Deceptions by Anna Porter (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

little, too late,” she said, in response to the plaque about Agincourt. “They should have had better archers, more longbows, and been a lot less terrified of the English.”

The tall man, not so thin on closer inspection, was wearing full leather overalls and some sort of peaked cap that drooped over his forehead. “You do not read signs,” he said, also in English. “It says ‘private’ and ‘keep out.’” He crossed his arms, the crossbow dangling from his fingers, and stood facing her.

Helena grinned at him.

“No trespassing,” he said.

“I saw that,” she said, “but I am not trespassing. I was interested in your course. The affiche you pasted on the wall outside the market invites students who wish to study the art of archery and suggests favourable prices, starting with nothing for the first lesson if the student is serious. I am serious.”

He relaxed a bit and smiled back at her. “And you are?”

“Marianne,” she said.

“As in the girlfriend of Robin Hood.”

“Exactement,” she said, switching to French.

“Philippe,” he said. “Why archery and when do you wish to start?”

“Today would be good. But first, can you show me the range? I was not impressed with the one in Picardy.”

“Picardy,” he repeated, nodding. “So, you have taken a course already.”

“I didn’t sign up once I saw the range,” she said. “No woods. Only rocks and scrub.” Thank god for Google.

Philippe led the way, explaining as he went that this area was famous for its woods and wildlife, that his students could put their skills to use hunting hare, deer, and even boar, right here without leaving the range.

There were only three other students, all men. They were profoundly engaged with the mechanics of their bows. They all had upright trays of arrows, long scopes, and leather gloves. Though it was a warm day, they all wore camouflage trousers, shirts, and padded vests. They had been practising on a target about twelve metres from their stand of trees and, by the look of the arrows surrounding the target, it had not been their best day.

Helena nodded appreciatively. “It takes time to learn,” she said. “Misha said he had been here a day and was just beginning to understand the best way to address the prey.”

“Misha?”

“A man who mentioned coming here.”

“What man?” Philippe asked, anxiously.

Helena shrugged. “Met him in the relais. I think he left today.”

“Oh.”

“Never learned his last name.”

“Moi, non plus,” Philippe said, “and he was not interested in taking lessons. He was asking questions about other students we have had here, and he was very . . . nasty. Belligerent. Aggressive. Threatening.”

“Other students?” Helena raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a surprised expression. “Your other students?”

“Yes. It was very unpleasant.”

“What other students?” Same wide-eyed expression.

“He was interested in anyone who was good.”

“I guess anyone good would not be taking lessons,” Helena said.

“Wrong. Everyone needs to practise. No matter how good you are, you have to keep up your skills. And his name wasn’t even Misha.”

“No?”

“It was Piotr. He drove a large SUV with tinted windows. I knew there was something strange about him as soon as I saw him.”

It may have been the large Glock he carried, Helena thought, but she didn’t say anything. She shook her head and hmm-ed sympathetically.

“And the man who would have interested him was already gone,” Philippe said.

“Back to Russia?”

“No. Hungary. He was here for only one day.”

“Not long enough, I think.” Helena tsk ed.

“Long enough for him.”

Helena signed up for the archery course, starting the next morning, paid for three lessons in advance, and drove to the restaurant A l’Échevin, where she enjoyed a perfectly prepared breast of duck with champagne sauce, a green salad, and a modest Bordeaux while she read a few pages of her new edition of The Odyssey. She had bought the Emily Wilson translation at Shakespeare & Company a few days before. She had always preferred the Robert Graves, but she couldn’t remember where she had left it, and the Wilson turned out to be a surprisingly enjoyable rival.

There were two black SUVs in the parking lot, but neither had tinted windows or a familiar licence plate number. After lunch, she inquired of the maître d’ about an old friend from Ukraine who had recommended the restaurant.

“Monsieur Azarov?” the maître d’ asked with an ingratiating smile. “He has been our guest here plusieurs fois.”

Marianne Lewis took the 6 a.m. flight to Rome, found a women’s washroom at the airport, and emerged as Helena. She took a taxi to Via Ripetta near Piazza del Popolo and presented herself at Arte Forense’s main reception desk at eight o’clock. It was housed in the rather posh Accademia di Belle Arti di Roma, a former palace, reconstituted as an association of artists and a school of art, all under the Ministero dell’Istruzione, dell’Università e della Ricerca. The minister himself had an office near the central arch, but, as Andrea had told her, he rarely showed up. He preferred his more spacious offices in the Palazzo Chigi, where Italy’s cabinet meet.

Andrea’s section was in the research area, separated from the main building by a series of long corridors with video cameras and two security screening machines staffed by two tough-looking, broad-beamed women who carried government-issue firearms stuffed down the outside pockets of their dungarees for easy access. Neither offered even a cursory greeting, and both carefully studied the contents of Helena’s pockets and coat as they made their way through the machines. Only one of them patted her down. The other, ignoring Andrea waiting at the other end of security, asked about the nature of her business.

“We’ve had some problems,” Andrea explained. She gave Helena a light hug and two air-kisses. She wore a red linen jacket with rolled-up sleeves, a black knee-length pencil skirt, and red sandals with no stockings. “The Cosa Nostra are sensitive about anyone investigating their major thefts, and they are incensed if they smell a rat in their own cellars.”

“I assume you are still on the trail