The Italian Venture

By Chet A. Kisiel

Is there anyone who wouldn't want to have €30 million? Carlo, a paparazzo, thought he had found a way. In Scotland, he films three high NATO officials, pedophiles,  who commit a horrible crime. Carlo thought his ship had come in. He plans to blackmail the pedophiles for €30 million. Mistake.  He leaves behind his camera case, which can identify him. These men are desperate, ruthless, and powerful.

They send a small army to look for him and recover the film. Two people whom Carlo trusted, Guido, his former employer, and Luigi, owner with his twin brother Alessandro of Rai Quattro, with whom he deposited a copy of the film, betray him and join the blackmail game.

Milton Lessing, American insurance sleuth is sojourning in Venice with Elena, her father Joe, Dr. Mancini and his brilliant artist Sofonisba, who has painted the masterpiece Venus Rising Again.

They are dragged into this deadly game when Guido invites them to a dinner party. They arrive late and find the diners murdered by an assassin called The Postman.

One of the victims was an associate of Wolf von Babenberg, Milton's former employer. Inspector Bolelli suspects Milton and his friends had something to do with the crime. The only witness was Tasso the cat.

While Luca Malatesta, the villa's owner and reputed enforcer for the Venetian Black Nobility, and Francesca, his moll. are presenting their ironclad alibi, someone calls to report that the newspaper building has been blown up (destroying the film Carlo had deposited there).

Fearing that he was the target, Guido absconds and urges Milton and his friends to do the same. They flee for Rome from the police, who follow them, and from The Postman, whose employer, the Belfagor League, wants Milton dead to avenge a previous encounter in Cyprus.  The Postman jumps on the train just as it is pulling out of the station.

The Belfagor League has contracted with two Swiss doctors to develop a synthetic blood that would confer practical immortality. The experiment failed, and the League wants to come for the treatment or wants their money back (which the Swiss don't have). Two Russian doctors now in partnership suggest a solution by use of their mind transporter. They demonstrate its results by presenting two striking Brazilian girls, who in fact are octogenarian Swiss aristocrats. The Swiss doctors tell the League to come for the "treatment." 

The action races from Venice to Rome (where underneath the Vatican Milton and Elena discover a hidden city to Switzerland to Moscow to Vienna (where they foil a terrorist attack) and to idyllic Lugano, where the strings of this web of intrigue converge. Two blackmailers and their forces, Luca and his moll, The Postman, Inspector Bolelli, the Lugano police, the pedofiles' thugs, and Milton, Mancini, and Eric (Wolf's gorilla) encounter each other. The action reaches its climax in an air-naval battle on the lake for the money.

Who will get the money? Will Milton and his friends survive? Will Tasso identify The Postman? What will happen to the pedophiles? To Carlo, Guido, and Luigi?  Will the Belfagor League get the immortality treatment? 

Buckle up, climb on board to find out, and go on a thrilling, entertaining, and informative journey to some of the world's most captivating places and meet some unforgettable good and evil types engaged in a life and death struggle in this gripping epic novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chester Kisiel
• Release date: Aug 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393306276

Chet A. Kisiel

Biography Chester A. Kisiel received his A.B. and M.A. in Government from Brown and Harvard University and his Ph.D. in Education from the University of Chicago. He has taught at Staten Island College (CUNY) and international schools and has written, collaborated, and translated books in sociology, economics, philosophy, Jewish studies, religion, and art. He is a world traveler and public lecturer on politics and popular science (astronomy, cosmology). He is retired and lives in Gdansk, Poland with his wife and two cats (Albert Schweitzer:"there are only two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."). His hobbies are Italian, Dante, astronomy, world history, philosophy, music and good books. His favorite authors are Dante, Shakespeare, Balzac, Stendhal, and Graham Greene. The thriller Deadly Icons featuring the unlikely hero Milton is the first of a series, soon to be followed by Italian Venture.

Book preview

PROLOGUE. A paparazzo makes a big mistake

SUNDAY First Day

The entrance to Cawdor castle was heavily guarded, and the grounds were swarming with security forces. The castle was closed to visitors on that chilly, early November afternoon because a NATO meeting was being held there. The present castle was built around a fifteenth-century tower-house, long after the period in which Shakespeare sets the scene of his play Macbeth.

The man had parked far enough away from the entrance to avoid the scrutiny of the guards and yet close enough to observe the cars passing through the gate. For three months he has been following his prey, Michel Verdonck, deputy defense minister of a NATO country, whom he suspects of belonging to a pedophile ring. Would the man finally find the evidence he sought here?

The man was Carlo Boldoni, thirty-five-years-old, average height, slender, with brown hair, close-set, darting gray eyes. Carlo was now a paparazzo. He had been a society reporter for La Nuova Venezia newspaper but quit because there wasn’t enough money in it. Carlo’s instincts told him that the big score that he had been hoping for would soon be within his grasp. He sometimes wondered whether he was cut out to be a paparazzo. It was an uncertain and dangerous game. He was approaching middle age and still had nothing to show for his efforts. Before long it would be too late for him to start a family and settle down. From time to time, he started the car and turned on the heat to keep warm. The meeting seemed to drag on endlessly.

In the late afternoon, around 5 p.m., the gate opened, and cars began to drive out slowly and turn west. He counted them – six, even, eight. There it was! number nine was the blue Citroen that he had been following. Michel Verdonck was driving, and there were two other men in the car. Who were they? Was this an unexpected bonus?

Carlo joined the traffic flowing west and followed the Citroen.

After ten miles they passed Inverness to the north and continued west. Carlo was getting jumpy. Where were they going?

After about an hour, just before Locharron, a village of less than a thousand souls famous for its stylish tartans, the Citroen turned onto a secondary road and, after several minutes, drove into an isolated area near the sea. The driver parked in front of an abandoned, derelict cottage, with drooping shutters and a roof badly in need of repair. A thick screen of trees shut off the cabin from the outside world. The stillness of the gloomy forest was ominous. What were the men doing in such a forsaken neck of the woods?

Carlo shut off his lights and followed the Citroen. He drove off the road and parked behind some dense bushes, where he would be out of sight. He removed his sensitive night-vision camera and hi-tech recorder and carefully made his way up the road. He took up a position behind some shrubs with a good view of the cottage and waited.

The men were inside. He could see shadows moving in the dim light behind the drawn curtains. He heard voices, the men’s and what sounded like - boys’. What were they doing in there? He heard different sounds, grunts, commands, tears that his sensitive tape recorder picked up. Another hour passed. He looked at his watch. It was 7 p.m. He was numb from the cold. He blew on his hands and rubbed them.

Suddenly the door opened, and Verdonck’s twisted, scowling face appeared in the light. The other two men filed out carrying camera equipment (Carlo easily recognized it). Then Verdonck turned around and threw a match into the cottage, which immediately burst into flames.

Carlo recorded the men’s grim faces against the background of the flames and the boys’ screams for help. Carlo’s hands were shaking. He had never witnessed anything as horrible as this. It was a mini-holocaust. It was more than he had bargained for.

Then Carlo’s equipment picked up the words of one of the men.

I thought I heard something. I’m going to have a look around.

Carlo, in a state of panic, gathered up his equipment, slung it over his shoulder, crouched, and backed away to a clump of trees. He climbed up a tree and stretched out on a branch just when a man with a gun walked up to the base of the tree. The man looked around and walked back to the burning cottage.

Carlo was breathing heavily, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He was sure the man could hear him. Carlo closed his eyes and prayed. He did not want to look death in the face. He expected to hear a shot, feel searing pain, then blackness. Seconds passed, then minutes. The tension was unbearable. .Then  Carlo heard footsteps retreating, followed by silence. .He waited for half an hour and then took a chance and climbed down.

The cottage was still blazing, but only the frame was still intact. The roof had fallen in. There was no sign of any human remains. Carlo assumed that whoever had been in the cottage had been burnt to a crisp.  The Citroen was gone. Carlo with dismay noticed that he had left his camera case behind. It had the serial number of his camera in it. He walked back to his observation post behind the bushes and searched carefully for several minutes. The case wasn’t there! One of the men must have found it and assumed that its owner had fled. If they had the case, they could identify him by the serial number.

Carlo walked back to where he had concealed his car. They would be looking for him. Where could he go? How could he shake them off his tail?

A plan was beginning to form in his mind. He would drive to Heathrow, then fly on BA to Venice, and ask his old boss, Guido Clementi, owner of La Nuova Venezia, to store the film and tape in the newspaper’s vault and would promise Guido a hefty fee. He would tell Guido that the package contained materials of an extra-marital affair to be used in a court case. Guido would believe that. After all, isn’t that how a paparazzo makes his money? Before he saw Guido, he would have copies made of the film and tape and, after he saw Guido, he would head for Rome, where Luigi Castelli, owner with his twin brother Alessandro of Rai Quattro TV, owed him a favor. Carlo had a cousin Enzo, a concert violinist,  in Rome. Maybe his cousin could put him up for a few days, while he figured out how to put the blackmail plan into operation? Perhaps he should turn these materials over to the police? If he blackmailed these monsters, wouldn’t he be an accomplice to their crimes? For the payment of a ransom, he would permit them to murder other innocent boys. Carlo brushed these moral qualms aside. He had waited too long for his ship to come in. He would never have another chance like this. He bit his lip and decided to press forward with his scheme.

Carlo reached the motorway at 9 p.m. From here it was approximately 500 miles to London Heathrow Airport, a drive of six or seven hours. As he drove, urgent questions went through his mind. Who were the other two men with Verdonck? If they were important officials, that would up the stakes. When he reached La Nuova Venezia, he would ask Giuseppe, the film technician, to make a copy of the materials and develop pictures of the men’s faces. Carlo would show the pictures to Fabricio, the editor-in-chief, and ask him to try to identify them. Then he would call on Guido.

Something else troubled him. How long would it take them to identify him with the serial number of his camera?  He reassured himself.

They’re not gods. By the time they identify me, I’ll have made my escape. I’ll head for Venice and deposit a copy of the film with my former employer for safe-keeping. Then I can put my blackmail plan into operation. This is the big one. My ship has finally come in.

He figured that he had at least twelve hours before they picked up his trail. He surely would get to Venice safely, Rome was questionable. It might be better to drive to Rome because they will have the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport and the train station staked out.

MONDAY Second Day

At 4 a.m. Carlo stopped at a petrol station and a McDonalds™ restaurant on the motorway to refuel and enjoy some hot coffee and burgers. He set his alarm watch and slept fitfully for two hours.

He turned off the M16 to Heathrow and arrived at 7 a.m. The first thing he did was to turn in his rental car. Then he went to the Departures Hall, where on the huge black announcements of departures he saw that the next British Airways flight to Venice was 8.40 a.m. That would get him to Venice just before noon, an excellent time to call on Guido.

He took his place in the British Airways queue and soon stood before the Venice ticket counter.

I’d like a one-way ticket to Venice, tourist class, he stated.

We only have a few business class seats left, the ticket girl replied and smirked.

Okay, I’ll take one ticket.

That’ll be £158, she announced without batting an eye.

What! Carlo ejaculated. That’s highway robbery!

Sir, do you want the ticket or don’t you? You’re holding up the queue, she berated him.

Okay, okay. Make out the ticket. Here are my passport and credit card, he reluctantly agreed and tried to hold back his anger.

The worst of it is that I have to use my credit card again, but I don’t have that much cash. I’m leaving too big a trail behind.

Do you wish to check your luggage? she asked, peeking over the counter.

No, I’ve just got this one carry-on, he replied.

Thank you. Here’s your ticket, and don’t forget your galoshes, she snickered.

With ticket in hand, Carlo felt great relief. He was on his way to safety. In his own country, he had the advantage of knowing the language and having contacts that they knew nothing about. He felt confident that on his native soil he would be able to give them the slip. Then he would put his plan into operation. Suddenly, behind his back, he heard a familiar voice that punctured his optimism.

Wotcha, Carlo, I haven’t seen you in donkey’s years. What’s new? Have you given up tracking the Royals?

The voice belonged to Lefty O’Doul, a shady character who sold information to different sources. Lefty, wearing a trench coat and hat pulled down over his eyes, was thirty-five years old, tall and slender, and had shifty eyes. He was the type who would sell out his mother for a £5 note.

You know how it is with us paparazzi, Lefty. It’s a hard living. We accept work wherever we can find it.

I notice you haven’t packed your galoshes. Are you moving to Venice permanently? I observed you buying a one-way ticket. Maybe you’re going back to work for that crummy local paper, eh?

The creep already knows everything about me. He’ll run to the nearest phone and broadcast the news. He’s too careful to use a mobile phone. Now my margin of safety has been reduced.

"No, Lefty. What makes you think I’d go back to work for La Nuova Venezia?  There isn’t enough money in it. Besides, there are a lot of high-society people in Venice. Maybe I’m tracking one of them right now. Did that ever occur to you?"

I had to tell him something. Maybe that will put him off.

"Well, good hunting, Carlo. Arrivederci," Lefty said with a smirk.

As soon as Carlo had left for the departures lounge, Lefty went to a public phone and dialed a number. A gruff voice soon answered.

Hello, who is this?

It’s Lefty. I’ve got some news that’s worth a pretty penny.

I’ll decide how much it’s worth. Spit it out!

I just ran into Carlo Boldoni, the paparazzo. He bought a one-way ticket to Venice on BA flight 0578 arriving in Venice at 11.45. Now how much is that information worth?

What does he look like?

He’s thirty-five, average height, slender, brown hair, close-set gray eyes, dressed in a khaki trench-coat, and has one carry-on bag.

I’ll put you down for £100 and pay you next time I see you.

I thought the information was worth more than that, Lefty remonstrated.

I’m not a charity. If you think it’s worth more than that, then sell it to somebody else, ha-ha, the gruff voice boomed.

But, I think that...Carlo argued, but the line was dead.

Carlo’s interlocutor was Walter Macpherson (Scottish: son of the parson), fifty years old, a heavyset man with a slab face, gray hair worn in a brush-cut, and a bulbous red nose that was the product of too much Scotch. Macpherson was now a henchman for Michel Verdonck, a job he relished for the pay and lack of danger. Macpherson had no idea who Carlo was, but his instincts told him that the information he had received was essential and that it might interest Verdonck. Macpherson immediately called him.

This is Minister Verdonck’s office. Who is this? Kriemhilda, Verdonck’s pretty blonde secretary, purred.

It’s Walter. Tell the minister it’s important.

After a few minutes, Verdonck answered.

Walter, I was going to call you. What’s on your mind?

I’ve got something for you, boss. My stoolie at Heathrow just bumped into a bloke named Carlo Boldoni, who bought a one-way ticket to Venice on BA flight 0578.

What did you say? Verdonck exclaimed.

Macpherson repeated the information.

It’s HIM. That man, Carlo, has certain compromising materials, a film and tape on his person that MUST BE recovered or destroyed. Carlo himself must be liquidated, Verdonck ordered. He’s got a several-hours’ head start on us. Give this the highest priority!  It’s a real piece of luck that your stoolie ran into him.

I’ll have my assistant get right on Carlo’s trail.

Remember, this is a top priority, Walter. Call me as soon as you have some news.

Okay, boss.

Macpherson wasted no time and called his lieutenant, Mike McNulty, who was sojourning in a hotel in Padua, less than an hour away from Venice.

Hello, this is McNulty, growled Mike angrily, who had been roused from his drunken sleep and lovemaking. What do you want?

Mike McNulty (Irish: descended of the Ulaid Nation), thirty-years-old, nearly two meters tall, closely cropped blond hair, with a muscular build, was Macpherson’s lieutenant and professional enforcer. Mike was sojourning in the exclusive five-star Hotel Esplanade Tergesteo, where he had picked up Gina, an expensive call girl. Macpherson had recruited McNulty through an intermediary and offered an excellent salary on the condition that they never meet. Mike receives his instructions either by phone or by mail. Sometimes this irritates him, but the money compensates for the resentment that gets under his skin.

Macpherson here. Look, Mike. This is urgent. You’ve got to get your butt over to Venice pronto and follow a guy who’s coming in on BA0578 at 11.45.

That’s just two hours from now, Mike complained and patted the buttocks of Gina, who rolled over and sighed seductively.

You’ll make it if you move your ass right now.

Who am I looking for? 

His name is Carlo Boldoni. He’s thirty-five, average height, slender, brown hair, close-set gray eyes, wearing a khaki trench-coat and probably has one carry-on bag. That bag contains extremely compromising materials that must be recovered or destroyed. Carlo himself must be taken out, but your job is to trace him and tell me where the materials are. Understood?

I’m on my way, boss, said McNulty and hopped out of bed over the protests of the sleepy Gina.

"Cosa c’è di sbagliato, darling?" she cooed and tried to drag him back to bed.

I’ll tell you what’s the matter, Gina. That son-of-a-bitch Macpherson wants me to get over to Venice Airport pronto to trail some dude. When I finally meet up with Macpherson, I’m going to rearrange his ugly puss.

Do you have to go right now? she purred, yawned, and stretched.

Gina was twenty-eight-years-old, olive-skinned and voluptuous, and was living proof that no professional call girl beats the Italian woman. From her ancient past, she has inherited a vast number of amorous refinements that she conceals behind a false air of innocence. She is an artist, for whom money is secondary.  Of course, all of this was lost on the primitive McNulty, for whom all women were just sex objects.

Yeah, but I’ll be back, he growled and slapped her again on the backside.

Ouch! Haven’t I heard that somewhere?  she quipped.

He’s not original, but he pays well.

After his plane took off, Carlo relaxed. He held the carry-on bag on his lap and declined the suggestion of the stewardess to put it in the overhead luggage bin. To her surprise, he also refused the offer of free drinks. He was dying for a double Scotch on the rocks, but he had to keep his wits about him. .He thought of how surprised they all would be at La Nuova Venezia to see him again.  He had to think up a good story to make them think he was successful. With these thoughts going through his mind, he tried to get some shuteye.

BA0578 landed on time. Carlo with just the carry-on bag containing the precious materials was one of the first to leave the Marco Polo Airport. Within five minutes he boarded a shuttle boat, from which he disembarked ten minutes later at the San Marco stop and headed for the La Nuova Venezia newspaper .located between the Rialto bridge and San Marco square, which Napoleon had called the largest salon in Europe. The square was almost deserted on this chilly, windy November forenoon. Carlo was dying for a good cup of espresso coffee that Anna the receptionist knew how to make. In his nostalgic ruminations and haste, he failed to notice that a burly man had followed him all the way from the airport.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue. A paparazzo makes a big mistake

Chapter 1. Carlo makes a deal

Chapter 2. The exiles

Chapter 3. Carlo is betrayed

Chapter 4. The Belfagor League and its hitman, The Postman

Chapter 5. The Postman delivers a deadly package

Chapter 6. Milton gets the better of Inspector Bolelli

Chapter 7. The Nuova Venezia building is R.I.P.

Chapter 8. Milton and the others go on the lam

Chapter 9. Milton hoodwinks The Postman

Chapter 10. Castelli sets a trap

Chapter 11. The Auction

Chapter 12. Milton and Elena encounter two thugs

Chapter 13. Milton and Elena call on Bishop Orsini at the Vatican

Chapter 14. Milton and Elena meet Monsignor  Kowalski, and McNulty gets suckered

Chapter 15. A Visit to the bones of St. Peter

Chapter 16. The City under the Rock

Chapter 17. The City under the Rock (cont.)

Chapter 18. The Postman goes to Lugano, and Milton and Elena attend Enzo’s concert

Chapter 19. Milton and Elena go to Vienna, and Carlo is arrested

Chapter 20. Vienna

Chapter 21. Two brutal, unrelated murders take place in Lugano, and Guido takes out an insurance policy

Chapter 22. A Visit to the Habsburg Crypt

Chapter 23. Guido makes a deal with the Butterfly Gang, and Semeon overhears the general’s plans

Chapter 24. Milton and Major Hummer’s  sappers foil an attack on the UN Centre

Chapter 25. McNulty rents a flotilla, and The Postman rents a row boat

Chapter 26. Milton calls on Lauren and Baron Scotto

Chapter 27. Milton, Eric, and Mancini set out for Lugano, Lauren, Luca, and Francesca arrive in Lugano

Chapter 28. Milton, Eric, and Mancini visit the village of Ponte Capriasca, Castelli’s fortifications

Chapter 29. Milton and Eric are taken prisoner, the money is exchanged for the film on the lake, and the battle begins

Chapter 30. Mancini meets The Postman alias Adela Berg

Chapter 31. A miraculous escape and an arrest

Chapter 32. The story of The Postman

Chapter 33. Justice thwarted

Epilogue. In which loose ends are tied up

About the Author

Chapter 1. Carlo makes a deal

Italy is not an intellectual country. On the subway in Tokyo everybody reads

In Italy they don’t. Don’t evaluate Italy from the fact that it produced

Raphael and Michelangelo

Umberto Eco.

Carlo disembarked from the water bus at the San Marco station and walked for a few minutes in the opposite direction from the newspaper office to make sure he wasn’t being followed.  Then he doubled back. However, he failed to notice a burly man wearing dark glasses observing him from a water taxi. When Carlo, satisfied that he didn’t have a tail, turned around, the man disembarked from the water taxi and observed Carlo from the other side of the canal as he entered the newspaper building.

When Carlo reached the building, the doorman was not on duty. Carlo found him inside sitting behind the reception desk.

"Ciao, Inkwell, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? What are you doing behind the reception desk? Is our beautiful Anna sick?" he exclaimed joyfully and grinned.

Inkwell Nelson, sixty-one years-old, medium height, slender, with soulful gray eyes, was an ex-con who had served the elusive Butterfly Gang for many years as a forger of documents. He ran afoul of the law when he branched out on his own and started to counterfeit British pounds. They weren’t as perfect as he thought they were. He was caught and was sent up for twenty years. After he got out, Guido Clementi, owner of the newspaper, who is as crooked as a dog’s back leg and has a soft spot for ex-cons, hired him as a doorman.

My God! It’s you, Carlo! What a sight for sore eyes. What are you doing here? exclaimed Inkwell, who rushed out from behind the desk and embraced Carlo in a bear hug.

I’m just passing through, Inkwell, and thought I’d drop by to say hello to old friends. Where is Anna? Is she sick?.

Anna isn’t on duty because Guido has been laying people off, Inkwell lowered his voice almost to a whisper. I have to do her job as well as many other things. Your old department – the society department also has been eliminated. Guido writes the gossip himself. There are rumors that he’s in financial trouble and wants to sell the newspaper, but there aren’t any buyers. I hope I can hang on another six months till I reach sixty-two since I’ve paid into the system for thirty-five years.  Youngsters like you, Carlo, unfortunately, will have to wait till you’re sixty-eight.

"I hope I won’t need that miserly pittance from the previdenza soziale. I’m hoping to make a big score. By the way, where is that fabulous DeLonghi™ Super Automatic Expresso Machine that Anna used to make that delicious coffee in? Carlo asked looking around. I was looking forward to that coffee."

It followed her out the door, Inkwell whispered.

Maybe your lot will improve when Venice becomes independent again. Did you vote in the independence poll, Inkwell?

Of course, and I voted for independence, but those thieves in Rome say it’s against the constitution. The Crimea independence vote was also against the Ukrainian constitution, but they managed to break away from Kiev, Inkwell averred. Veneto is a province of five million people with a vibrant economy. We keep sending money to Rome. If we were independent, I’d get a bigger old-age pension. Everything would improve. We’d raise real estate taxes on the palazzos rich foreigners have bought and charge tourists more. They’d come anyway. There’s no other city like Venice. 

I’m almost afraid to ask, but does Giuseppe still work here?

Oh, yes. The paper couldn’t do without the film room technician, Inkwell noted.

I’ve got to drop in on Giuseppe. Is the boss in?

Yes, he said he’s going to be in until early afternoon.

I’ll be back in a while, and you can tell me about your years with the Butterfly Gang. Do you still see any of them?

No, they were all caught after they ripped off hundreds of  ATMs and were sent up shortly after I was. They must be old now.

So I don’t suppose they will be pulling off any more jobs, eh?

I’m not sure about that. Luca Bonalumi, their boss,  has larceny in his blood.

"Signore Carlo! Giuseppe burst out joyfully when Carlo stepped through the door of the film room. It’s been too long. Come sta? What are you doing here? If you’re thinking of asking for your old job back, forget it. Guido has closed that department. Now he gets his tabloid news from other newspapers and freelancers."

No, I’m not looking for a job, Giuseppe, and that’s lucky for me. So, things haven’t been going well you say?

Not at all. The electronic media are killing local newspapers. Yahoo, Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr are making printed news obsolete. Our English edition for tourists is still profitable, but that’s not enough to keep us afloat, Giuseppe averred sadly. Young people rarely buy printed newspapers; they have those bloody tablets. The biggest group of readers are over fifty. We’re a dying breed. Would you like a cup of coffee?  I have some instant and a water heater.

No, thanks, Giuseppe. For old time’s sake, I’d like a favor. Could you make a copy of this film and these tapes for me? And one other thing. There are three men in the film. Could you make enlarged photos of them?

"With pleasure, Signore Carlo. The copies will take only minutes, but the photos will take longer. It’s a more complicated process. Perhaps you’d like to come back in an hour."

No thanks, Giuseppe, I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait. Maybe you have some old editions of the newspaper so I can catch up on the Venice news, especially the independence referendum.

Sure. The newspapers are on the shelf in that closet. There are several issues containing articles on the newspaper’s support of the Venice independent movement, including interviews with Lodovico Pizatti, former head of the Venetian National Party,  and his successor, Antonio Guadagnini.

How did you vote, Giuseppe?

Why, for independence, of course. We’re sick of being exploited by those corrupt politicians in Rome. For one thousand years Venice had a stable system of government and a sound currency. The Venetian ducat was valued all over the civilized world. We can have all of that again if we stand united in the fight or secession.

The Italian Constitution is like canon law. It doesn’t permit divorce.

Self-determination and human rights are a sham then. 

I’m afraid so, Giuseppe, but I wish you luck. Are you going to re-introduce the ducat to replace the euro? Carlo laughed.

This is no joking matter, Carlo.  Italy is the most politically unstable country in Europe. To be rid of Rome would ensure a stable government and would shut the door on asylum seekers and illegal immigrants. The barbarians invaded the Roman empire from the north. Now they are invading from the south. If we were independent, we would give residence visas only to the skilled and the rich.

Isn’t that being selfish., Giuseppe?

Of course it is, but the Swiss recently voted to restrict immigration, and no one seems to mind that..

In less than an hour, Giuseppe handed Carlo a copy of the film and tapes and two copies each of the three enlarged photos in a manila envelope.

Giuseppe, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll be forever in your debt.

Are you going to be in Venice long? Perhaps you’d like to come home with me for supper. Maria can make us a delicious Venetian specialty, spaghetti with mussels and spices. Finger-licking-good. We could also discuss the referendum.

Thanks, Giuseppe, but not this time. Maybe the next time I stop by here I’ll have more time.

"Arrivederci."

"Ciao," Carlo exclaimed warmly and gave the sign if a V.

Carlo entered the office of Fabricio Ratti, the editor-in-chief, whose mouth dropped open in astonishment. Ratti, forty-years-old, a tall man with sunken features had been the chief editor for ten years.

"Mama mia! Do my eyes deceive me? Why it’s Carlo! What are you doing here, my friend?" Fabricio exclaimed joyfully.

The two friends embraced.

It’s a long story. I’m just passing through on business. You know how it is with us paparazzi. We’re always on the move. I’ve got a favor to ask of you.

What is it, Carlo? Anything for you.

Carlo removed the photos from the manila envelope.

I’d like you to try to identify these men, Carlo lowered his voice and handed the photos to Fabricio, who shook his head.

That’s an almost impossible task unless I have something concrete to go on.

These photos were taken just after a NATO meeting that was held in Cawdor Castle in Scotland on Sunday. Those men are high NATO officials.

That should be enough for me. I’ll look in our data bank of NATO personalities. It has their photographs and biographies. It’ll take thirty minutes or so. Do you want to wait?

Yes, I’ll wait, and in the meantime, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to since I left the newspaper.

Carlo related some of his adventures, and after just fifteen minutes Fabricio with great pride shoved the photos over to Carlo.

Viola! Fabricio ejaculated. The names are on the back. Maybe you’d like to come over to the house for dinner tonight. We could talk about old times and Venice independence.

"I’d love to Fabricio, but the ground is burning under my feet. I’ve got to rush. Thanks! Arrivederci and Buona fortuna," Carlo said and shook Fabricio’s hand vigorously. 

Carlo rushed out of Fabricio’s office and headed for the elevator. He pushed the button for the fourth floor to the executive suite. When he entered with a broad smile, Claudia Zambelli, the silver-haired secretary, sixty-years-old, a widow (Giovanni died so young) looked dumbfounded and cried out:

"Signore Carlo! It’s you. What are you doing here? You’ve come back to work, I hope," she gushed.

That’ll depend on your boss, Claudia. I’m glad to see you’re still with the firm. You look younger than I last remember you.

Oh, you flatterer, she said and blushed.

Tell Guido I’m here.

She pushed the intercom button and announced Carlo’s advent.

Tell him to come in, she heard after a pause.

When Carlo entered the cozy, ambient office of Guido Clementi, his experienced investigator’s eye at a glance noticed the absence in the glass bookcase of the priceless 3,700-page first-edition of the Venetian adventurer Giacomo Casanova’s Memoires, which he wrote in exile as an old man in the employ of his friend Graf Waldstein in Bohemia as a librarian. Also missing on the opposite wall was James Holland’s painting of the Colleoni Monument. These valuable items had been replaced respectively with thirty-five volumes of the Enciclopedia Treccani  (named for its developer Giovanni Treccani) and a kitschy picture of the Plaza San Marco. Decorating the walls were autographed photos of various notables, including Fabio Longhi, comedian Beppe Grillo, leader of the Five Star Movement, Rossano Brazzi, Marcello Mastroianni, Anna Mangano, Sophia Loren, Claudia Cardinale, and many others.

Guido Clementi with a countenance reflecting the mixed emotions of joy and apprehension rose to welcome his unexpected guest. Guido, habited in a white turtleneck sweater, a slender man, fifty-five- years-old, with thinning gray air, bags under his green eyes, wearing round, steel-rimmed spectacles, extended his delicate hand in welcome.

Guido, a divorcee, is as dishonest as the day is long (which is what Carlo is counting on), a prime example of the continual triumph of sly wickedness in this world. His newspaper is losing out to the electronic media, and he has been trying to sell it so he can retire to sunny Malta.

Carlo! What a surprise! You’re looking well. What brings you back to Venice and your old boss? Have you tired of the vagaries of the paparazzi game? A steady paycheck is always better than pie in the sky, I say.  Are you looking for a job? I’ll have to disappoint you there because we’re not hiring right now, Guido began.

Let me put you at ease, Guido. I haven’t come looking for a job. I have something here, he said, holding up his overnight bag, that is very valuable, namely materials that will be used in a court trial against a prominent person. I expect to get a lot of money for them but have to store them in a safe place.

"So, you finally caught somebody in flagrante delicto, eh?" Guido laughed.

You could say that. Guido. Here’s the deal. From the economies I have noticed, I suspect the newspaper has fallen on hard times, and you need cash. I have just the offer for you. Simply for storing these materials in the newspaper’s vault I’m willing to pay you €500,000. What do you think of that?

Three thoughts enter my mind. First, when can I expect to receive the money?  Second, if you’re Willing to pay me €500,000, the service is worth twice as much. Third, what risk am I taking? Guido inquired, peering over his round spectacles.

I expect to be paid in two weeks. There isn’t any risk to you because nobody knows I came here, Carlo lied.

You didn’t answer my second question.

Which is?

One million.

He’ll pay me that much because he’s going to get at least five, Guido thought.

What! Carlo exclaimed and feigned astonishment.

One million or it’s no deal, Guido stated emphatically.

You’ve got me over a barrel, Guido. Agreed.

What a fool. I was willing to pay him two.

How can I get in touch with you, Carlo?

You can’t. I’m on the move. I’ll call you when I ready to pick up the materials.

How will I get the money if I turn the materials over to you?

You can come with me and be present at the payoff.

If I don’t hear from you in two weeks, I’m going to get rid of the materials.

Better yet, turn them over to the police, and be careful, Carlo warned.

The men shook hands on the deal. Carlo handed over the carry-on with the materials and took his leave of Guido and Claudia.

Carlo left Guido and bid an emotional farewell to Claudia, who gave him a roll of tape he asked for. In the lavatory, he taped the film and tape to his chest and left the building to head for the airport.

Electrified by his success and the identities of all three men in the photo, which tripled the value of the film and tapes, Carlo dashed out of the building with the originals of the tape and film taped to his body and embarked on the third, most dangerous leg of his decampment, the journey to Rome. He walked to the water taxi stand to head for the airport.

Mike McNulty, who was watching from across the canal,  reported Carlo’s departure to his boss, Walter Macpherson.

Walter, it’s me, Mike. The creep left the building without the carry-on, so he must have deposited the materials in the newspaper building, McNulty reported. He’s probably heading for the airport.

Follow him, Mike, and keep me informed of his movements.

Okay, boss.

Macpherson called Verdonck and related what McNulty had reported.

Those materials must be destroyed. The newspaper building has to be blown up within forty-eight hours, and Carlo has to be eliminated at the first opportunity, Verdonck ordered.

Gotcha, chief, but I’ve gotta get the special explosives from Milan and arrange a means of delivery.

Get moving then, Verdonck instructed. Keep me posted.

Understood.

At the Marco Polo Airport, Carlo made sure he wasn’t being followed, bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles, and paid with credit card (to leave a false trail). Then he went to the nearest Prada boutique.

Hello, doll. Do you have some stylish clothes that would fit me? he asked the astonished salesgirl.

But..., but..,., this is a women’s boutique, she muttered.

Never mind. Just show me what you have. Yes, I am one of those, Carlo explained.

Come this way, please. Here we have some historical styles that are quite contemporary. The dresses are crafted in brilliant sequins, silk taffeta, velvet, and styled with fantastical hats, she said as she showed him the collection. We also have matching shoes and accessories.

I’ll take these as well as the hat and shoes. I also want a designer overnight bag. Put these threads on my credit card, he said and handed her his card.

Shall I wrap up these purchases for you?

That won’t be necessary. Where is the fitting room?

Soon Carlo emerged from the boutique wearing a stylish Prada outfit and carrying the overnight bag,