Crouch urged Russo up first, shouldering Healey’s weight until the big soldier gained ground. Healey was not moving, his limbs unresponsive, head hanging. Crouch heaved him up toward Russo’s dangling arms.
Alicia gained the top of the jetty as the merc prepared to lob his grenade toward her. Crossing her fingers she cast around, hoping her outlandish plan would work. Seeing a meter long, thick plank of damaged wood at her feet she quickly scooped it up, whirled and eyed the suddenly airborne bomb.
Russo hauled Healey over the edge, eyes momentarily on her.
“Navratilova’s got nothing on me,” she said, swinging the plank and batting the grenade back in the mercenary’s direction. It reached the middle of the canal before exploding in mid-air, shrapnel slamming into brick walls and shattering through windows.
Russo climbed up, dripping wet. “Nah, I’d say John McEnroe was more your role model.”
Alicia eyed another grenade as it fell toward the jetty. “Hurry the fuck up, Russo. It won’t be long before the bastards’ brains catch up with their throwing arms and they time one to explode on impact.”
Russo hefted Healey with a grunt. “Doubtful,” he said, “from what we saw earlier.”
Alicia batted another grenade away just as Crouch slithered over the edge, helping Caitlyn at the same time. The sudden explosion rocked the surrounding walls, echoing backwards and forwards inside the canal’s narrow passage. Russo sprinted headlong toward their archway. Alicia hefted her wooden spar, trading jeers with their enemy.
“Is he… is he…” Caitlyn was spluttering, drenched and miserable and terrified. “Healey? Is he…”
Alicia’s face turned grimmer than the pillars at the entrance to Hell. “If he is someone’s gonna wish they were never born.”
NINETEEN
Crouch beckoned Alicia into the tunnel. “Hurry up! I’ve carried out my fair share of missions in Venice. I know just where to go.”
Alicia ran, following the team onto Calle Frezzeria, still only a few street changes away from St. Mark’s Square. Within minutes they were passing a vaporetto stop. Crouch slowed drastically for the water bus.
“Rio del Mancanton,” he said. “Other side of the Grand Canal, and hurry!”
Money flashed, changed hands quickly. Russo didn’t even try to explain Healey’s situation, just laid the young soldier onto the bottom of the boat and hunched over him. Alicia analyzed their perimeter, as sure as she could be that they hadn’t been spotted. How far did Riley’s nasty little feelers reach?
Guess we’ll find out soon enough.
Caitlyn was on her hands and knees beside Russo. “Zack! Can you hear me?”
Alicia dropped down. Healey’s face was ashen and, oddly, even more boyish than usual. Alicia had heard reports of soldiers looking peaceful in death, fresher, but had never seen one until now.
“Oh, no.”
Coming on the back of Komodo’s shocking death this was almost enough to tip her over. Black spots started to fill her vision. Her breath shortened and a sense of rage began to take control.
Then Russo said, “He’s alive.”
Alicia felt a rush of hope. “Get down there, Caitlyn,” she breathed. “Just snog that little bastard back to life if you have to. Whatever it takes.”
Russo gently turned Healey’s face away from the darkening skies. Alicia observed the tender gesture and fought down a surge of affection for the rough soldier. Now wasn’t the time.
Their craft was cutting swiftly through the waters, closing in on its destination. Rio del Malcanton was situated in one of the seedier parts of Venice, not entirely safe during the nocturnal hours, but even that was not without its benefits. Crouch directed their gondolier where to dock and urged them all into the shadows as quickly as possible.
“It would be easier if all our phones and equipment hadn’t just drowned,” he said. “But I think I can still find my way around.” After a moment he added, “Hopefully this place is still functioning.”
Russo hefted Healey. Crouch led the way, threading through an ever-darkening series of streets before pausing outside a dilapidated bakery. Alicia could hear footfalls behind them, and smell the ever-present scent of decay in the air. The bakery stood at the top of a short flight of steps, its windows barred and its door strengthened with metal strapping. When Crouch knocked Alicia saw a face momentarily loom at the window. The footfalls at their backs had paused for now, but she sensed a presence, more than one, watching and waiting.
Not Riley’s boys, she thought. They’d have nuked the place by now.
A voice enquired about their business. Crouch replied quietly, mentioning his name and what sounded like a password. Alicia suddenly knew where they were — one of the many MI5 safe houses around the world, most maintained with fully equipped dorms, cells, medical facilities, surveillance and interrogation rooms, and unmarked vehicles. A normal civilian would never be admitted, but a man like Crouch, with the password, and Caitlyn — ex MI5—might just pass muster.
The door opened. A head popped out. “Don’t hang around then,” the gruff Scottish tones rumbled. “They’ll have your fecking bollocks off in ten seconds flat.”
Alicia considered a reply, then decided better of it. Healey needed help not a smart-mouthed colleague. They followed the Scotsman into the bowels of the building, feeling for the first time in many days that they were surely free of observation.
“In here.” The Scotsman opened a door and motioned toward a man wearing a white coat. “This here’s Jack Hyde. We call him Jekyll. He’ll take care of your man.”
Later, over a microwaved plate of stew and several cans of John Smiths the group found time to relax. Crouch’s password, it seemed, was good enough to allay any suspicions. The team were left to their own devices. Healey’s initial exam and treatment would go on through the night so, unable to wind down enough to actually grab some sleep, they decided to ignore Riley and review their options. They settled roughly, sprawled around the tiny room with boots and gear on, drying out as best they could; the worry over Healey preventing any of them from trying to do anything normal. To a team member all they wanted to do was talk and be close to their fallen comrade.
“We are at an impasse,” Crouch said. “We just can’t prove that Napoleon took the Hercules at the same time he forcibly removed the Horses and transported them to Paris.”
“Not an impasse,” Caitlyn said through a mouthful of beef stew. “A standoff with known history. There’s always something you can do about a standoff.”
“For instance?”
Caitlyn indicated the laptop she had borrowed from the Scotsman. “Napoleon saved the French government from collapse by firing on Parisian mobs with cannons. He became General of the Army at twenty six. And he was beaten by Lord Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar and the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo.”
“And this proves what?”
“He was a warlike figurehead, just like Dandolo, and no doubt a man of similar persuasions. He was an aficionado, a collector, a plunderer. He escaped exile in Elba and was, of course, married to Josephine.”
“This proves nothing.” Alicia, like Crouch, preferred to act as Devil’s Advocate.
“All right, what about this? Napoleon ruled an estimated seventy million people and all of Europe, a level of political consolidation that had not been known since Roman days. I’m reading Constantine. Napoleon also produced medallions to commemorate his successes. Considered the most important by historians were the Five Battles Series, the first of which depicted Hercules holding a club and the Hydra’s head.”
Alicia flashed on the sculpture outside the basilica. “You’re kidding.”