Dalton and Cora broke apart, Dalton breathing hard, his belly hurting and heat racing all along his chest and shoulders. Cora’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes unfocused, inward, her lips wet and open. Although she had stepped away from him, her dark eyes on him, a little stunned by the sudden visceral rush of it, Dalton could still feel the pressure of her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts, the scent and the warmth of her skin and the steady pulse of her carotid at the side of her neck. Heat. Brancati stepped through the curtains, his face hard.
“What is it?” asked Dalton, seeing his expression.
“There’s a woman. In the piazza. Sitting at Florian’s.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. She came in on one of the Minoan cruise ships this morning. From Trieste, Galan thinks.”
“Issadore?” said Cora.
“Issadore Galan,” said Brancati. “My security man.”
“Your Israeli?”
“Yes,” said Brancati, shifting his glare to Cora, and then softening it as he realized that he had put Issadore Galan in charge of Cora’s protection detail after Radko and No Name had attacked her in the Dorsoduro.
Galan was a short, crumpled man with a large round skull and too many features crowded into the center of his face to make for much in the way of looks. The fingers of his hands had been broken many times during the course of his captivity with the Jordanians in the late eighties. Broken with hammers. They had healed badly. Other atrocities had been performed, taking away any hope he may have had of ever being given or returning physical love. Perhaps as a result, Issadore Galan’s spiritual force was ferocious. It flared out at life through small dark eyes wreathed in spidery pain lines. His feral smile was sudden and brilliant. Passionate and cold. He adored Cora, and had said so several times to Brancati.
Of course Cora would remember him.
“Who is she?” asked Dalton, although he felt he knew the answer. Brancati held out a color photo, taken from a short distance away, a flight of pigeons blurring in the foreground, the woman luminous in a long pale linen dress, a wide-brimmed black straw hat with a pink fabric gardenia shading her face, her age indeterminate but not young, her lean and graceful body conveying an air of contained languor as she sat at a small round table near the bandstand, looking down at a copy of the Herald Tribune that lay on the table in front of her. She was holding a turquoise cigarette with a gold tip between the middle and index finger of her right hand. Dalton looked at the shot for a time while he contemplated his answer, deciding finally on the truth, if only for the novelty of the choice.
“Mandy Pownall,” he said, looking up at Brancati.
“Who is this Mandy Pownall?” asked Cora, with a definite tone. Both men heard it and exchanged wary glances.
“She is a business associate,” said Dalton.
Cora made a face, her expression closing down.
“One of them?”
“Mandy was Porter Naumann’s assistant at London Station.”
“She is with the CIA, then?”
“Yes,” cut in Brancati. “Galan has her on a list.”
Dalton, sensing something in Brancati’s tone, looked at the man.
“Are you arresting her?”
Brancati shook his head.
“For Milan? No. She’s not on that list. But she is CIA.”
Cora watched the exchange, sensing what was not being spoken.
“She is from London? Why is she here?”
Dalton was looking at the picture. The last time he had seen her was in his Agency flat on Wilton Crescent in Belgravia. She was showing him a file, and in that file was the reason Porter Naumann had been killed, and Dalton’s response to what Mandy Pownall had shown him was why he was on the run in Venice right now.
“She’s trailing a wing,” he said, finally. Brancati grunted, his attention pulling away. He shaded his eyes, staring out at the lagoon.
“How long has that boat been out there?”
7
Piazza San Marco, Venice
A
“What is it?” asked Dalton, seeing his expression.
“There’s a woman. In the piazza. Sitting at Florian’s.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. She came in on one of the Minoan cruise ships this morning. From Trieste, Galan thinks.”
“Issadore?” said Cora.
“Issadore Galan,” said Brancati. “My security man.”
“Your Israeli?”
“Yes,” said Brancati, shifting his glare to Cora, and then softening it as he realized that he had put Issadore Galan in charge of Cora’s protection detail after Radko and No Name had attacked her in the Dorsoduro.
Galan was a short, crumpled man with a large round skull and too many features crowded into the center of his face to make for much in the way of looks. The fingers of his hands had been broken many times during the course of his captivity with the Jordanians in the late eighties. Broken with hammers. They had healed badly. Other atrocities had been performed, taking away any hope he may have had of ever being given or returning physical love. Perhaps as a result, Issadore Galan’s spiritual force was ferocious. It flared out at life through small dark eyes wreathed in spidery pain lines. His feral smile was sudden and brilliant. Passionate and cold. He adored Cora, and had said so several times to Brancati.
Of course Cora would remember him.
“Who is she?” asked Dalton, although he felt he knew the answer. Brancati held out a color photo, taken from a short distance away, a flight of pigeons blurring in the foreground, the woman luminous in a long pale linen dress, a wide-brimmed black straw hat with a pink fabric gardenia shading her face, her age indeterminate but not young, her lean and graceful body conveying an air of contained languor as she sat at a small round table near the bandstand, looking down at a copy of the Herald Tribune that lay on the table in front of her. She was holding a turquoise cigarette with a gold tip between the middle and index finger of her right hand. Dalton looked at the shot for a time while he contemplated his answer, deciding finally on the truth, if only for the novelty of the choice.
“Mandy Pownall,” he said, looking up at Brancati.
“Who is this Mandy Pownall?” asked Cora, with a definite tone. Both men heard it and exchanged wary glances.
“She is a business associate,” said Dalton.
Cora made a face, her expression closing down.
“One of them?”
“Mandy was Porter Naumann’s assistant at London Station.”
“She is with the CIA, then?”
“Yes,” cut in Brancati. “Galan has her on a list.”
Dalton, sensing something in Brancati’s tone, looked at the man.
“Are you arresting her?”
Brancati shook his head.
“For Milan? No. She’s not on that list. But she is CIA.”
Cora watched the exchange, sensing what was not being spoken.
“She is from London? Why is she here?”
Dalton was looking at the picture. The last time he had seen her was in his Agency flat on Wilton Crescent in Belgravia. She was showing him a file, and in that file was the reason Porter Naumann had been killed, and Dalton’s response to what Mandy Pownall had shown him was why he was on the run in Venice right now.
“She’s trailing a wing,” he said, finally. Brancati grunted, his attention pulling away. He shaded his eyes, staring out at the lagoon.
“How long has that boat been out there?”
7
Piazza San Marco, Venice
A
Similar Books
