The Da Vinci Deception (40 page)

A few minutes past five he silently paddled away from his dock. The lights along the public landing in Cernobbio could be dimly seen through the mist, and at a hundred yards out, the lights flickered, then were not seen at all. It was as if he had drifted into a black envelope. He turned on the light in the compass housing, then started the engine. He reduced power and slowly moved on a heading that would take him north and toward the medieval town of Torno.

Tony waited until he heard the motor. Then, alternately dipping a double-ended paddle left then right, he followed the gurgling sound that came from the exhaust of Giorgio's boat. He was as black as the air around him, his face rubbed with an ebony cream made from burned cork and oil. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and a rubber wet suit. The tiny kayak moved faster than the boat it was pursuing and several times Tony had to back off. He shifted the coil of rope slung over his shoulder, then again dipped the oar into the water.

Giorgio put the engine on idle. Dead ahead were the lights at the boat taxi landing at Torno, a bright light on the dock and a red light to his left. When the two lights aligned, he reversed the motor and ran the boat for thirty seconds toward the middle of the lake. At that point he dropped anchor and measured the water's depth. Twenty meters. He pulled anchor and moved farther from shore and measured again. The bottom fell away quickly and he was atop twenty-eight meters of clear, icy water. He turned the motor off.

The light in the cabin shone on the clock. It was 5:35. He recorded his position, the time, and the weather conditions in a diary. He went to the stern and began preparing the lines.

Noiselessly the kayak circled, slowly closing in on Giorgio's boat. When he was ten feet away, Tony could see a shadowy figure pulling his nets from a wooden locker. He dipped the paddle deep into the water and with short, silent strokes drew alongside the bow, where he tied a length of nylon rope to the anchor line.

Giorgio separated six lines, setting them out on the port rail. Four short lines, all with hooks and baited, were attached to each. These lengths were fixed at varying lengths from the main line. Giorgio dropped the first line, pulled on it to eliminate slack, secured it, then placed a bright orange buoy the size of a melon to mark the location.
“Buono. Mille buono,”
he said aloud. The gentle, steady current flowing due south turned the craft's bow to the north. Giorgio loosened the anchor line and played out eight meters. The line had a thick wrapping of tape at eight-meter intervals. He lowered his second line. The eight-meter separation was not a guess; Giorgio had learned from long experience.

Tony had not anticipated Giorgio's action and could not unhitch from the anchor line before Giorgio freed his boat to drift the allotted eight meters. Concealed by darkness, he maintained his advantage of surprise, but had lost valuable proximity to his quarry. He reacted immediately and rolled the kayak over, slipped free, then swam underwater to Giorgio's boat.

Giorgio heard the splash. It was no more than a slap on the water.
“Chi è li? Che cos'è?”
His question went unanswered.

What followed was a fury of motions and sounds.

Tony dove below the keel then shot up beside the boat, broke the surface, and, extending his waist above water, lunged for the rail. He grabbed it with his right hand, then as quickly pulled up with his left. He rolled over the railing and onto his feet. Giorgio could see only a shadowy form in the dull light. He reached for a pike, a long pole with a curved steel hook at the end. At the same time he touched the handle of a nine-inch fishing knife in a sheath hitched to his belt.

“It's all right, Giorgio. It's me, Tony.

“You are crazy. Why are you here?”

“I like to swim in the morning. Sunrise on the lake is beautiful. Don't you agree?”

“There will be no sunrise this morning.” Giorgio could barely make out Tony's shape. “You gave me a terrible fright.”

“I suggested you let me come fishing with you.” He continued toward the older man.

“And we agreed to make plans.
Scusi,
” Giorgio said, waving Tony away. “This is a critical time. The lines must be set out quickly after the first is put down.”

“Let me help.”

“There's no time to teach you. Watch, and sit in the cabin.”

Tony walked past the cabin door. He closed it and continued toward Giorgio. His blackened face made his body appear headless.

Giorgio tightened his grip on the pike. “Please go to the bow, and after I drop the next line, you can let off on the anchor.”

“Then I can help. Good, I want to help you.”

Giorgio leaned the pike against the railing and tossed another line into the water. He took up the slack and attached a buoy as before. “Now, if you have come to help, let off on the line until you feel the tape. Then fasten.”

There was silence, only a gentle slurping of miniature waves against the hull and the sound of a truck's horn on a distant road. “Tony?” Giorgio called into the darkness. “Have you found the line?”

The answer came from behind Giorgio. “We won't be drifting, Giorgio.”

“But we must. If I drop here, it will be too close to the last line. And see, it is getting lighter.”

“We won't be dropping any more lines.” Tony moved closer, the circles of white in his eyes shining like bright silver coins. “It is regrettable that no
salmonrino
will be caught here today. Perhaps others will have better luck.”

“That is foolish talk. If you've come to help, then go and let off on the anchor line. We must move quickly.”

“You really don't understand, do you?” Tony raised his arms, brushing the taut rope against Giorgio's throat.

Giorgio had understood there was danger from the instant Tony sprang out of the water. Tony was half his age and strong, but Giorgio knew his boat and the lake. He ducked away from the rope and grabbed the pike. He lunged at Tony, slashing the sharp point across his chest and through the wet suit, missing his skin by the thickness of his sweater. Giorgio's agility surprised Tony, and for an instant he thought the hook
had cut into him. Giorgio attacked again. Tony fell back against the railing. He was off balance when Giorgio swung the pike a third time. He grabbed at it, deflecting the hook away from him. He fell to his knees, lurched forward, and grabbed Giorgio's legs, then brought him down on the narrow decking between the cabin and the rail.

“Bastardo!”
Giorgio yelled.
“Aiuto! Aiuto!”

Tony wrapped his arms around Giorgio and wrestled him to the railing. Then holding him tightly, he fell into the water.

The sky had continued to lighten and now they could see each other. Giorgio's eyes were wild with fright. He clawed at the black face, thrashing at the water with one free arm. He reached for his knife, but too late. Tony wound an arm under Giorgio's head, took a deep breath, then sank into the water, pulling Giorgio down with him. But the lean body had more strength than Tony bargained for. Giorgio squirmed free and swam to the surface. Tony was after him immediately. This time he wrapped his legs around his victim and pulled his head back into the water. Giorgio twisted frantically, exerting every bit of strength to break the hold. Then, abruptly, his body convulsed, then went limp.

Tony swam the few feet to the boat and grabbed hold of a mooring line. He looped the rope under Giorgio's arms and tied it securely. He climbed onto the boat and hoisted Giorgio over the rail and laid him on the deck. He put his ear on his chest and felt for a pulse. There was none. Giorgio was dead.

Water had seeped through the gash in his wet suit. He was cold and unable to move as freely as before. It was raining. Another fisherman had anchored a half mile away and more boats would soon be on the lake. He sat beside his victim and took stock of the situation. He had planned to make it appear that Giorgio had drowned. But he had had a heart attack and now was on the boat in wet clothes.

He carried Giorgio to the bow, where he coiled the anchor line around his left leg. Then he lowered him until his head and shoulders were in the water. He tightened the line. He returned the pike to its holder and put the long knife back in its sheath. He placed the fishing line Giorgio had planned to drop on the deck. Next he checked for signs of a struggle. There was no blood, and he hadn't touched metal. No fingerprints. He went over every detail another time. It had been an accident.

Another fisherman approached. Tony fell to the deck. He was certain Giorgio's boat was well-known and a friend might come alongside and ask if he was having good luck. A horn sounded three short blasts.
If they came closer, they would spot Giorgio. He heard voices, carried over the quiet water by a rising wind. He crept to the bow and rolled off into the water and swam to his kayak. The engine in the other boat accelerated, and slowly the craft disappeared.

He circled Giorgio's boat. He knew that within an hour Giorgio would be discovered, his body cut free, and a frantic effort made to save him. In the confusion, the details of how he was found and how the rope had twisted around his leg would be obscure. Tony was satisfied. Poor Giorgio became entangled in the rope, lost his balance, and fell overboard. He had fought to free himself but failed. Fear of drowning brought on a heart attack.

The lake awakened for another day. Ivonne set off to market. She would buy some cheeses—
pecorino
and a
quartirolo
—to accompany the wine she and Giorgio would share when he returned.

N
ews of Giorgio's death spread quickly through the small towns along the lake. By Saturday noon, Caramazza had received a dozen calls, including one from Varenna, well north of Bellagio. Deats arranged a meeting with Brassi in the
comandante'
s office for two in the afternoon.

“Burri died from a massive heart attack, not from drowning.” Brassi looked up. “There was very little water in his lungs; the autopsy showed that.”

“Any history of a heart problem?” Deats queried.

“The examiner spoke with Burri's personal physician. The answer is no. He was a very healthy man for his age.”

“Are you satisfied it was his heart?”

Brassi leaned back. “No. But then I never like simple solutions.”

Deats fussed with his glasses. “What are the possibilities?”

“He was found in the water with a rope around his leg. We can assume he became tangled up, grew frightened—remember, it was dark. And then his heart gave out. He obviously didn't get twisted in the rope after the attack. Would a seasoned fisherman panic in that situation? I doubt if Burri would, based on what I know about him.”

“A heart attack could strike a man that age any time. He didn't have to be frightened into it,” Deats said thoughtfully. “Who discovered him?”