“Brancati told me what happened to you. I won’t lie to you.”
Something crossed her pale white face then, a dark memory, a flash of pain, and when it was gone there was a sadness in the shape of her mouth and in the creases around her eyes.
For a long moment she looked old, tired, wounded. She opened her eyes and looked directly at him for a space of time that Dalton found hard to measure. He was aware of being considered. Judged. Not kindly. But there was no decision yet.
“I read, in the papers, about an attack upon two men by the Palazzo Ducale. Two nights ago. This man who did this, was it you?”
“Yes.”
“I am told that both men are near death. One is in a coma.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“And did you know what you were doing? When you did this? Was it your intention? To hurt them? To kill them, if you could? Perhaps you were drunk? You drink a great deal, I think. Is this why you did it?”
“No. I wasn’t drunk. I knew exactly what I was doing.”
Dalton offered up no extenuations. He had done similar things to many other men in a state of stone-cold sobriety. He fully intended to destroy Milan and Gavro, and he had gone about it with every bit of skill he could summon. Of excuses, he had none to offer. She closed her eyes again and accepted this in silence, showing no desire to communicate with him. He had the impression of being interviewed by someone who was not physically present, a remote spiritual force.
As much as he wished he could say something reassuring, something to help her think better of him, he held his silence, aware that there was really nothing to be said.
“Micah, the men who came to my apartment, the men who stabbed my friend Domenico, do you know who they were?”
“No. But I’m going to find out.”
“And when you find them…?”
“I’ll kill them.”
“I see. And the man. The old Indian. Do you know who he is?”
“Not yet.”
“His real name is not Sweetwater?”
“It may be. I don’t think so.”
“And whoever this Sweetwater is, you will look for him too?”
“Yes.”
“And when you find him you will kill him also?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what you do?”
“No.”
“No? What do you do, then?”
“I’m called a cleaner.”
“A ‘cleaner’? What do you clean?”
“When something goes wrong in the company I work for, they send me out to fix it. No. Not to fix it. To clean up the mess.”
“Was Mr. Naumann this kind of mess?”
“Yes. He was.”
“Major Brancati says you work for the CIA. Is this true?”
“I work for the American government.”
“This is the same thing. With you the lie is like a heartbeat. Are you still seeing the ghost of this Mr. Naumann?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A moment ago. Out in the hall.”
“He is not in here? With us?”
“No.”
“That is strange. What else do you see?”
“Nothing. Everything is normal. Except for the ghost.”
“Can you do anything to make him go away?”
“I think that when I stay calm, when I concentrate on what is real, then he goes away. I was in London and he wasn’t there.”
“Why did you go to London?”
“It was business.”
“What kind of business?”
Dalton told her the essentials of it, enough to make her understand the thing without illusions, no more. When he was through, her face was extremely pale and it took a time for her breathing to slow down again. Her hands, which had been tightly linked, her fingers white, became loose and she touched her forehead with her left hand, brushing away a lock of her hair.
“And the man who did this, this was the same man in my apartment? Mr…. Mr. Sweetwater.”
“I have no proof yet. But I suspect it is, yes.”
“Then I suppose someone should kill him.”
“I intend to.”
“This ghost who follows you. This means you are sick, Micah. It means that the drug this man has put in your brain has damaged you. There is treatment for this. I know the very best people. If you hope to find him, first you have to be cured. You can accomplish nothing until this is done. You are in great danger. You may have visions, hallucinations. Fugues. You cannot ignore this, no matter how much you want to. You must be treated. Cured.”
“If I wait, Sweetwater is gone. So are the men who attacked you.”
“I shot one, you know. In the cheek. The expression on his face was wonderful. Wonderful. Shock. Horror. Fear. I made him afraid that he would die. I do wish that I had killed him.”
“Perhaps you did.”
“No. I broke his cheekbone only. He took my father’s pistoletta away from me. Father had it from the war. For a moment I thought the pig would shoot me, but then Domenico was shouting at the door and they ran away. Domenico was stabbed in the chest; he was bleeding. He is here in the hospital. They say he is in critical condition. I went to see him, but he is in surgery now. This is the world you live in, Micah? This is what you do?”
“Yes. It is.”
“And no matter what happens, you will go on doing it?”
“I think so.”
“Until you find this Sweetwater? And the two men from Trieste?”
“Yes.”
“You are not quite sane, Micah. Do you know that?”
“My world is not quite sane either. I am sorry for bringing it to your door. I regret it very much. I would undo it if I could.”
Cora made a weak but strongly dismissive gesture that Dalton found deeply wounding. “You regret very much, do you? I think you are a man who bears his regrets lightly, perhaps from having so many of them, and all of them hard-earned, so that you are used to them, the way other men grow used to a limp or the aftereffects of a wasting disease. Yet this does not stop you from collecting more of them. Without a strong desire to repair your way of living, your regrets are una bagattella. Flightless birds. You are attracted to me?”
“Yes. I am.”
“And I am attracted to you.”
Dalton’s chest became tight and he began to speak. She raised a hand to stop him.
“But to what am I attracted? A spy? An agent of the American CIA? What right do you have to be drawn to me? You are not your own man. You are bought and paid for. You are not a free man. I think you also have a wife.”
“Yes. I do.”
“And yet you tell me that you are attracted to me? You betray your wife; then you invite me to share in your dishonor.”
“My wife and I are… estranged.”
“I see. Then of course you will tell me about the icicle?”
Dalton sat back in the chair. It groaned under his weight in a way that reflected the heavy stone he carried in his own heart. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke. “No. I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“I… can’t.”
“You refuse, you mean?”
He leaned forward, moving closer to her. “Yes. No. I won’t because I can’t.”
She sat up then, and swayed unsteadily for a moment, placing her head in her hands, wiping them across her eyes, brushing her hair back. She moved her legs and sat up on the side of the bed, taking one of his hands in both of hers, an act of gentle mercy that cut his heart in two.
She reached out and touched his right cheek, a delicate brushing touch using only her fingertips. He could smell her perfume and the scent of her body. Her eyes were dark and he found it hard to look into them. She leaned forward and pulled him closer and kissed him, softly, gently, her lips brushing his, her warm breath in his face, her body very close. Then she pulled back and let go of his hands and stood up, looking down at him.