Ring of Fire (10 page)

“That is, if you’re assuming the guy was really thinking. Instead of just being completely off his rocker,” remarks Harvey.

“Yesterday was December twenty-ninth,” Sheng reminds them for the hundredth time. “And he was convinced something had begun.”

“But what?”

“Who knows? But whatever it was, it began on the twenty-ninth of December. That’s why he kept repeating ‘twenty-nine.’”

“So you guys are convinced that his saying ‘twenty-nine’ had nothing to do with our birthday?” Elettra asks.

“What do you think?” Harvey blurts out.

“Of course!” answers Sheng. “Yesterday was our night. The Night of the Super Twenty-nine …”

“And the blackout …”

“You think it’s all connected?” Mistral asks in a hushed voice.

“But what if what happened to us last night,” Elettra says, cutting them all off, “just happened so we’d go out and end up on Ponte Quattro Capi …?”

Harvey shakes his head. “Oh, come on! We aren’t puppets. We did what we did because we decided to do it. And we wouldn’t be here talking about this stuff if one of the four of us, who was a little too … curious … hadn’t agreed to take a briefcase full of junk from an old crazy guy who can’t come get it back anymore.”

“Four of us. Ponte Quattro Capi. Four toy tops,” Sheng remarks. “Maybe the number four has something to do with this, too.”

Elettra runs her hands through her hair. “None of this makes any sense! I … I don’t know why I took the briefcase. I felt like I had to. And now that I know what’s inside it, I’m even more curious to figure all of this out.” She grabs the black-and-white checkered umbrella. “I’m going to try,” she says, showing the others the brass tag, “by going to the Antico Caffè Greco.”

“Which would be …?” Harvey asks inquisitively.

“An old café in the center of Rome.”

“Good idea,” agrees Mistral. “The umbrella might be a lead that could point us in the right direction.”

Sheng grins. “Why not? After all, what does the note say? ‘Such a great secret … is not to be reached by a single path,’ right?”

Harvey’s the only one who doesn’t seem at all enthusiastic about the idea. “I say it’d just be a big waste of time.”

“Like you’ve got anything better to do?”

“Well, I could go visit a museum …,” he jokes.

Beatrice and Little Linch walk along the right bank of the Tiber. After their meeting with Jacob Mahler at the Sant’Eustachio Café, they’re both in a lousy mood. Little Linch is frowning. Beatrice is brooding.

“Here. This is right about where I lost him,” the man says. “That’s when all the lights went out and he started running. It was only for a second … but then I couldn’t see him anymore. I figured he’d gone back to cross over the Tiber, so I headed that way to look for him.”

“You didn’t go down to the island?” Beatrice asks him, staring out at Ponte Cestio, a bridge leading to Tiber Island.

“No,” Little Linch admits.

Beatrice tries to reconstruct the scene in her mind. If the man had started running south, he might have reached Ponte Cestio, and from there he could’ve crossed the square and gone over Ponte Quattro Capi to get to the other side of the river.

“Let’s take a look around the island,” she proposes.

The two walk along the riverbank, making their way along the parapet. A few pigeons coo, perched among the cold stone bricks.

“What we’re doing is totally pointless,” Little Linch reminds her, leaning against the parapet. Despite the chilly December air, he’s panting and sweating, which makes him look particularly revolting. “What could we possibly find? That briefcase could be
anywhere. If he threw it in the river, it’s gone. So then what do we do? Slap on diving masks and flippers and swim out to dig through the mud for it? Bah! That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Beatrice doesn’t reply. She just keeps walking. Then she asks, point-blank, “What do you know about Mahler, exactly?”

Little Linch splashes through the slush in his boots. “I know he’s a snake. A mean one. A devil. They say he’s the best there is.”

“The best there is at killing …,” mumbles Beatrice, not very convinced.

“Joe claims this is the job that could change our lives forever. That we should consider it an honor to work for him.”

“For him
who
, exactly?”

Little Linch drags his feet through the snow without answering.

“Mahler was sent here to Italy for this job by someone else, you know.”

“The hermit,” Beatrice says in a low voice.

“Heremit,” Little Linch corrects her. “It’s not a nickname. That’s his name.”

“Heremit? What kind of a name is that? Is he British?”

“Half-Chinese, half-Dutch, from what I’ve heard. But his full name is even worse: Heremit Devil.”

“Heremit Devil?” Beatrice forces a smile. “Quite a reassuring name. Where does he live?”

“In Shanghai, in an incredible skyscraper …” Little Linch spits on the ground. “They say he’s so crazy he’s never even left it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s never left it. He runs his whole life from inside of it. Like a giant glass-and-concrete kingdom. I think he’s one of those freaks who are scared of catching something, of touching people, of poisoned air. … How should I know? He’s bonkers. A total nutcase.”

“But still, an intelligent hit man like Jacob Mahler—”

“Shhh!” Little Linch hushes her, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t go around saying stuff like that out loud! Somebody could hear you!”

“But still, the legendary Jacob Mahler,” Beatrice says, correcting herself, “the snake, the devil, the very best there is … he works for a madman like Heremit Devil. So basically we’re working for two insane men who want to find a briefcase, even if it means making us comb through the Tiber inch by inch. What’s wrong with this picture?”

The two quickly cross over Tiber Island, looking around distractedly in search of any clue that might tell them if their man passed by there. And since they naturally find nothing, they walk over to the opposite side, down Ponte Quattro Capi.

“Joe warned us not to ask too many questions,” Little Linch mutters, “and I’m happy not asking any. Because we’re playing with fire, sweets. A whole lot of fire. And I have no intention of getting burned.”

“He told me not even to say his name.”

“Huh?”

“Mahler. Yesterday, in the car. He didn’t even want me to say the name ‘Heremit.’”

Little Linch shrugs. “So don’t.”

“Is he so scary?”

“He’s the one who makes the rules. And rule number one is: not one word too many.”

Beatrice stops in her tracks. She leans over to pick up something that’s half-buried in the snow.

“What is it?” the man asks.

Beatrice turns it over in her fingers. It’s a shower cap, on which is written:
HOTEL DOMUS QUINTILLA
.

V
IA
C
ONDOTTI IS PACKED WITH PEOPLE.
P
ILES OF SNOW LINE THE
curbs and colorful Christmas decorations hang overhead, forming lines of blinking lights. The gleaming white Spanish Steps of the Trinità dei Monti are animated by the scurrying hustle and bustle of people wearing colorful coats, furs and extravagant outfits.

Just a few steps away from the square is Caffè Greco, which is surrounded by shops with elegant picture-window displays. Out side, a dark marble sign points out the otherwise anonymous entrance. Inside is a series of elegant rooms and little round tables. Hanging on the walls are paintings in gold frames, prints from the 1800s, portraits, articles from old newspapers, sheathed swords and sparkling mirrors.

Waiters dressed in black dart around the tables, carrying trays of hot drinks and steaming cups of punch, while the patrons chat cheerfully in ten different languages, sitting in the shade of statues and gigantic vases that peek out from behind the columns.

“This place is incredible …,” whispers Mistral, clutching to her chest a purse in which she’s put her sketchbook and some soft-tipped pencils.

“So what are we looking for, exactly?” asks Harvey.

“Anything,” replies Elettra, unbuttoning her quilted jacket.

“At last, someplace warm,” remarks Sheng, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder and brushing up dangerously close to a statue.

“Be careful with that thing,” Elettra warns him. Before leaving the hotel, they put the entire contents of the briefcase into his backpack.

The kids make their way along, dodging waiters and bundled-up customers. They look around curiously until they reach the back of the café. It’s a silent, peaceful room shut off by a red cord that keeps people from entering a little room farther on, one filled with antique furniture.

“They say that was a salon where all sorts of important people used to meet,” explains Elettra, resting her hands on the cord. “Politicians, writers, artists, poets… They say lots of great ideas came about in this café.”

“Why can’t we go in?” asks Sheng.

“So we don’t ruin it,” replies Elettra. “It’s practically a museum now.”

Harvey distractedly glances at the paintings on the walls. A hunting scene, the portrait of a pope, a romantic landscape, a newspaper article from two centuries ago … All very interesting, of course … but light-years from anything that might interest him. “Okay, why did we come here, again?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Elettra admits. “We’ve just got this umbrella. And this umbrella told us to come here.”

“Hot chocolate, anybody?” proposes Sheng, sniffing the air.

* * *

They sit down at the nearest free table, fighting over the most comfortable armchairs, and order four hot chocolates. Mistral pulls out her sketchbook and starts drawing furiously.

“You’re good at that,” Elettra comments, watching the tip of her pencil gradually transform the blank sheet of paper into a perfect reproduction of the room around them.

Concentrating on her sketch, Mistral doesn’t reply.

Sheng rests the backpack under the table, keeping it firmly between his knees.

“I say we ask someone,” Elettra suggests after a while. “Other wise, we’ll never find out anything.”

“Sorry, but what is it you’re hoping to find out?” Harvey asks dryly. “This is a dead end.”

“Excuse me …,” Elettra says to the waiter who brings them their hot chocolates.

“Elettra, don’t …,” Harvey whispers, trying to stop her. But it’s too late.

The girl holds the checkered umbrella out to him and asks, “A man gave this to us. Does it belong to you guys?”

When he sees the umbrella, the waiter looks far from surprised. “Actually, it does,” he answers. “We call those our ‘emergency umbrellas.’ Did the man tell you his name?”

“Actually, no,” Elettra admits. “I was hoping you’d know what it was.”

“He was a strange guy,” Sheng breaks in, “with a white beard and wild eyes.”

Mistral turns to a fresh page in her sketchbook and quickly starts on another drawing.

The waiter tucks the umbrella under his arm. “When did you run into him?”

“Yesterday.”

“He was a tall man with a white beard, all dressed in gray, wearing a long raincoat,” Sheng goes on, outlining his shape in the air with his hands.

“More or less … like this,” concludes Mistral, showing him her sketch.

“Ah!” the waiter exclaims. “You mean the professor!”

“The professor?”

The waiter nods his head vigorously. “He’s one of our regular clients. Yesterday he got caught in the snowstorm and he didn’t know how he was going to get back home. He’s a really nice man, but really scatterbrained. I’m not surprised he asked you to bring the umbrella back for him. It’s already a miracle he didn’t lose it someplace. Is he your teacher or something?”

“Not exactly …,” Sheng says softly.

“So he came here yesterday?” asks Elettra.

“Naturally. He comes here every day. In fact…” The waiter checks his watch. “No, it’s still too early. Let’s just hope nobody sits down at his table before four o’clock.”

“Which table?”

“The one over there, on the left, just before the cord.”

The kids turn around to look at the table he’s pointing to while the waiter continues. “The professor comes in every afternoon and goes to sit down at his usual spot. If someone happens to be there … he’s capable of standing right there beside them without saying a word until the people who’ve stolen his spot can’t put up with it anymore and leave.”

“What does he teach?”

“I have no idea. In fact, I’m not even really sure he’s a professor. We just call him that because he always shows up with at least two books, one dustier than the next.”

“And …?”

“He sits there, all quiet, reading at his table for a couple of hours. If it’s too crowded, he gets huffy and makes a scene, trying to drive people away … unless there are kids here.”

“Why? What does he do when there are kids?”

“He tells them stories. Stories about ancient Rome and emperors. He tells them about Caesar and Nero. …”

“Who’s Nero?” asks Sheng.

“If you wait until four o’clock, you can ask the professor yourself,” the waiter tells him.

“That’s unlikely,” Harvey sneers.