Authors: Mark Tricarico
“Signori, my apologies for the early hour. Please,” he said warmly, again gesturing to the chairs. Paolo and Adnah sat down. “Would you care for some bread? Or wine perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” said Paolo. Adnah shook his head.
“So.” The man clasped his hands together. “My name is Giacomo Baducci, agent for Signore Franconi here in the Stato da Mar.” Adnah scowled slightly.
“Signore?” Baducci inquired. “Something concerns you?”
“No, no. I am sorry Signore Baducci,” responded Adnah amiably. “Please continue. It is just that I don’t recognize you. I pride myself on knowing all of the merchants and their agents here in Candia and I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Ah. Just so,” he said, spreading his hands. “I have been in Signore Franconi’s employ for just a short while and have only recently arrived here in Candia. The majority of my first few months were spent on Negroponte.” Adnah nodded and Baducci continued, addressing Paolo. “As I am sure you recall from the initial contract,” he said, patting the sheaf of papers, “Signore Franconi has a one-third share of the cotton cargo.” Without looking, he gestured generally in the direction of the galley swaying languorously in the harbor.
Paolo did in fact remember. The deal had been brokered before he had left Venice. Bercu had walked him through the details with the merchant—Espinosa, another displaced Jew from Spain—for whom Paolo was supposedly acting as agent. It was his introduction to the part he would be expected to play in Candia, and he remembered at the time how panicked he had been that the ruse would not be successful.
“However, I have a letter from the receiving party in Germany detailing an incorrect division of ownership. To my master’s detriment,” he added with an apologetic smile. “As you may imagine, he is eager to correct the misunderstanding.”
“Of course,” replied Paolo. “But, surely our German friend has a copy of the contract. Can you not simply direct him to the language specifying the correct percentages?” Adnah winced, catching Paolo’s eye, and Paolo realized in an instant his error.
Baducci smiled ever so slightly. “Yes, yes of course. A message has already been dispatched. But I am obligated as well to obtain your signature, as Signore Espinosa’s agent here in Candia, on the documents detailing the misunderstanding and the acknowledgment of all parties involved of its correction.”
Paolo smiled casually, waving away the mistake. “Of course. I am sorry signore. As you noted, it is still early in the day.”
“Of course signore. And I do not wish to take up any more of your valuable time. Would you care to review the contract?”
“Not necessary,” replied Paolo, regaining his composure. “I remember it quite well.”
“Very good,” said Baducci. He produced three documents, a quill, and an inkpot. Opening the inkpot, he said, “So then, if you would please read over these documents and, if satisfactory, initial at the bottom of the pages, here, here, and here.” He separated the documents, pointing to the three lines awaiting Paolo’s signature. Paolo glanced at the papers and scribbled a hasty “RC” on each, handing the quill back to Baducci.
The agent bottled up the inkpot and collected the documents in one fluid motion. “Thank you signori,” he said, nodding to both men. He rose from the table and glanced out the window. “It is going to be a beautiful day, no?” He smiled broadly and left.
Adnah and Paolo, having risen halfway out of their seats, sat back down and watched him scurry along the water of the harbor before disappearing around a corner. Adnah turned to Paolo once Baducci was out of sight. “Did you happen to notice,” he said, a curious look on his face, “that he never bothered to inquire which one of us was Renzo Conti?”
Twenty Six
“
A
vesari is in Candia.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Oh yes.” A small, satisfied smile. “He no longer has a beard and his hair is longer, in the Spanish style. He is quite pretty. But it is him. I have no doubt. He calls himself Renzo Conti.”
Stefano Zambrotta, wearing the somber robes of state, tented his fingers and looked first left, then right at his fellow members of the Council of Ten before returning his gaze to the man standing before them. “And he did not suspect you?”
Baducci, in truth Ricardo Giovinco, looked insulted. “No. He did not suspect me,” he answered icily before hastily adding, “My lord.” One of the
Capi
, Zambrotta was not a man to offend.
If Zambrotta noticed, he showed no sign of it. “Good. We need him to continue about his business.” Another quick glance up and down the row of council members settled it. “You have done well Signore Giovinco. The council and the Republic are grateful.” Giovinco beamed.
He
had
done well. This had been a most important assignment. The council employed spies all across the Venetian Empire and well beyond. A well-placed ear in a foreign capital could alter the trajectory of an entire nation and no one understood, or played, the game better than the council. Being a merchant himself, Giovinco’s familiarity with the machinations of trade made him the ideal candidate for this particular task. He still dabbled in the business to keep abreast of the trends and maintain a presence with key merchants and suppliers, but his true profession was the far more clandestine, and lucrative, one of the spy. He was shocked, even now, many years on, how easily he had taken to this life of lies. He had initially balked at the idea when approached by a representative of the council, but having just lost a small fortune when a ship in which he held an interest was lost, he had had little choice in the matter. Of course the council had known this. It was why they had approached him. And from there it took very little time to become enthralled by the intrigue, to need it in a way he needed nothing else. Little Ricardo, ignored at best as a child, bullied at worst, now had a hand, small though it may be, in nation building and, on occasion, destroying.
The key to being an effective spy, he thought, was to pepper the lies with truth. After all, one always told the truth convincingly, and when the two became intertwined, it all seemed perfectly plausible. Through small bits of truth, larger lies become more credible—they become clean. As it was in this case. When he had told the Jew that he had only just recently arrived in Candia, it was true. And about having spent time in Negroponte. Also true. Of course he declined to mention Modon and Coron, and his roaming all over the Peloponnese in search of Paolo, slinking in shadows, communicating in hushed whispers to the vast network of council spies. He knew the web was large, but had had no idea how enormous it truly was. From beggars to nobles to tradesmen to children, there was no corner of the empire that was not beholden to The Ten. The search had been exhausting, and he was beginning to despair. The idea of returning to the council empty-handed was not a pleasant one. Others, he knew, had scoured every crevice of the islands in the lagoon. It was easier to hire an unsuspecting skiff captain for the short trip across the lagoon than board a highly regulated merchant galley en route to the Stato da Mar, or beyond.
And that had been the key. The lagoon first, the Stato da Mar next. If the search still proved fruitless at that point, they would have had to engage their spies in other countries, a far more imposing, and likely less successful task. Once the islands of the lagoon were eliminated, they knew that for Paolo to go further, whether to the colonies or another country, he would require outside assistance. Although the council did not necessarily enjoy its fearsome reputation, its members could not deny that it proved exceedingly useful. This was one such instance. Subtle inquiries were made among galley owners, captains, and crews, merchants, tavern owners, and dock workers. Manifests were inspected, passenger lists scoured—all pleasantly conducted, all terrifying in their implication.
In the end it was but a simple thing really. A merchant’s agent, diligent, resourceful, and angry had been overheard by a ship’s rigger in a tavern, grumbling to a friend about being asked to quit his duties for a time in favor of another. They would not tell him why, but he was assured it was of the utmost importance “to preserve the honor of the Republic.” He had snorted at that, saying something to the effect of how it was not possible for a whore to have any honor. From there it had been a matter of following a very conspicuous trail to Candia. Amateurs. Giovinco,
perdono
, Baducci, found the traitor, and the Republic would pay him handsomely for it. As time consuming as it had been however, it had still been too easy. Avesari was obviously no match for a man such as Giovinco. Had he been smart enough to flee the empire, as powerful and far-reaching as the council was, he almost certainly would have eluded their grasp.
***
SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT
.
Zambratta watched the spy leave the chamber. He seemed quite proud of himself, no doubt already counting out the ducats he would receive for his service. The other members of the council were chattering excitedly. And why not? They had found their man. But how? A man accused of the crimes Avesari had allegedly committed would not be so foolish as to stay in the Empire. True, he was not in Venice proper or even on one of the islands in the lagoon; that would’ve been suicide. But the Stato da Mar was still a part of the Republic. He must have known that he would be found. If his intent, as the council had declared, had been to sell secrets to a foreign power, why would he not flee to that very same nation when he had done the unthinkable and escape? They would have welcomed him with open arms.
But he didn’t do what was logical. Instead he stayed in the Empire, disguising himself, poorly, as a merchant’s agent, a ruse which he couldn’t possibly have expected to remain undiscovered for long. Why? And what of the glassmakers’ guild? They continued to profess their innocence. It wouldn’t have been the first time, Zambrotta knew, that a glassmaker had been killed for trying to leave Venice with his secrets. So why deny something sanctioned, albeit quietly, by the State? True, the barbarity in which the elder brother had been killed was a stain on the guild, but it would be forgotten in time. Zambrotta shook his head, a symbolic clearing of the fog in his brain that accomplished no such thing. It made no sense, yet he knew he could not pursue it with the rest of the council,
Capi
or no. The blood was in the water and there would be no turning back.
He had been dismayed by the direction The Ten had been taking these last few years. The council had been established in a time of crisis, and all too frequently throughout history such crises have been used as excuses to quash the rights of citizens by bodies holding unimpeachable power—for the ‘protection of the people.’ But The Ten had been different, had always been leery of the notion of total authority, of unchecked influence. Thus members of the council only served one-year terms and could not be elected for two successive terms. Nor could two members from the same family be elected simultaneously. From among the ten, the
Capi
served one-month terms, and during that month, they were confined to the Doge’s Palace to prevent corruption or bribery. All this to ensure that power and authority did not go unchecked, that the citizens of La Serenissima
could live knowing that the scales of justice were equally weighted. This was Venice after all. There was no greater democratic institution than the free market.
But the council had moved away from these principles, exerting more and more influence over other areas of the government. The Ten’s network of spies was unmatched in all of Europe, and what was originally meant to protect the Republic had, over time, begun to distort that original charge in subtle but dangerous ways. He did not believe the change to be malicious however, motivated by a lust for power, but rather the naïve notion that often afflicts men of hubris in positions of great authority—that they knew better than the people what was best for the people. And thus, why not exercise that judgment on behalf of those they served? There could be no higher calling. Or so the logic went.
His election to the council had been the greatest honor, and responsibility, of his life—to protect the Republic from its enemies. It was an honor that weighed heavily today as here he sat, one of the
Capi
, impotent. Perhaps he could speak to the others, convince them that they should take more time with this matter. Of course there would be a trial, supposedly to ferret out the truth, but he knew better. The truth had already been decided.
“So, Stefano,” said Lorenzo Barozzi, one of the other
Capi
, “what say you?”
Zambrotta closed his eyes, seeing in his mind’s eye the tide against which he knew he stood no chance. He sighed and said a silent prayer for forgiveness. “Dispatch the
Provveditori
.”
***
FINALLY! QILIJ THOUGHT
this day would never come. He had resigned himself to a long wait and had been occupying his time by sharpening his mind. He had recast his isolation as something purifying, keeping the filthy Venetians at bay—reciting the tenets of Islam, “practicing” the intricate movements of waging war in his mind, whiling away the hours with eyes closed, muscles twitching. But Gabriele had come to him. The moment had arrived. Gabriele was not happy however. He was angry. He had been robbed of this moment of wondrous anticipation, when wheels were set in motion and one might watch events unfold as though enjoying an entertainment. The council had found the traitor first, and Qilij would not have the anonymity he needed. But things sometimes go awry, do they not? He would just have to make due. Qilij didn’t care about his anonymity however. He was all but invincible. That was Gabriele, wringing his hands. The rabbit scampered and he had finally been let out. Everything else would resolve itself.
And he learned, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he would go to Crete. He was looking forward to that nearly as much as killing Avesari. He would finally be amongst people who hated the Venetians almost as much as he did.