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5
Canal Grande
He entered the passenger cabin and lowered himself into a blue-green plastic seat in the first row. He was taller than Gabriel remembered, formidably built, in the prime of life. Early thirties, thirty-five at most. The malodorous trail he left in his wake indicated he was a smoker. The slight bulge in the left side of his jacket suggested he was armed.
Fortunately, Gabriel was in possession of a gun as well—a Beretta 92FS 9mm pistol with a walnut grip. He carried it with the full knowledge and consent of General Ferrari and the Carabinieri. Nevertheless, it was his intention to resolve the situation without having to draw the weapon, as an act of violence, even one in self-defense, would likely result in the immediate revocation of hispermesso, which in turn would endanger his standing at home.
The most obvious course of action was to shed the man as quickly as possible. In a city like Venice, with its labyrinthine streets and gloomysotoportegi, it would not prove difficult. It would, however, deprive Gabriel of the opportunity to determine why the man was following him. It was better to have a quiet word with him in private, he reasoned, than to lose him.
The Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, home of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, slid right to left through Gabriel’s field of vision. The two Scandinavians disembarked at the Accademia; the Venetian woman, at Ca’ Rezzonico. San Tomà, Gabriel’s stop, was next. He stood stock-still behind the pilothouse as the vaporetto alighted long enough to collect a single passenger.
As the vessel withdrew, he lifted his gaze briefly toward the soaring windows of his new apartment. They were aglow with amber-colored light. His children were doing their schoolwork. His wife was preparing dinner. Doubtless she was troubled over his prolonged absence. He would be home soon, he thought. He had one small matter to attend to first.
The vaporetto crossed the canal to the Sant’Angelo stop, then returned to the San Polo side and docked at San Silvestri. This time Gabriel disembarked and, leaving the platform, entered an unlitsotoportego. From behind him came the sound of footsteps—the footsteps of a formidably built man in the prime of life. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, a small measure of violence was called for, after all.
Hefell into the easy, unhurried pace of his afternoon sojourns through the city. Even so, he twice had to loiter outside shop windows in order to keep his pursuer in the game. He was no professional surveillance artist; that much was obvious. Nor did he seem to be familiar with the streets of thesestiere, a shortcoming that would provide Gabriel with a distinct home-field advantage.
He continued in a northwesterly direction—across the Campo Sant’Aponal, along a succession of slender alleyways, over a humpbacked bridge—until he came to acortebordered on three sides by apartment buildings. He knew with certainty that the dwellings had fallen into a state of disrepair and were unoccupied, which is why he had chosen the courtyard as his destination.
He moved to a darkened corner and listened to his pursuer’s approaching footfalls. A long moment passed before the man blundered into view. He paused in a puddle of moonlight, then, realizing there was no way out, turned to leave.
“Looking for something?” asked Gabriel calmly in Italian.
The man wheeled around and reached reflexively toward the front of his jacket.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The man froze.
“Why are you following me?”
“I’m not.”
“You were in Harry’s Bar. You were on the Number One. And now you’re here.” Gabriel stepped from the shadows. “Twice is a coincidence. Third time is the charm.”
“I’m looking for a restaurant.”
“Tell me the name, and I’ll take you there.”
“Osteria da Fiore.”
“Not even close.” Gabriel took another step across the courtyard. “Please reach for your gun again.”
“Why?”
“So I won’t feel guilty about breaking your nose, your jaw, and several of your ribs.”
Wordlessly the young Italian turned to one side, raised his left hand defensively, and bunched his right fist against his hip.
“All right,” said Gabriel with a sigh of resignation. “If you insist.”
TheIsraeli martial arts discipline known as Krav Maga is characterized by constant aggression, simultaneous offensive and defensive measures, and utter ruthlessness. Speed is prized above all else. Typically contests are short in duration—no more than a few seconds—and decisive in outcome. Once launched, an attack does not ceaseuntil the adversary has been completely incapacitated. Permanent injury is commonplace. Death is not out of the question.
No part of the body is off-limits. Indeed, practitioners of Krav Maga are encouraged to focus their attacks on vulnerable, sensitive regions. Gabriel’s opening gambit consisted of a vicious kick to his opponent’s exposed left kneecap, followed by a crushing downward heel strike on the instep of the left foot. Next he ventured north to the groin and solar plexus before directing several rapid elbows and side-handed blows to the throat, the nose, and the head. At no point did the younger, larger Italian manage to land a punch or kick of his own. Still, Gabriel did not emerge unscathed. His right hand was throbbing painfully, probably from a minor fracture, the Krav Maga equivalent of an own goal.
With the fingers of his left hand, he checked his fallen opponent for evidence of a pulse and respiration. Finding both, he reached inside the front of the man’s jacket and confirmed that he was indeed armed—with a Beretta 8000, the standard-issue sidearm for officers of the Carabinieri. Which explained the credentials that Gabriel found in the unconscious man’s pocket. They identified him as Capitano Luca Rossetti of the Venice division of Il Nucleo Tutela Patrimonio Artistico.
The Art Squad...
Gabriel returned the gun to its holster and the credentials to their pocket, then rang the regional headquarters of the Carabinieri to report an injured man lying in acortenear the Campo Sant’Aponal. He did so anonymously, with his phone number concealed, and in perfectveneziano. He would deal with General Ferrari in the morning. In the meantime, he had to concoct a plausible cover story to explain his injured hand to Chiara. It came to him as he crossed the Ponte San Polo. It wasn’t his fault, he would tell her. The bloody lamppost attacked him.
