s only minor.”

“Kard!” she hollered.

The boat master nearly tumbled over the side of the boat as he righted from what must have been some serious REM sleep. The clatter of beer cans near his feet shouldn’t have been so easy for Annja to hear from where she treaded water.

“Trouble?” Kard called.

Annja pushed Scout toward the boat. “You’re done for the day. He’s been injured!” she yelled to Kard, who reached down to grasp Scout’s good hand. “Ian, we’re done filming.”

The cameraman had followed them and now handed his equipment up to Kard. After a second try, he managed to grip the ladder to climb into the back of the boat.

Too curious to leave the water just yet, Annja slipped her mask over her eyes and adjusted the fit. “I’ll be right back. I want to see if the person’s still around.”