The Alchemist’s Code by Martin Rua Page A

Lorenzo Aragona
    Naples, January, 2013
    The scooter splashed hazardously through the downtown streets, snaking its way between the cars on the road. It was almost as though Anna had been born in Naples and not in some Russian city, such was the familiarity with which she navigated each street, cut across the main roads, slipped through tight spaces and often ignored the rules of the road.
    I realized she was taking a rather bizarre route: we passed the same place twice, then, suddenly, she turned round and went back up the road we’d just travelled down.
    â€œAre you lost?” I asked foolishly.
    â€œNo, I’m trying to outrun them. Don’t turn around – there’s a red Ducati following us.”
    I stiffened and checked the rear view mirror, where I caught a glimpse of the bike she was talking about.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œThey’ve been tailing us since we met. You’re not very good at not being followed.”
    â€œDo I need to remind you that I’m an antique dealer? What the hell are
you
? A cop? A secret agent? How do you know all this?”
    â€œI had to learn. But let’s wait until we get to a safe, quiet place to talk.”
    Anna darted through the narrow streets leading from the Riviera di Chiaia to Corso Vittorio Emanuele with the Ducati still behind us, then cut into the Spanish Quarter, where our escape began to attract a bit too much attention.
    I noticed the annoyance of some passers-by on the pavements. “Listen, unauthorized chases are not exactly welcome around here, slow down.”
    â€œWhat, so we can get caught? I say, let’s turn the situation to our advantage.”
    Anna gestured to a group of young people gathered at a crossroads, indicating our pursuers, and a couple of them who were sitting on a motorbike by the side of the road went into action. As soon as we’d passed, I turned and saw that the bike with the two guys had stopped in the middle of the road leading down to Via Toledo, while another motorbike had suddenly emerged from a side street. The Ducati was travelling at speed, and had no choice but to slow down.
    â€œI can’t believe it – saved by the Spanish Quarter!” I exclaimed in amazement.
    â€œYou should have more faith in your fellow citizens.”
    *
    We soon reached Piazza Municipio and to avoid the risk of being located again, we left the scooter in a side street near Castel Nuovo and climbed aboard one of those double-decker tour buses.
    â€œLet’s sit inside, at the back. That way we won’t be seen so easily,” said Anna, her hat pulled down over her face and her eyes hidden by her sunglasses.
    Apart from us, there were four or five other people on board.
    We sat in silence as the bus began its tour. After a few minutes, though, Anna turned to face me.
    â€œThe same thing happened to me, Lorenzo, that’s why I know so much about it.”
    She paused, gazing sadly at the road that whizzed past the bus window.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Anna? Because of you, or should I say thanks to you, my life has been turned upside down in a matter of hours. I don’t want to believe it, but what I’ve seen has left me in no doubt – I was living in a fiction until yesterday.”
    â€œI don’t know if things were exactly the same for you,” said Anna, “but we are certainly part of something complex – part of the same diabolical plan.”
    Another pause, accompanied by a sigh.
    â€œMy story begins six months ago. As I said, I’m Russian. I was born in Ekaterinburg, but my mother is – was – Ukrainian. I studied law in Rome, but after I graduated I returned to Russia because my mother suddenly fell very ill. And at my mother’s sickbed, I found my father. They’d divorced several years earlier, for reasons that were never entirely clear to me. I always thought he’d abandoned us, and I was very resentful towards him. Anyway, at