The Venetian Series 05: Dead in the Water

Dear reader: this is the fifth and final installment of a novella. To best enjoy it, I would like to recommend that you first read all the previous parts of this series listed on my profile.

Rodica roamed the halls of thePalazzo Ducale, looking for her next project. The opulence of the place never failed to leave her feeling stunned - her senses were overwhelmed by the brilliance of the golden carved ceilings with their embedded murals, the gleaming patterns of the wallpaper, the mesmerizing geometric array of the tiles on the floor. She had to filter it all out in order to focus her mind on what she had come for - the artwork.

Many of the paintings there grated on her. They celebrated Venice, its secrets, its privileged elite, its love of ostentatious display. She eventually found herself drawn once again to the paintings by the man from Verona, Paolo Veronese. Her eyes came to rest on one entitled "Dialectic or Industry" - she didn't understand the title, but she was intrigued by the figure of a woman, wearing richly textured garments, crouching on the ground outside some sort of temple and examining a spiderweb, stretched between her hands. She could be the same woman who punished the forger, with the same vivid blue sky behind her.

As she gazed at the painting, Rodica made up her mind that she would copy it, and began setting up her easel, canvas and paints. Then she became aware of voices, two men standing at a distance to her right. They were discussing the painting. Curious, she allowed herself to listen in.

A tall, rather handsome dark-haired man was listening attentively to a shorter man who was also quite attractive, but older; his grey hair swept elegantly back from his forehead and was slightly long in the back. The shorter man wore pale green silk shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely to the midpoint of his forearms. His tan slacks were very well-tailored. The taller man wore a dark blue shirt and gray slacks. The shorter man spoke:

"The problem that I see with Veronese's paintings is that they are too sentimental, and they moralize. It's annoying. You see her web? I don't know whether she made it, or a spider did. It doesn't matter. He's making the point that whoever made it, we ought to admire their diligent effort. I find that very tedious."

The man's companion nodded respectfully. Rodica turned the ideas over in her mind, trying to decide whether she agreed. The speaking man continued:

"I prefer something like 'The Battle of Salvore.' Domenico Tintoretto captured the excitement of sending thousands of men to war. And his portraits, too - the men in his paintings exude power and authority." Here he gave the taller man a momentary, knowing smile, which the taller man returned. They looked like they were sharing a secret.

Rodica looked back at the painting, not wanting to be rude. The shorter man continued. He spoke in confidential tones, but in the silence of the museum, Rodica could hear him, and she was curious about this person who seemed so confident and relaxed in his affect.

"I have a new business opportunity for you," said the shorter man.

Rodica heard the other man's voice for the first time. It was deep and masculine, but deferential.

"Yes! I'm interested."

"Are you familiar with carbon credits?"

"Only generally. It has to do with climate change, right? Some countries have signed agreements to limit their carbon dioxide emissions?"

"Yes, the Kyoto Protocol. It's legally binding on the signators."

"But if a country feels the need to go over their quota, they can pay someone else to go under theirs?"

"Yes. They call the quota a 'cap.'"

"But who keeps track?"

"No one."

"You're kidding."

The two men had begun to walk into the next room. Rodica was intrigued by their discussion; a little itch in the back of her mind was telling her that it might be important. Staying our of their line of sight, she moved next to the door and continued to listen. She recognized the calm, confident and slightly higher-pitched voice of the smaller man.

"There are organizations called 'DOE's, Designated Operations Entities. They are authorized to monitor the accuracy of the claims made about reductions in CO2. When a study was made of their reliability, they were graded A to F, and the highest score for any of them was D."

The deeper-voiced man let out a low whistle and said "Jesus." After a pause, he asked, "Where is the investment opportunity?"

"Carbon trading is now the world's fastest growing commodities market."

"But how is it a commodity?"

The higher-voiced man chuckled. "It's not. But it is traded as one."

The voices were moving away. Rodica made a quick decision and strolled after them into the next room, directing her gaze at the paintings. The two men were moving slowly from painting to painting, continuing their conversation. Rodica kept pace with them, careful not to move at exactly the same time as they moved.

The smaller man was saying, "I'll make a long story short. The way this market works is poorly understood. The whole process of measuring carbon reduction is questionable, and even if it were not, no one makes a serious attempt to regulate it. But the real opportunity, for men such as ourselves, is that there are secondary markets and derivatives on the whole thing, every aspect of it."

Another low whistle. "I think I am beginning to see what you mean... so, there are bets and side bets every step of the way?"

"Yes. And the fellow who is smart enough to control the measurements will know the outcome of those bets, in advance."

The two men were now moving to another room. Rodica did not want to risk being too obvious. She turned in the other direction, gathered up her supplies, and made her way out of the museum.

***

It was approaching sundown as Bedrich made his way up the steps of the Rialto Bridge. The sky was a jumble of clouds, some of them a radiant gray that was full of the declining sun, others that had already succumbed to the approaching night and glowered black. Reaching the highest steps, Bedrich paused and thought of the conversation he had had with Michela when he was last upon this bridge.She knew. Somehow she had known that Helmut was involved in the investigation of Acquati. When Helmut was undercover and approaching Acquati as a businessman, she could have tipped Acquati off.

Bedrich stood at the vertex of the bridge and looked out over the canal. Swarms of watercraft, gondolas, powerboats, waterbuses weaved and dodged each other. They churned the water into a murky froth as the evening sun waned. The pastel colors of the buildings that lined the canal were gradually muting and blending into soft uniformity. How many people had known that Helmut was undercover?

Not many. There were his superiors at theBundeskriminalamt in Germany. There was Lieutenant Durante, a very solid guy, and anyway he did not move in Michela's circles. And himself, Bedrich. Where was the leak? Did Michela figure it out strictly on intuition? She was a clever girl, but not that clever. She had to have picked up a hint, somewhere along the line. From Bedrich? It didn't seem possible.

Bedrich began to descend the steps toward the far side of the canal. It didn't matter so much now if Helmut's cover were blown. The investigation had taken a different direction. But it did add a new miasma of doubt to his relationship with Michela. He knew she was close to Acquati. They were both movers and shakers behind the scenes in the political and business world. She was undoubtedly sexually involved with him - that was inevitable. But was she really emotionally attached to him? That would be difficult to fathom.

***

The following morning was brisk and clear as Bedrich traversed the Piazza San Marco. St. Mark's Basilica, with its ostentatious assemblage of golden statues crowding its roof, gleamed in the early rays of the sun. The 300 foot brick phallus of the Campanile loomed impassively, its long shadow crossing the square.

Bedrich had slept poorly, and he was running behind schedule, When he reached the cafe, Helmut was already there, sitting outside and looking uncharacteristically morose. From inside the cafe, Rodica caught his eye through the window and waved.

Bedrich sat at the table across from Helmut and observed, "I've seen you happier."

Helmut sighed. "I wanted to pull together a full inventory of Acquati's financial contracts. But last night I calculated that it will take me 4 years and 11 months to finish it."

"Can't you narrow it down? Aren't some of these transactions more likely to involve illegal activity?"

Helmut shook his head in exasperation. "They're all derivatives. Any one of them could be the key, any one of them could be hiding money laundering or insider trading or lord knows what else. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. The Iceland thing was my best idea, and Acquati wiggled off the hook."

"Can you put him under surveillance and get an idea from his activities about where you should be looking?"

Helmut snorted. He said ironically, "Well, maybe I could have if he hadn't made me as an investigator. And I'm pretty sure he knows all the people around here who could watch him. But it doesn't really matter. He'll be careful. He knows how to be careful."

Bedrich nodded silently.

Rodica emerged from the cafe, followed by a waiter carrying a little tray with three espressos. He deposited them ceremoniously on the table as Rodica took a seat next to Helmut. She smiled at Bedrich, who was relieved that one person there was in a good mood.

The three of them sipped their espressos for a moment, enjoying the rich taste and its promise of sharper thinking to come. Then Rodica asked, "What is carbon trading?"

Helmut lifted his case from the tabletop and considered her thoughtfully. "Carbon trading?"

"Yes," she replied. "I heard some men talk about it."

"What did they say about it?"

"They said it was a business opportunity. They said that the people who monitor it do a bad job."

Helmut said, "Carbon trading is a new kind of financial speculation on things that are supposed to help the environment. Different methods for supposedly slowing down climate change."

Bedrich observed, "But you say 'supposedly'."

Helmut replied, "Well, a lot of people have claimed to be doing things that are environmentally responsible, but what they were doing turned out to be insignificant. And they made quite a bit of money selling their insignificant services."

Rodica interjected, "These men were talking about derivatives. What are derivatives?"

"Bets," said Helmut. "Derivatives are bets, very complicated bets made by investment funds with huge amounts of money. They bet on everything under the sun."

Bedrich was leaning forward on his forearms, looking at Rodica. "What did these men look like? Where did you see them?"

"I saw them at the Doge's palace, in the museum. One was tall with dark hair. Good looking. The one who talked the most was shorter, but he looked imposing, like an aristocrat. His hair was gray. He looked very relaxed with a soft voice."

Bedrich looked at her intently. "The short one - was his hair brushed back, like this?" He mimed the act of brushing his hair straight back from his forehead.

Rodica nodded. "Yes."

Bedrich shot a sharp glance at Helmut. "Do you think that could be our guy?"

"Maybe," Helmut replied. "I was just reading something on carbon trading. Interpol put out a report on the potential there for criminal activity."

"Well, that gives us at least something to work with," said Bedrich.

Rodica was not yet satisfied. "So you say that the derivatives are bets on people helping the environment, but we don't know for sure if they really help?"

Helmut answered, "Yes."

"I think that the man said that the one who controls the measurements wins the derivatives. Is that the measurement to see if they help the environment?"

"It must be." Helmut rose from his seat. "I've got to take another look at that Interpol report."

Rodica grinned playfully. "Can I come too?"

Helmut grinned back. "Better wait. I need to do some actual work. How about dinner tonight?"

Rodica rose as well to whisper in his ear. "I'll serve you just what you like."

***

The wind suddenly gathered its strength, filling the rust-colored sails and causing the rigging to creak, an eager sound like the whinny of a horse that wants to run. Lieutenant Antonio Durante let out the sail and gave the flat-bottomed boat its head, turning it before the wind and feeling the old wooden joints strain as the breeze urged it on.

The boat had been in Antonio's family for generations, a traditionalal terzo rig with its brightly colored, unusually shaped lugsail. Its hull slapped the impudent waves that the breeze had engendered in the lagoon, as Antonio let the salt air fill his nostrils.

Flying across the lagoon, Antonio was able to look at Venice from a distance and with a different perspective. Police work, like the boat, ran in his family. Working for theGuardia di Finanza in Venice sometimes seemed like a deployment behind enemy lines. The city, in its heyday, had dominated the world through subterfuge and intrigue, using the same methods to control its own population, and these methods had evolved with the changing times.

For ten years, now, Antonio had been hunting Till Acquati. Every informant he cultivated, every financial crook he busted who turned state's evidence, they all pointed at Acquati as being at the top of the food chain. Every new type of financial crime that came along, from money laundering to insider trading to Ponzi schemes to derivatives - Durante was certain that his quarry was in it up to his eyeballs, but he was so damn careful. He created so many layers of secondary associations and transactions that an investigator could never seem to get through them all to find out who had sold what to whom.

Antonio was now approaching the shore, so he came about and sent the boat tacking against the wind. With the city receding once again behind him, he reviewed the most recent developments. The German fellow, Delker, had managed to get somewhat close to Acquati, to the point of getting invited into his home. But apparently Acquati had made him as an undercover operative - when? Had Acquati known all along, and simply been playing with the investigators?

He came about once more and tacked in the other direction, putting more distance between Venice and his craft. As he sailed in and out of the wind for a while, he thought of his father, who had been a member of thePolizia Municipale in Venice. He had a long and honorable career, but he frequently complained to his sons that members of the Veniceoligarchia were beyond the reach of the law. Antonio remembered how indignant he had felt when he heard those stories.

Antonio thought that if just one of the financial big shots could be brought to justice, his father could rest easy, wherever he was. After all, it had happened in Iceland. That proved that it were possible.

The wind grew stiffer, out there on the open water, and theal terzo craft was flying along now. The big, orange-brown lugsails were full and Antonio could feel the choppy seas through the boat's flat bottom. The cold caress of winter was in the breeze, and he pulled his jacket collar up to shield his neck. Then, as he rounded the island of Santo Spirito with its desolate abandoned monastery, he saw before him a familiar black powerboat, being driven by a large, powerfully built blond man in a ice-blue windbreaker. It crossed his path at right angles, about twenty-five yards away, and looking to the stern of the boat, Antonio met the calm, impassive gaze of Till Acquati. Then the boat continued to the right until it was just one more speck on the horizon.

***

Late afternoon found Michela alone in her chambers. She lay restlessly on her bed, naked, with clothespins clipped on to her labia. A small vibrator was in her hand, teasing her clit, and her mind was on Till Acquati.

Why had he not called her? Their encounter with Luca was so exciting. Even when it was only Luca who was flogging her, or fucking her, or making her suck his cock or his ass, she could still sense Till's authority, orchestrating it. Luca was like a big handsome sex toy being wielded by Till. Of all her lovers, only Till carried himself with that sort of authority. And when Till himself penetrated her cunt, her mouth, her anus, she felt so important, so loved and accepted, and she came so very, very hard.

Michela's back arched suddenly as her orgasm washed over her. Oh! That was good. With her thighs clenching, she focused her mind on remembering how it felt to be fucked by both Till and Luca at the same time, and she felt another orgasm coming. Quickly she switched the vibrator to high power, and groaned in delight as it hit her like a typhoon.

After a minute, she turned off the vibe. After another minute she released the clothespins, savoring the sting as the blood rushed back into her tender flesh. A third minute passed, and her thoughts turned back to Till. How could he not want more? She didn't want to appear needy; that could drive him away. She needed an excuse to see him, perhaps some more information that would please him. She reached for her cell phone on the bedside table, dialing Bedrich's number.

***

It was now a week before Christmas. Venice, which normally looks extravagantly ornate, had acquired an entire new layer of ornamentation. Little blue lights twinkled along the roof of the Rialto Bridge. In the piazzas, brilliantly lit Christmas trees added to the splendor. Mobs of Santa Clauses rowed processions of boats up the Grand Canal.

Bedrich took in the seasonal excesses from the stern of a water taxi, headed toward Michela's dwelling. Her invitation to him had seemed both urgent and casual, if such a combination were possible. He was curious as to what was going on, and considered the possibility that she was in some sort of trouble.Over the years, he had provided professional assistance to her when she had committed certain indiscretions that might have brought a cloud of scandal over her family's house. Men in Bedrich's profession were frequently called upon under such circumstances.

The water taxi pulled up to the landing. The driver had augmented his smart navy blue blazer with a little winking Christmas wreath on his lapel. Bedrich offered him season's greetings and made his way along the street to Michela's residence.

Michela greeted him at the door, wearing an elegant silk robe that was not revealing, but provocative nonetheless - clingy and sensual. She planted an affectionate kiss on his mouth and conducted him up to her chambers.

There was a fire crackling in her bedroom's fireplace, and a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. Michela poured two glasses and seated herself next to Bedrich.

"How have you been, my dear?" asked Michela.

Bedrich took a long sip from his whiskey. "I have been fine, Michela."

"Keeping busy?"

"No. Now that I'm retired, I don't keep busy." Bedrich managed a wry smile.

She placed her hand lightly on his thigh and said, "You don't get to do a little of your spy business now and then?"

Bedrich took another sip and did not meet her eyes. "Not these days."

He's misleading me, thought Michela. Good. I want him on edge. She began to trail her fingertips up and down, up and down his thigh. She could see the outline of his cock underneath the fabric as it stirred, then began to stiffen. She loved the sight of it.

"Poor dear," said Michela. "What do you do for fun?"