Lang glanced out the window, noting the drizzle had turned to full-fledged rain. “I can understand why he left.”
Unfazed, Gower continued. “And in the very building where the great lover Casanova was imprisoned?”
“Lucky him; he escaped.”
Gower had to reach up to give Lang’s back a pat as he brayed a laugh. “Always the comedian! Now where are you two staying? Angelia and I are at the Gritti Palace on the Grand Canal.”
“We’re at the Motel Six on the beach.”
A flicker of a smile came and went, a man unsure whether or not he was the butt of the joke. He forced a chuckle, dropping Angelia’s hand long enough to rub his own hands together. Lang remembered he did that a lot, one hand rubbing the other as though washing them.
“Well, perhaps we can do lunch at Harry’s.”
Harry’s American Bar, located nearby, past the southwestern corner of the Piazza San Marco. The owners were named Giuseppe or Antonio or anything but Harry, the only Americans to be seen there being those willing to pay an exorbitant price for a very good lunch of typical Venetian fare. And the place was a restaurant, not a bar, though it boasted two elegant wooden bars behind which were possibly the only bartenders in Italy who knew that a proper martini contained more gin than vermouth. Make that dry vermouth.
“C’mon, Drew. I want to dance,” Angelia whined.
Gower smiled apologetically, showing teeth several generations younger than Lang guessed he was. “Duty calls.” He took a step toward the music and stopped. “By the way, you know Metaccelli died?”
The longtime Venetian contact for Save Venice, Inc.
“So I heard.”
“It’s not well-known, but he was very friendly with the current pope. Old pals.”
Reilly waited expectantly. When nothing further was forthcoming, he asked, “And?”
“The patriarch of Venice will say a requiem mass for his friend in Saint Mark’s tomorrow.”
“The church invited us specifically,” Angelia chimed in. “And Drew isn’t even a Catholic.”
“During Carnevale?”
Gower shrugged. “Metacelli loved Carnevale. Besides, it’s the one time of year when many of his friends from Save Venice can attend, since they’re here anyway.”
“Drew…” Angelia’s lips, Botox pouty, were frowning.
Gurt was still holding Lang’s arm. She tugged him toward the music. “Let us go while they are still playing something we can dance to, before they start that… What is it, hip-hop?”
Lang seriously doubted the band was going to play anything to this audience that Sinatra hadn’t sung, but it was a good excuse to terminate the conversation. “See you later!”
After three hours, even Gurt’s enthusiasm had waned. She let herself be led to the eastern edge of the room, where a number of white tablecloths floated like ships adrift on the dark wood of the floor. On the nearby wall, Tintoretto’s huge Paradise depicted a congregation of saints.
She fanned herself with her hand. “It is hot!”
Lang ran a hand across his forehead, surprised when it came away dry instead of wet with sweat. “Let’s take a walk outside.”
She looked apprehensively at those still dancing.
“Don’t worry,” Lang assured her. “We can come back.”
She picked up her purse, a bag the size of a small suitcase, slung it over her shoulder by its strap and followed him from the room.
Outside, the rain had stopped and a chilly breeze flitted from building to building. Careful not to step off the planks that served as the only dry paths across the Piazza San Marco, they turned right to walk north, stopping in front of a basilica bathed in light.
Its multiple domes and arches were far more Byzantine than Gothic. Not surprising, since Venice had always looked east to Constantinople rather than west to Rome for its alliances, customs and, in some respects, religion. The cardinal of Venice, for example, was referred to as the patriarch, a title usually reserved for the Eastern, or Orthodox, church.
“Look.” Gurt pointed.
At first, Lang thought she was calling his attention to the mosaic over the door. “It shows Saint Mark’s body being smuggled out of Alexandria, past Muslim guards. Two Venetians hid the relic under slices of pork.”
Gurt shook her head. “No, the door. It stands open.”
Lang had thought it was merely shadows playing tricks, but closer inspection showed the door was cracked open.
“Had no idea they left the place open at night,” Lang said. “Let’s take a look.”
The inside was lit by low-wattage bulbs. Even so, it was obvious that the ceiling and walls were covered in gold mosaics, more like the churches Lang had seen in Istanbul than those in Europe.
He was about to comment when he heard a low whine.
“What…?” Gurt whispered.
“Maybe they’re getting ready for the requiem mass tomorrow,” Lang suggested softly.
“With an electric drill?”
It was only then Lang recognized what he was hearing. He and Gurt instinctively moved closer to the wall, where the shadows were deepest. Moving from column to gilded column, they made their way toward the altar, which sat in the center of a dim spotlight, its two hundred fifty golden panels shining in spite of the low light.
At first mere shadows, forms moved back and forth under the alabaster altar canopy like ghosts. As Gurt and Lang got closer, the shapes took on distinct human shape. Both peered around a column.
“Why are they drilling?” Gurt asked just loudly enough to hear over the whine.
Lang shook his head, having no idea. “I don’t know, but the fact they they’re working at this hour tells me it’s probably not kosher.”
“And that they are not Italians.”
“And maybe we’re intruding on something we weren’t intended to see. Let’s go.”
Lang was walking backward, keeping an eye on what was going on as he moved toward the exit while feeling his way. Gurt was a few feet closer to the altar.
With the next step, something hard and cold was pressing against the back of his head, something very much like the muzzle of a gun. Freezing, he slowly raised his arms.
He almost stumbled as he was roughly shoved forward. By the time he regained his balance, he was pushed again. Whoever was behind him wanted him to head toward where the drilling was going on.
Years of Agency training kicked in. When you have no choice, cooperate, don’t give someone an excuse to kill you. But keep your eyes and mind open. Use whatever assets you have.
Like Gurt.
Instead of going directly to the source of the noise, Lang moved cautiously along the row of columns that had guided him before being taken prisoner. Even in the dim light, anyone could see his hands raised in surrender.
Including Gurt.
He was hoping that the dusky twilight, the deep shadows, had prevented his captor from seeing her, leaving her free to go for help once they passed the spot where he had last seen her.
It had never occurred to him he might need a weapon at Carnevale. He had left the Browning HP 9 mm in his bedside table back in Atlanta. Damn! How dumb could he get? Arriving by the foundation’s Gulfstream, neither he nor Gurt were subject to security screening. Either or both could have brought the firearms he wished they had. On the other hand, had the Browning been in the small of his back, he could well have gotten himself killed trying for it. But Gurt…
His stream of self-condemnation ended with the sound of a very solid thump, an expulsion of breath and the sound of metal hitting the marble floor. The gun was no longer against the back of Lang’s skull.
Spinning, he caught sight of a man trying to regain his balance as he took a second blow from Gurt’s handbag, swung on its strap like the weapon it had become. Now Gurt was between Lang and the light. He could only see her silhouette as she moved forward on her victim.
The man yelled something in a language Lang didn’t understand, but he heard Gurt clearly say, “The gun, get his gun. He dropped it.”