When The Masks Come Off In Venice

Gentle readers: welcome to my entry for the Literotica Halloween Contest. It has benefited immensely from the invaluable editing of the lovely and talented

legerdemer

. I hope you will enjoy it.

*

On this particular October morning, Helmut was pretending to be someone that he was not. He was assuming the role of a savvy investor with money burning a hole in his pocket. Helmut had spent most of the previous year living in Hong Kong under the name "Helmut Pagel". He had spent plenty of the German government's money on various financial deals, in order to make his disguise convincing, and he had done well with them. It was necessary to make trades on a large enough scale that it would make him interesting as a potential client. He had made quite a splash in Hong Kong. But now he was in Venice. His nostrils were full of it.

It was a heady mix of aromas, and a confusing one, at first. As Helmut strode deliberately along the paving stones next to the canal, he was gradually able to sort it out -- the omnipresent smell of salt water, plus the sharp (Helmut did not find it unpleasant) scent of the fumes from boat motors, and finally the heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread that wafted from the nearby shops. He liked the olfactory cocktail; he liked the way that his path was alternately brilliant with the morning sun, then subdued with the deep shade of the buildings he passed; he liked the feeling of the espresso he drank in place of breakfast, assaulting his central nervous system.

Helmut walked close to the water's edge, smiling to himself as a bright yellow, red and blue ice cream vendor's boat glided past on his left. He wore his blond hair stylishly long, and had worn it that way over the past year as he had grown into his identity as Herr Pagel. He was wearing a pricey geometric-patterned polo shirt, Santoni shoes, and slacks. He could pass for a member of the

Schickeria

, the fashionable set, but he was still, at heart, a cop.

His years of experience as an investigator for the Financial Intelligence Unit of the

Bundeskriminalamt

, the Federal Criminal Police of Germany, had prepared him well. Helmut knew the world of finance, and he knew that the line between clever investing and criminal activity was often difficult to discern. Nonetheless, Helmut was more than able to discern it.

Helmut looked out across the green waters of the canal, watching a gondola skim through them with the grace of a swan. He was on his way to meet his new quarry for the first time, Mr. Till Acquati. Acquati was a leading executive of the famous Assicurazioni Generali, the giant Italian reinsurance firm often referred to simply as "Generali." He was known to be a specialist in the complicated world of financial derivatives, the convoluted system of financial "hedging" that often devolved to nothing more than complex wagers. Derivatives traders hired whiz-kid math PhDs right out of college just to try to follow the twists and turns of the bets they were making.

Acquati had a reputation among derivatives dealers. It wasn't that he was quick about understanding the details of the bets (although he was). It was that he always knew who was making them, and why. He was a strategist, said to possess a prescience that verged on clairvoyance. This reputation inevitably attracted the attention of criminal investigators, because it smelled like insider trading, or some related practice that was just a few steps to the wrong side of that line between what is legal and what is not. The amounts of money that passed through Acquati's hands on a daily basis were legendary. However, if Acquati were doing something untoward, it had thus far escaped the scrutiny of law enforcement investigators.

Generali would have state-of-the art security and intelligence capabilities, so Helmut had lavished a lot of care and expertise on creating a false identity that would stand up to scrutiny. Now it was time to put it to the test.

Helmut crossed over a small tributary canal on an arched footbridge, then entered the lobby of the Metropole Hotel. He passed through the glass doors into the palatial interior, admiring the geometric tiled floor. He cast his eyes around the lobby for a minute or two before he spotted Acquati, who was relaxing inconspicuously in a corner with a large, sober looking man whom Helmut took to be a bodyguard.

Acquati had an aquiline nose, intelligent brown eyes and an impeccably barbered mane of iron-colored hair, swept back from the forehead and ending precisely at collar level in the back. He wore a dark suit from a tailor too exclusive to be in the men's magazines, and a silk shirt open at the collar.

Helmut was halfway across the lobby to him before Acquati raised his eyes and acknowledged him. He rose courteously and offered his hand. "You must be Mr. Pagel," he said.

"That I am," said Helmut, accepting his handshake. Both men spoke English, the language of business, confidently and with almost no trace of an accent.

"Well, I'm delighted to meet you, sir. I understand that you have an interest in derivatives." Acquati's smile was a perfect balance of accessible warmth and professional decorum.

"I do. I have had some experience with them, but I increasingly feel that I am out of my depth, and I'm hoping to benefit from the experience of yourself and your firm." Of course, Generali's intelligence division would know exactly what Helmut had done with derivatives.

"Well, I hope that we may be able to assist you." Acquati was inscrutable. "Mr. Pagel, I'm guessing that perhaps you are German?"

"Yes. Does it show?" Helmut smiled wryly, or at least, he hoped that he did.

"Well, your name does suggest it. My mother was Austrian, which is how I came to be named Till. My father was Italian, of course."

Of course. Helmut, in turn, was already fully aware of these things, having done his own homework. Seeing no perceptible sign on hesitation on the part of Mr. Acquati, he launched into a discussion of the business relationship he hoped to establish, a discussion which continued cordially for 20 more minutes, until Acquati excused himself and promised to soon develop some proposals that Mr. Pagel would find interesting. Acquati rose, offered his hand once again, and made his way through the lobby to the hotel entrance, accompanied by his silent companion (who, Helmut realized, had remained standing during the entire encounter). Helmut watched through the hotel windows as the two of them strolled to the canal outside and boarded a sleek powerboat that materialized just as they reached the water's edge, then carried them off into the distance.

***

Helmut stood amidst the noisy chaos of the front office of the Italian

Guardia di Finanza

, waiting for a meeting with Lieutenant Antonio Durante, who was in charge of liaison with foreign police agencies. After another ten minutes of patient waiting and enduring the aural assault of excited people chattering in Italian, Helmut was summoned into an interior office where it was blessedly quiet. The room was spartan in its decor, occupied only by a central desk whose surface was crowded with open files and memorabilia. Behind it, Lieutenant Durante awaited him, wearing a rumpled gray suit.

"OK, good morning, yes, Mr. Delker, what am I going to do for you?" said Durante to Helmut, whose real surname was Delker.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Durante, I am investigating Till Acquati."

Durante rolled his eyes. "Till Acquati, yes, he's a big shot, you can't touch him. Besides, he's clean. I watch him for years. Assicurazioni Generali, my god, they're a big company, very legitimate. Maybe a few bad eggs once in a while. But Acquati? Yes, Mr. Delker, no, he won't break the rules." He nodded his head vigorously to underscore the point.

"Just the same, I'd like to have a look at him. I won't make waves while I am here."

"You have been working in Italy before?" Durante's demeanor was genial, but his eyes narrowed slightly. Sometimes a foreign cop could be a bull in a china shop.

"Yes, once before, in Milan. I'll do it by the book."

"OK, Mr. Delker, but yes, I think you are chasing a wild goose." Durante shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe, maybe not. It won't hurt to look just a little bit deeper. I'll share with you anything that I find."

"Mr. Delker, yes, that's exactly what you should do. Keep me up there in the loop." Durante flashed a smile with a hint of fatigue and offered his hand. Helmut shook it serenely and took his leave.

After Helmut had departed, Lieutenant Durante picked up the phone on his desk and spoke rapidly in Italian to a colleague. He informed him that a German financial cop was pursuing the same line of investigation that his team was working, and that he could be a potential problem if he got in the way.

***

The paving stones of the famous Piazza San Marco glistened from the recent rain. The square looked like an expanse of lake, reflecting the impossibly ornate and ancient structures that lined its perimeter. At the border of the Grand Canal sat the Palazzo Ducale, the Doge's Palace. For more than a century, the palace has housed an art museum, the Museo dell'Opera, and this was Helmut's destination.

Helmut was considering his plan of attack. The next move would be Acquati's. Acquati would make some business overture on behalf of Generali, which would in turn determine how Helmut would proceed further. In the meantime, Helmut would keep his powder dry, relax and think. This was what he hoped to do at the Museo dell'Opera. Fate held something slightly different in store for him.

He wandered through the chambers of the former palace, with their elaborately vaulted and mural-ed ceilings, gazing at the paintings. Helmut preferred the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, with its Raphaels and Da Vincis, to the collection of mostly Venetian painters he saw here. But some were catching his attention.

As a young man in Berlin, Helmut had shown an aptitude for painting. At the university, he had vacillated between majoring in art, and majoring in criminology. Criminology had won out, but he still thought wistfully of becoming an artist.

Helmut walked into a room where paintings by Paolo Veronese were on display. His eye was drawn to painting where a very serious-looking blond woman, dressed in colorful robes of antiquity, appeared to be standing on a prostrate man. The point of view was unusual, looking upward at the woman from a short distance away, with a brilliant blue sky in the background. This painting was entitled "The Punishment of the Forger," and it was all the more remarkable for the fact that there were two of them, one on the wall, the other a faithful copy being painted by a young woman who was seated at an easel in the middle of the room.

She wore her dark hair very short. One might be tempted to call it boyish, were it not for the fact that she was quite full-breasted. Her glasses with large frames emphasized her dark eyes and her slightly bushy eyebrows, and from her ears dangled twin strips of shiny metal in abstract shapes. She was concentrating intently on her brush-strokes which mimicked those of Paolo Veronese, and she was unaware of Helmut as he studied her and her painting.

Helmut was fascinated by her hands. They were quite compact, and the fingers were broad, but they moved the brush with steady, fluid, elegant motion. Eventually, Helmut ventured to speak. His Italian was sketchy at best, so he decided to go with English and hope for the best.

"That's very good work," he said.

The woman was momentarily startled, then smiled shyly and replied. "Thank you. I really like that painting." Helmut noticed that she rolled her "r"s heavily in a way that was clearly not German.

"What will you do with the copy you are making?"

She shook her head lightly from side to side. "I do this because I want some classical technique. I went to art school and learned to paint with... modernism and abstraction. I don't know what I will do with this." She grinned ironically, and continued. "If I ever finish."

"It looks very close to being finished now."

The woman grinned again. "No, no!"

Helmut peered again at the original painting. "What is the woman doing to that man?"

The painter laughed. "I'm not sure. She is punishing him for being a forger, I think."

"He probably deserves it. Are you a professional painter?"

Again, she shook her head from side to side, not to indicate "no", but as if quietly laughing at a private joke. "I think so. Maybe. Some people are buying my paintings." She gave Helmut a challenging smile. "What is your job?"

Helmut hesitated. This woman was an uninvolved third party. Should he stay with his cover ID, or tell her the truth? He looked into her eyes, and said, "Are you sure you want to know?"

She laughed out loud. "Yes, of course!"

"I'm a policeman. A financial policeman."

The woman looked puzzled. "Financial?"

"I catch people who are breaking the law in the way they handle money, financial transactions. Fraud, money laundering, things like that."

"Like bankers who are cheating people?"

"Yes, that would be one example." Helmut grinned at her. "Or possibly a forger."

She grinned back. "Yes, maybe a forger!" A pause. "I don't think you are coming from here, am I right?"

"No, I'm from Germany."

"I don't come from here, neither. I am Romanian. Do you think you will catch some of those financial people here in Venice?"

"I'm trying to catch people who are cheating people internationally. They can be very smart people, hard to catch. There could be some of them here in Venice."

"I don't think you will catch them."

Helmut flashed a surprised grin. "But I always catch them!"

She gave him a quizzical look and smiled back at him. "Always? That sounds interesting. I'm tired of doing this painting. You like espresso?"

"Yes, I do."

"I know a place on the other side of the

Piazza

. I pack up my paints, and then I'm going there. You want to come, too?"

"Sure, why not. By the way, my name is Helmut."

"I am Rodica."

Five minutes later they were making their way across the square. The sun was out now, making the ancient structures gleam, and the paving stones were drying rapidly. Marauding hordes of pigeons were scurrying about in search of tourists.

Rodica asked, "Do you know very much about Venice?"

"I know a lot about the banks and insurance companies."

"No. I mean the real Venice, the

old

Venice."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that."

Rodica stopped for a moment and turned to face him with an enigmatic smile. "I know a guy. You should talk to him." Then she gestured toward a cafe at the edge of the square and began to walk toward it with Helmut keeping pace.

"What sort of guy would I be talking to?"

"He's a Czech guy. Sort of old. He knows much about history. He often sits at the cafe where we go now."

At this point, they were approaching their destination. It was a cafe that managed to seem venerable and garish at the same time. It was trimmed everywhere in gold, with highly ostentatious signage done in lovely, ancient fonts. Rodica cast her gaze back and forth among the tables that were arrayed on the paving stones in front of the cafe until she spotted a solitary figure, seated at a table in the corner along the wall. "He's here, " she said to Helmut.

He followed her to join the solitary figure, and they seated themselves at either side of his little cast-iron table, topped by what appeared to be white marble. The man smiled warmly at Rodica, then nodded his head courteously to Helmut. He appeared to be in his 60s, with gray hair that clustered in wayward curls about his ears, making him look a little like Albert Einstein. His eyes peered out through thick glasses, and he wore a pullover shirt with a wide oval opening for his neck.

"Bedrich," said Rodica, "this is Helmut. He needs to know things about Venice."

A formally dressed waiter hurried to assist them. Rodica began to speak to him in heavily accented Italian. At a certain point she paused and looked questioningly at Helmut. He nodded and said, "Just an espresso, please."

The waiter hurried off again, and Bedrich addressed himself to Helmut. "Helmut, you are a visitor to Venice?" His English was fluent with a distinctive accent that Helmut recognized as Czech.

"Yes, I am. I can't provide many details about why I am here, but I investigate financial institutions."

A curious glint appeared in Bedrich's eyes, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with Rodica. "Well, well," he said to Helmut, "welcome to the belly of the beast."

Helmut smiled back good-naturedly. "You mean that there is a lot of financial crime here?"

"Not exactly. This town has more secrets than any other. And behind every secret you uncover you will find more secrets. When Venice was an independent state, they perfected a system of government that was completely hidden from the people who lived here, behind a mask of false democracy. And have you visited the Doge's Palace?"

"Yes, I was just there this morning. That's where I met Rodica." Helmut became aware that Rodica was studying him intently, assessing his reactions with a merry smile.

Bedrich continued, "Around the outside of the palace there are mail slots in the shape of lion's mouths, marked

Per Denontie Segrete

, 'For Secret Denunciations'. People would denounce their enemies, accuse them of crimes, and if if suited the purposes of those who really ran the show, the denounced persons would disappear."

"Well... that sounds unpleasant. But that was a long time ago, was it not?"

Bedrich smiled enigmatically. "Things don't change much in Europe, my friend. And here, they change even less."

"Well... what do you suppose that means for my investigation?"

"I couldn't say, without knowing what person or institution you are investigating."

Helmut grew quiet for a moment. He was a professional, and normally he would categorically reject the idea of disclosing such information to a third party. But he was oddly drawn to Bedrich and Rodica. He was at a loss to explain it. On impulse, he asked, "What happens if I give you a name?"

Bedrich and Rodica exchanged smiles. Bedrich continued, "I have lived in Venice for a very long time. I know many, many powerful people. But I have only one or two friends." Here he smiled affectionately at Rodica. "And I will not share your information."

Helmut gazed silently at Bedrich and Rodica. Bedrich looked serene. Helmut could usually spot the signs of a person attempting to mislead him, and he wasn't seeing them now. Rodica was looking at him with that same merry smile. Helmut was intrigued by it.

At length, Helmut said, "I'm interested in Till Acquati. Assicurazioni Generali."

He watched Bedrich's face suddenly grow serious. Rodica looked puzzled. Abruptly, Bedrich rose from the table. He left some currency on the table, then addressed Helmut. "Helmut, you are an ambitious person indeed. I will do my best to help you. Can you meet me tomorrow, 10:00 A.M. at this same place?" Helmut nodded. "Until tomorrow, then." Bedrich inclined his head toward Helmut, and walked away.

Helmut turned to Rodica. "Well, I guess he knows who that is."

"I think so," said Rodica soberly. She leaned toward him and pressed something into his hand. "Here." It was her card. "In case you need to get in touch." She flashed him another quick smile, rose from the table, and left in a different direction than Bedrich. Helmut sat alone for a few minutes, pondering what had just happened, before he, too, rose and made his way back to his hotel.

***

The next day was bright and breezy, and the air was full of the sea. Helmut returned to the cafe precisely at 10:00, and Bedrich was there awaiting him. He inquired whether Helmut wished to drink some coffee, to which Helmut replied that he had already taken care of that. So, the two of them left the cafe and set off across the city. They made their way to a vaporetto stop, and after a few minutes they watched a long, sleek waterbus come cruising up to the dock, full of people and riding low in the water. They boarded it, and soon were on a roundabout route through the waterways of Venice. As they traveled, Bedrich provided Helmut with some background on the institution he was investigating.