side, I heard Erik mutter, “Moreno,” just as I saw Marco step backward from the women and open his jacket to reveal a dark steel pistol stuck in his inner pocket.
Instantly, all of us grew very still and open-mouthed.
He did not point it at anyone, only saying, softly: “Seriously, stop making a fuss, girls—yes, no screaming. We don’t want those antediluvian guards to drag their walkers in here, do we? We can still all stagger out of here in relatively decent shape.”
“Shit! Fuck!” Domenico was gagging.
“Except for poor Dom, I suppose.”
Blasej ran over and smacked Adriana’s face before examining Domenico’s throat. “Moreno—man, stop blabbing and give it to her.”
Marco grimaced, gave a short laugh. I was just barely able to translate his next words, muttered in a combination of Spanish and Czech: “I don’t think you’re a very good influence on me, Blasej. You know that? I think you’re a bastard.”
“Go on—you fucking talker!”
Erik had gone stiff with recognition. He stood next to me with huge eyes, his face shining with sweat. “Marco Moreno.
That’s his name. Lola—he’s not related to that—no, no,—he’s not connected with that other man—”
“Yes—he’s Moreno’s son.”
“The colonel who tried to kill us—the one Estrada ripped up—in the jungle—”
“Marco,” I seethed, “put that gun away.”
“Hello—could it be in here...?”
A stranger had just stumbled into our red-faced, arguing circle. I half-registered the noble-looking scholar who had been reading in the library, and had this minute wandered into the dining hall as if from another dimension. His dark pageboy flapped around his ears and his shiny spectacles tilted on his nose as he tiptoed in, squinting and murmuring to himself, with that large bronze magnifying glass in his hand.
With an air of supreme abstraction, the scholar blundered among us, in his houndstooth suit, his glossy shoes mincing in little steps as he skittered around the perimeter of the room. He gazed at the art on the walls through his bronze-handled glass, while chattering in Italian: “I say, I was told I could find a copy of Boccaccio in the athenaeum—but this doesn’t look right. Is this the athenaeum? Or did I take a left turn when I should have taken a right—or a right when I should have taken the left?” He observed our little party for the first time. “Oh, cheers—am I interrupting something? I must have wandered into the wrong bloody room.” He raised his magnifying glass, so his face swelled and dented and revealed his sudden attack of fright. “My, that wouldn’t be a...gun...that you’re holding, is it? Oh!”
This distraction was not wasted. Adriana pulled the doctor from the floor. The two women raced over to a section of the gilded friezes opposite the empty space that had held the map, pressing three different spots hidden between the beautiful golden ladies’ faces staring out from the panel. A small door opened in the wall; they disappeared into the dark aperture and the door shut swiftly behind them.
Marco swore violently, as Erik gripped me and rasped, “How did he find you?”
“I don’t know. He just showed up at the store.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I can help him—”
“Well, you just did!”
Blasej kicked at the wall. “Where’d they go?”
“Bitches,” growled Marco. “I stayed here a month, and the old woman never said a word about any secret doors—”
The scholar, in his panic, had wandered directly in front of Marco, hysterically waving the magnifying glass in the air. With both hands he suddenly grasped very hard and rather insanely onto the wrist and the hand with which Marco held his gun. “Oh, my, I do seem to have stuck my foot in it—you’re not actually going to use that horrid thing on me, are you? I’m nothing but a poorly paid specialist in fifteenth-century majolica. I’m really just the most inconsequential person you could ever hope to
Instantly, all of us grew very still and open-mouthed.
He did not point it at anyone, only saying, softly: “Seriously, stop making a fuss, girls—yes, no screaming. We don’t want those antediluvian guards to drag their walkers in here, do we? We can still all stagger out of here in relatively decent shape.”
“Shit! Fuck!” Domenico was gagging.
“Except for poor Dom, I suppose.”
Blasej ran over and smacked Adriana’s face before examining Domenico’s throat. “Moreno—man, stop blabbing and give it to her.”
Marco grimaced, gave a short laugh. I was just barely able to translate his next words, muttered in a combination of Spanish and Czech: “I don’t think you’re a very good influence on me, Blasej. You know that? I think you’re a bastard.”
“Go on—you fucking talker!”
Erik had gone stiff with recognition. He stood next to me with huge eyes, his face shining with sweat. “Marco Moreno.
That’s his name. Lola—he’s not related to that—no, no,—he’s not connected with that other man—”
“Yes—he’s Moreno’s son.”
“The colonel who tried to kill us—the one Estrada ripped up—in the jungle—”
“Marco,” I seethed, “put that gun away.”
“Hello—could it be in here...?”
A stranger had just stumbled into our red-faced, arguing circle. I half-registered the noble-looking scholar who had been reading in the library, and had this minute wandered into the dining hall as if from another dimension. His dark pageboy flapped around his ears and his shiny spectacles tilted on his nose as he tiptoed in, squinting and murmuring to himself, with that large bronze magnifying glass in his hand.
With an air of supreme abstraction, the scholar blundered among us, in his houndstooth suit, his glossy shoes mincing in little steps as he skittered around the perimeter of the room. He gazed at the art on the walls through his bronze-handled glass, while chattering in Italian: “I say, I was told I could find a copy of Boccaccio in the athenaeum—but this doesn’t look right. Is this the athenaeum? Or did I take a left turn when I should have taken a right—or a right when I should have taken the left?” He observed our little party for the first time. “Oh, cheers—am I interrupting something? I must have wandered into the wrong bloody room.” He raised his magnifying glass, so his face swelled and dented and revealed his sudden attack of fright. “My, that wouldn’t be a...gun...that you’re holding, is it? Oh!”
This distraction was not wasted. Adriana pulled the doctor from the floor. The two women raced over to a section of the gilded friezes opposite the empty space that had held the map, pressing three different spots hidden between the beautiful golden ladies’ faces staring out from the panel. A small door opened in the wall; they disappeared into the dark aperture and the door shut swiftly behind them.
Marco swore violently, as Erik gripped me and rasped, “How did he find you?”
“I don’t know. He just showed up at the store.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I can help him—”
“Well, you just did!”
Blasej kicked at the wall. “Where’d they go?”
“Bitches,” growled Marco. “I stayed here a month, and the old woman never said a word about any secret doors—”
The scholar, in his panic, had wandered directly in front of Marco, hysterically waving the magnifying glass in the air. With both hands he suddenly grasped very hard and rather insanely onto the wrist and the hand with which Marco held his gun. “Oh, my, I do seem to have stuck my foot in it—you’re not actually going to use that horrid thing on me, are you? I’m nothing but a poorly paid specialist in fifteenth-century majolica. I’m really just the most inconsequential person you could ever hope to
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