Gentle reader, welcome to my story, my entry in the Winter Holidays contest. It is a tale of murder, intrigue, and steaming, raunchy sex. If you will be just a little patient with me, we will get to the sex soon enough. I'd like to offer my sincere thanks to my sagacious editor,
legerdemer.
As the first rays of the dawn peered into his apartment, Bedrich Farkas rose from his bed and went to the window. He shuddered a bit, because the cold was deeper and more penetrating than he had anticipated. Outside the air was thick with a silvery mist, and Bedrich could discern irregularly shaped, thin slabs of ice littering the surface of the gray waters of the canal outside. For a moment, he cast his eyes toward the thermostat across the room, then seemed to have second thoughts. He pulled on a heavy robe and knelt before the ancient fireplace, lighting some crumpled newspapers and adjusting the logs until a respectable fire was burning and the apartment was steadily growing more hospitable.
Bedrich's apartment looked like something that had been lifted intact directly out of the 19th century. He had accumulated furniture that seemed contemporary with the design of the building, ornate, evocative, time-worn. There was a set of armchairs and a couch with faded wine-colored damask upholstery, and mottled, golden ball-and-claw feet. The only concessions to the 21st Century were a laptop computer and an espresso maker. Bedrich was about to avail himself of both.
First, the espresso machine. He listened with satisfaction to the whispering sounds of the pressure building, then watched his single espresso trickle into the little beaker, after which he poured it directly into a small cup and drank it. He wouldn't dream of adulterating with sugar or milk foam or anything else. He felt his senses heighten as the stark winter light began to pour into the room, and he moved to the couch with his laptop.
Bedrich brought up a search engine and started a search for anything in the news on Till Acquati. For years, Acquati had been a personal obsession for Bedrich. He had spoken to no one about it.
When Bedrich had first come to Venice from his native Czechoslovakia, he was working for Správa II,
Kontrarozviedka
, the counter-intelligence division of Czechoslovakia's Internal Affairs Ministry. He was there on assignment, but he had another agenda of his own: the Czechoslovakian economy was in the midst of a calamitous contraction, and Bedrich's family was facing harsh privation, despite Bedrich's relatively prestigious (albeit secret) government position. He wanted to defect with his family, a very difficult proposition.
All three members of the family would have to exit at once -- family members who remained behind would be treated in ways that Bedrich did not care to contemplate. Bedrich was unwilling to approach his counterparts in the Western intelligence services for help, because if they helped him, they would own him. He wanted to find another way to get out, and then quietly disappear.
Venice in those days was a hub of intrigue for every cold war intelligence agency, as well as the private intelligence organizations that had been its hallmark for centuries. Bedrich had very little time in which to make a connection with someone who could help, someone with whom he could barter his skills as a field agent and analyst, in exchange for the safe re-settlement of his wife and daughter. Bedrich had to make a quick judgment and rely on his instincts. His instincts were wrong.
He remembered meeting Till Acquati, back during that fateful week. Bedrich's Venetian contacts had recommended him as a man who had the right sort of connections, a man with whom he could do business. Acquati had impressed him with his serene confidence and impeccable manners. Bedrich had offered himself, with his training and connections, as a private operative for Acquati's networks, in exchange for the safe re-settlement of his family. Acquati had questioned him closely and knowledgeably, then agreed to the deal. And shortly thereafter, Acquati had betrayed him.
Today, on this wintry November morning, Bedrich's web search had turned up nothing. Bedrich was unperturbed. Acquati knew how to fly below the radar, and he seldom received any mention in the press. Venice was like that. The powerful people were invisible, most of the time. Bedrich would continue with his web searches and other measures, patiently waiting for Acquati to make a mistake.
With reluctance, Bedrich rose and entered the bathroom. He knew how long it would take for the building's ancient plumbing to deliver water that was actually hot. However, on this particular morning, Bedrich had places to be, and he couldn't afford to wait. Steeling himself, he turned on the shower, tested the water gingerly and plunged into the stream, washing as quickly as he could while he suffered the punishing cold of the spray. After what seemed a very long time, he emerged, dressed, and proceeded outside, walking briskly along the canal toward the residence of Michela da Rimini.
Michela had acquired a reputation in Venice as a pampered, oversexed aristocrat. The reputation, it occurred to Bedrich, was entirely deserved. She was born with wealth and status. In her early 20s she had struggled to come to terms with her inclination to sexually sample each new acquaintance, and by the time she had reached the age of 30, she had simply abandoned the struggle and surrendered to her impulses. This was a given as far as Bedrich was concerned, but he also knew that Michela was a complicated person and that there was much more to her than public perception acknowledged.
Bedrich stopped to catch his breath, and to take in the panorama around him. It had begun to snow, depositing a soft white coating on the idle gondolas in the canal. There was an eerie glow in the air as the weak daylight labored its way through the thick mist. The ancient buildings looked more obscure than they usually did, and the waters of the canal thickened with forming ice. A halting wind fluffed Bedrich's curly gray hair, then let it fall once more around his ears. Snowflakes left tiny wet trails down his thick glasses as he began to walk again.
Michela had been another person referred to Bedrich by his intelligence contacts, during those fateful days. She was well connected by virtue of being a member of an aristocratic family, which in Venice carries with it certain responsibilities and privileges which must necessarily be of interest to an intelligence operative. He had declined the invitation into her bed, but accepted her help when he was suddenly stranded after Acquati's betrayal.
Then, in the wake of that betrayal, came the inevitable reprisals. A person like Bedrich, who had been entrusted with an important job and a certain amount of leeway in terms of his personal movement and associations, must be made to pay dearly for any disloyalty. After a few weeks, it became clear that his wife and daughter were dead. Michela had then sustained him with patient emotional support, until, in time, he had allowed her to provide him with consolation in the way that she preferred.
A solitary motorboat came putt-putting slowly along, avoiding the ice in the canal as Bedrich turned toward Michela's impressive residence. He was the first to leave footprints in the new snow upon the circular drive that led to her doorstep. It was early still, and the city was quiet, but Michela was expecting him. He rapped softly on her door, and she greeted him in an elegant diaphanous gown, flinching against the cold before ushering him back into her warm home and closing the door. Then she led him up the grand staircase and to her chambers on the second floor.
Michela's room was large and offered a sweeping view of the canal, which was quiet now, save for a solitary gondolier who was sweeping the snow from his vessel. The snow continued to fall slowly, almost as if in slow motion.
Michela's blond hair was braided and coiled upon her head. Her green eyes were limpid in the winter light. Bedrich joined her on a settee near the bed, in front of small table where some breakfast was waiting. He declined the coffee she offered, but accepted some bread and prosciutto, which they shared as they chatted quietly in Italian.
"So the O'Shaughnessy girl is dead," said Michela.
"Yes, she was killed on Halloween," replied Bedrich. "There was a business deal in which she became... inconvenient."
Michela did not seem to find this surprising. "Who killed her?"
