Authors: Michael Cordy
Just before midnight they wrapped up warmly and walked out on to the roof terrace to greet Christmas morning. They sat down together, he poured more vodka and together they watched the stars. She was a little drunk, which felt good. She would probably pay for it tomorrow when she drove over to Maria's brother, but for now all the pain of the last few weeks had blurred into the distance.
"What happened with Delphine? I thought you were getting engaged?'
'My family might want me to marry her, but / never agreed to anything.'
She smiled and sipped her vodka. 'Of course. I forgot. You don't do love. It's against your religion.'
'Exactly,' he said. 'You understand me, Isabella, and I like you for that.'
'I like you too, Max.'
Sitting next to him, huddled in her coat, she felt secure and at peace. Since her father's death she had barely slept, but now she could feel sleep returning like an old friend. At first she tried to fight it but the sensation was too strong. Her last conscious act as she drifted off was to mumble, 'Thank you, Max.'
She didn't hear his reply or feel him carry her inside and put her to bed. She didn't see him pin a Christmas card above her pillow, on the corkboard of thank-you cards from her patients, or turn to leave, then change his mind. But as he lay down beside her she sensed his warmth, smiled in her sleep and rested her head on his chest.
VOUS ETES FOU, MONSIEUR. YOU'RE MAD, THE MAN ON THE BOAT shouted. 'C'est trop dangereux?
Max knew the man was right. He shouldn't be doing this in winter. But he carried on. Careful to keep his balance, he raised his right hand and extended a finger into the air. 'Encore une fois,' he shouted. Once more.
The man on the boat exchanged a look with his two colleagues. They and the safety scuba divers waiting for him under water had been paid generously, but they were right to try to stop him. He balanced in the black neoprene wetsuit on a forty-kilogram wedge-shaped bucket, called a sledge, attached to a cable suspended above the sea. The conditions were calm, but it was foolish to ballast-dive in winter when the water was cold. Yet it was the only way Max knew to gain momentary peace from the battle raging in his head.
To Max, diving was a personal communion with the deep, but he couldn't ballast-dive alone, and sometimes, like now, normal diving wasn't enough to resolve the conflicts in his mind. He exhaled quickly, expelling the carbon dioxide from his bloodstream, and took one final breath. Gripping the cable above the sledge, he looked up at the boat and signalled the men to release the pin.
The heavy sledgs fell through the water like a runaway elevator at over four metres per second. The cold hit him but he ignored it, and concentrated on equalizing the pressure on his eardrums as he descended. He barely saw the safety divers in their scuba gear as he fell past them. Within one minute and thirteen seconds he was over four hundred feet below the surface of the water. The pressure on his body was thirteen times that on dry land but his mind felt lighter than it had in days. The indecision raging in his head cooled and when he released the sledge and kicked for the surface he willed the tension to leave him.
On land he was his father's son. But down here, for a few fleeting moments, his mother reclaimed his soul. Descending to the deep was almost a spiritual experience, but today the peace he yearned for wouldn't come. When hypoxia had claimed him and his mother appeared, she didn't soothe or reassure him. Today, as he rose to the surface, she didn't bathe him in love and forgive him for aligning himself with his father. Instead she was an avenging angel, fierce and uncompromising. She understood what he had done to save his sanity and didn't judge him for the men he had killed without pity or remorse. But now it was time, she seemed to say, to decide between his father's world and hers.
In his hypoxic epiphany Max saw Isabella as his mother's envoy, sent into his world to make him question his blind allegiance to his father. Whatever he felt for her had made it impossible for him to kill her father, and when his own father had killed Bacci he had felt the same impotent rage as he had when his mother died. A panicky voice in his mind told him to put Isabella out of his mind. But even as the watery sunlight above heralded his return to the air, he knew he would never regain the numb, unfeeling state that, over the years, had kept him safe. He could no longer deny his feelings for Isabella, which had melted the ice in his heart.
As he breached the surface, he gasped for air and opened his eyes . . .
At first he didn't know where he was. He put his hands over his face and his palms were damp. He was fully dressed, lying in Isabella's bed, drenched with sweat. He sat up and checked his watch. It was almost dawn. He would have to leave soon to get back to Schloss Kappel in time for Christmas lunch. He looked down at Isabella's sleeping form and, for a second, the face beside him wasn't Isabella's but his mothers. He rubbed his eyes and stared into the gloom. He would wait for her to wake, but then he must leave for Schloss Kappel.
CHRISTMAS DAY
'i'm concerned about how much time you're spending with Isabella Bacci,' Helmut said. 'I know what it's like to hear love's siren call, Max, but you must ignore it.'
Max looked back at the snow-covered Schloss Kappel, where the other Kappels were sleeping off Christmas lunch. Then he turned back to the fro2en lake and thrust his hands deep into his coat pocket. 'I'm not in love,' he said evenly.
'I once believed I loved your mother. When she took you away and threatened to expose the Kappels if I came after you, I almost let her go. But my father explained that nothing must stand in the way of the family's destiny, not even love. I had to do my duty.' He tapped Max's arm. "You were and are the Kappel's future, Max. I came for you out of duty. And it was duty and loyalty to the family that made me silence your mother - even though I thought I loved her. It was hard, but once I had accepted my responsibility everything became clearer. Bacci's drug must have taught you how disabling love is. It has no place in the modern, civilized world. It complicates everything. Duty and loyalty, however, are pure. They simplify everything.' He turned his hard face to Max.
'Put aside whatever you feel, or think you feel, for Isabella Bacci and do your duty. Senator Hudsucker's already been given the NiL drug, imprinted with her facial code. You injected him. And Joachim's already made up the matching drug for Isabella, using the sample of Hudsucker's blood you supplied. You've already arranged for each target to receive a photograph of the bridesmaids with their wedding invitation. Hudsucker is probably obsessing over Isabella's picture as we speak. They've been paired off. It's all in place. She's destined to play her part in Ilium. Forget about her. Marry Delphine Chevalier.'
Max stared at the lake, imagining he could dive into its frozen depths and never return. He considered challenging his father about the murders of his mother and Professor Bacci, about all the other evils the Kappels had perpetrated in the name of duty and loyalty to the family, but he knew it would be futile. He could have made a stand once, after his mother died, but he was now too corrupted and embroiled in the Kappel way. 'I'm not going to marry Delphine Chevalier,' he said quietly.
'What do you mean?'
We no longer need the Banque Chevalier merger. With the NiL drug and Project Ilium, Kappel Privatbank will get all the funding it needs. We'll have total control over our biggest clients.'
His father frowned.
'One other thing,' Max said. T don't want Isabella to be part of Ilium. We don't need her either. The bank will still bring in over three billion with the other bridesmaids. I'll support you with Ilium, as I've always supported you -- I'll even support your ridiculous circus of a wedding -- but you must keep Isabella out of it.'
'You can't be serious.'
'I am.'
'But we're committed. Hudsucker's primed.'
'Well, then, let a broken heart be his punishment for betraying our support and threatening to move his account. Now we have control of the NiL drug we can find another target for his love and take his money later.' He turned to his father and met his gaze. 'Vater, I'm not asking you this. I'm telling you.'
Helmut studied him for a long time. 'Max,' he said, 'I chose you to be best man at my wedding because you're my elder son and heir. You're my future. I can count on you, Max, can't I?'
Max turned back to the lake. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion. 'Did I defy, fail or betray you after you murdered my mother in front of me?'
Kappel paused before he replied. 'No, Max. You didn't.'
'Then don't question my loyalty now.'
THE DOOR TO THE ATTIC WAS HIDDEN IN AN UNUSED BEDROOM AT the back of her father's Turin villa. It had been painted to match the ceiling and Isabella wouldn't have noticed it if the carabinieri had not told her about it when they were checking the house for evidence.
She dreaded going back to the villa, but having survived Christmas she felt braver. She wanted to salvage any personal items before the place was sold in the new year. She had considered asking Phoebe to accompany her, but her wedding was imminent. Everyone was flying out to the secret venue in two days' time. She had thought of asking Max Kappel to come with her for moral support, but sifting through her father's belongings was too personal.
The police tape had been removed from the doors and she used her father's key to enter the house. Although the flowers had been cleared from the front room, she imagined she could still smell them. She was relieved that there was no sign of where the bodies had lain. The flowers had screened the rugs and wooden floors from the blood. According to the carabinieri, her father and Maria had been 'soft targets'. Their murderers had probably known they were getting married, and would be laden with jewellery and gifts when they returned home. The police were confident they knew how the burglary and murders had been carried out. They were less confident of catching the perpetrators.
As Isabella looked around the house she was surprised that there was little trace of her mother among her father's paraphernalia. He was a hoarder, but there was barely a photograph in any of his drawers. He had collected empty biscuit tins, wine bottles and piles of outdated scientific journals but no mementoes of his adored first wife. That was why she braved her father's rickety old stepladder and climbed up to the attic.
The roof space ran from the front of the house to the back. The floor was boarded and Isabella could stand up straight in the centre where the roof was highest. There were boxes everywhere, except in an area at the far end with a small rug and an old armchair. She reached for the light switch before she registered that the late-afternoon sun was filtering through two small round windows in the roof. The armchair had been placed between them. Beside it were a table, two blankets and a brass lamp with a green shade. A bottle of red wine and a glass stood nearby. As she sat down and imagined her father coming up here to read, she felt close to him.
To her right, she saw a trunk with her father's name stamped on the lid. She recognized it from when she was a child. He had kept it crammed with books in his study in the United States. It was locked. She reached for her father's keys, picked one that looked as if it might fit and put it into the padlock. It turned smoothly. When she released the catch and opened the trunk, the fusty smell was achingly familiar. But it was no longer filled with books.
One side was stacked with photograph albums and sheafs of letters tied with faded blue ribbon. She flicked through the photos of her mother and father when they were a complete family, and a rush of emotion overwhelmed her. She was an obvious blend of both parents.
The letters were from her mother to her father. Most had been written while he was away on lecture tours, but the older ones dated back to their courting years. All were love letters. As she glanced through them she felt joy that her parents had shared such a love -- the love that had produced her -- but also a crushing sadness that they were both gone.
An old black folder, held together with an elastic binder, nestled in the other half of the trunk. It felt thick and heavy when she placed it on her lap. Inside she found paper covered with her father's handwriting. The leaves were dated and went back many years. Each entry began 'My dearest Lauren'. They were letters to Isabella's mother -- written after her death. It was touching to think of her father coming up here with a glass of wine to write to his dead wife, as though she was simply in another country.
They were candid letters, which recorded her father's uncensored thoughts. As she flicked through them she saw her own name and read of her father's concern when 'that fool, Leo, broke Isabella's heart' -- 'I try to comfort her but I was never any good at that sort of thing. I wish you were here to help her, Lauren, as you always helped me.'
Fascinated by this unique glimpse into her father's view of the world, she picked out pages randomly, careful to replace each one. Some saddened her because they expressed his disappointment with his work, and bitterness against the pharmaceutical companies, long diatribes, complaining of how he was undervalued and unappreciated. Isabella had always known that her father hungered for recognition but not of his desperation to make his mark on the world before the years slipped away from him. The tone of one entry, however, was different, triumphant. It caught her eye because it was underlined. 'I've done it. I've taken the NiL drug and tomorrow I'll know the effects.' A later entry read: 'Tonight I injected Maria with NiL #072. I'm sure I've done the right thing. How can love be bad?'