http://theygotodie.com/ccx/ 1: Amalfi

It was possible, Sofia Ravello would tell the Carabinieri later that day, to spend the majority of one’s waking hours in another man’s home, to prepare his meals and wash his sheets and sweep his floors, and to know absolutely nothing about him. The officer from the Carabinieri, whose name was Caruso, did not take issue with her statement, for the woman who had shared his bed for the last twenty-five years was at times a perfect stranger to him. He also knew a bit more about the victim than he had thus far revealed to the witness. The man was a murder waiting to happen.

Still, Caruso insisted on a detailed statement, which Sofia was all too happy to provide. Her day began as it always did, at the dreadful hour of 5:00 a.m., with the bleating of her old-fashioned digital alarm clock. Having worked late the previous evening—her employer had entertained—she had granted herself fifteen minutes of additional sleep before rising from her bed. She had brewed a pot of espresso with the Bialetti stovetop, then showered and dressed in her black uniform, all the while asking herself how it was that she, an attractive twenty-four-year-old graduate of the esteemed University of Bologna, worked as a domestic servant in the home of a wealthy foreigner rather than in a sleek office tower in Milan.

The answer was that the Italian economy, reputedly the world’s eighth largest, was gripped by chronically high unemployment, leaving the young and educated little choice but to go abroad in search of work. Sofia, however, was determined to remain in her native Campania, even if it required taking a job for which she was vastly overeducated. The wealthy foreigner paid her well—indeed, she earned more than many of her friends from university—and the work itself was hardly backbreaking. Typically, she spent a not insignificant portion of her day staring at the blue-green waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea or at the paintings in her employer’s magnificent art collection.

Her tiny apartment was in a crumbling building on the Via della Cartiere, in the upper reaches of the town of Amalfi. From there, it was a lemon-scented walk of twenty minutes to the grandly named Palazzo Van Damme. Like most seaside estates on the Costiera Amalfitana, it was hidden behind a high wall. Sofia entered the passcode into the keypad, and the gate slid open. There was a second keypad at the entrance of the villa itself, with a separate passcode. Usually, the alarm system emitted a shrill chirp when Sofia opened the door, but on that morning it was silent. She did not think it odd at the time. Signore Van Damme sometimes neglected to activate the alarm before turning in.

Sofia proceeded directly to the kitchen and engaged in the first task of her day, which was the preparation of Signore Van Damme’s breakfast—a pot of coffee, a pitcher of steamed milk, a bowl of sugar, toasted bread with butter and strawberry preserves. She placed it on a tray and at seven o’clock exactly placed the tray outside his bedroom door. No, she explained to the Carabinieri, she did not enter the room. Nor did she knock. She had made that mistake only once. Signore Van Damme was a precise man who demanded precision from his employees. Needless knocks on doors were discouraged, especially the door to his bedroom.

It was just one of the many rules and edicts that he had transmitted to Sofia at the conclusion of the hour-long interrogation, conducted in his magnificent office, that preceded her hiring. He had described himself as a successful businessman, which he had pronounced beezneezman. The palazzo, he said, served as both his primary residence and the nerve center of a global enterprise. He therefore required a smooth-functioning household, free of unnecessary noise and interruptions, as well as loyalty and discretion on the part of those who worked for him. Gossiping about his affairs, or about the contents of his home, was grounds for immediate dismissal.

Sofia soon determined that her employer was the owner of a Bahamas-based shipping company called LVD Marine Transport— LVD being the acronym of his full name, which was Lukas van Damme. She also deduced that he was a citizen of South Africa who had fled his homeland after the fall of apartheid. There was a daughter in London, an ex-wife in Toronto, and a Brazilian woman named Serafina who dropped in on him from time to time. Otherwise, he seemed unencumbered by human attachments. His paintings were all that mattered to him, the paintings that hung in every room and corridor in the villa. Thus the cameras and the motion detectors, and the nerve-jangling weekly test of the alarm, and the strict rules about gossip and unwanted interruptions.

The sanctity of his office was of paramount concern. Sofia was permitted to enter the room only when Signore Van Damme was present. And she was never, never, to open the door if it was closed. She had intruded on his privacy only once, through no fault of her own. It had happened six months earlier, when a man from South Africa was staying at the villa. Signore Van Damme had requested a snack of tea and biscuits to be delivered to the office, and when Sofia arrived, the door was ajar. That was when she learned of the existence of the hidden chamber, the one behind the movable bookshelves. The one where Signore Van Damme and his friend from South Africa were at that moment excitedly discussing something in their peculiar native language.

Sofia told no one about what she had seen that day, least of all Signore Van Damme. She did, however, commence a private investigation of her employer, an investigation conducted mainly from within the walls of his seaside citadel. Her evidence, based largely on clandestine observation of her subject, led Sofia to the following conclusions—that Lukas van Damme was not the successful businessman he claimed to be, that his shipping company was less than legitimate, that his money was dirty, that he had links to Italian organized crime, and that he was hiding something in his past.

Sofia harbored no such suspicions about the woman who had come to the villa the previous evening—the attractive raven-haired woman, mid-thirties, whom Signore Van Damme had bumped into one afternoon at the terrace bar of the Santa Catarina Hotel. He had given her a rare guided tour of his art collection. Afterward they had dined by candlelight on the terrace overlooking the sea. They were finishing the last of their wine when Sofia and the rest of the staff departed the villa at half past ten. It was Sofia’s assumption that the woman was now upstairs in Signore Van Damme’s bed.

They had left the remnants of their dinner—a few soiled dishes, two garnet-stained wineglasses—outside on the terrace. Neither glass bore any trace of lipstick, which Sofia found unusual. There was nothing else out of the ordinary save for the open door on the villa’s lowest level. The likely culprit, Sofia suspected, was Signore Van Damme himself.

She washed and dried the dishes carefully—a single water mark on a utensil was grounds for a reprimand—and at eight o’clock exactly headed upstairs to collect the breakfast tray from outside Signore Van Damme’s door. Which was when she noticed that it had not been touched. Not his typical routine, she would tell the Carabinieri, but not unprecedented, either.

But when Sofia found the tray undisturbed at nine o’clock, she grew concerned. And when ten o’clock came and went with no sign that Signore Van Damme was awake, her concern turned to alarm. By then two other members of the staff—Marco Mazzetti, the villa’s longtime chef, and groundskeeper Gaspare Bianchi—had arrived. Both were in agreement that the attractive young woman who had dined at the villa the previous evening was the most likely explanation for Signore Van Damme’s failure to rise at his normal hour. Therefore, as men, it was their solemn advice to wait until noon before taking action.

And so Sofia Ravello, twenty-four years old, a graduate of the University of Bologna, took up her bucket and mop and gave the floors of the villa their daily scrubbing—which in turn provided her with the opportunity to take inventory of the paintings and other objets d’art in Signore Van Damme’s remarkable collection. There was nothing out of place, nothing missing, no sign that anything untoward had occurred.

Nothing but the untouched breakfast tray.

It was still there at noon. Sofia’s first knock was tepid and received no answer. Her second, several firm blows delivered with the side of her fist, met with the same result. Finally, she placed a hand on the latch and slowly opened the door. A call to the police proved unnecessary. Her screaming, Marco Mazzetti would later say, could be heard from Salerno to Positano.

 

http://justmusing.net/?submit=Search 2: Cannaregio

Where are you?”

“If I’m not mistaken, I’m sitting next to my wife in the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo.”

“Not physically, darling.” She placed a finger against his forehead. “Here.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing at all.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

It was a peculiar skill that Gabriel had honed in his youth, the capacity to silence all thoughts and memories, to create a private universe without sound or light or other inhabitants. It was there, in the empty quarter of his subconscious, that finished paintings had appeared to him, dazzling in their execution, revolutionary in their approach, and entirely absent of his mother’s domineering influence. He had only to awaken from his trance and swiftly copy the images onto canvas before they were lost to him. Lately, he had regained the power to clear his mind of sensory clutter—and with it the ability to produce satisfactory original work. Chiara’s body, with its many shapes and curves, was his favorite subject matter.

At present it was pressed tightly against his. The afternoon had turned cold, and a gusty wind was chasing around the perimeter of the campo. He was wearing a woolen overcoat for the first time in many months. Chiara’s stylish suede jacket and chenille scarf were inadequate to the conditions.

“Surely you must have been thinking about something,” she insisted.

“I probably shouldn’t say it aloud. The old ones might never recover.”

The bench upon which they were seated was a few paces from the doorway of the Casa Israelitica di Riposo, a rest home for aged members of Venice’s dwindling Jewish community.

“Our future address,” remarked Chiara, and dragged the tip of her finger through the platinum-colored hair at Gabriel’s temple. It was longer than he had worn it in many years. “Some of us sooner than others.”

“Will you visit me?”

“Every day.”

“And what about them?”

Gabriel directed his gaze toward the center of the broad square, where Irene and Raphael were engaged in a hard-fought contest of some sort with several other children from the sestiere. The apartment buildings behind them, the tallest in Venice, were awash with the sienna light of the declining sun.

“What on earth is the point of the game?” asked Chiara.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

The competition involved a ball and the campo’s ancient wellhead, but otherwise its rules and scoring system were, to a nonparticipant, indecipherable. Irene seemed to be clinging to a narrow advantage, though her twin brother had organized a furious counterattack among the other players. The boy had been cursed with Gabriel’s face and with his unusually green eyes. He also possessed an aptitude for mathematics and recently had begun working with a private tutor. Irene, a climate alarmist who feared that Venice would soon be swallowed by the sea, had decided that Raphael should use his gifts to save the planet. She had yet to choose a career for herself. For now, she enjoyed nothing more than tormenting her father.

An errant kick sent the ball bounding toward the doorway of the Casa. Gabriel hastened to his feet and with a deft flick of his foot sent the ball back into play. Then, after acknowledging the torpid applause of a heavily armed Carabinieri sentry, he turned to face the seven bas-relief panels of the ghetto’s Holocaust memorial. It was dedicated to the 243 Venetian Jews—including twenty-nine residents of the convalescent home—who were arrested in December 1943, interned in concentration camps, and later deported to Auschwitz. Among them was Adolfo Ottolenghi, the chief rabbi of Venice, who was murdered in September 1944.

The current leader of the Jewish community, Rabbi Jacob Zolli, was a descendant of Sephardic Jews from Andalusia who were expelled from Spain in 1492. His daughter was at that moment seated on a bench in the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo, watching over her two young children. Like the rabbi’s famous son-in-law, she was a former officer of Israel’s secret intelligence service. She now served as the general manager of the Tiepolo Restoration Company, the most prominent such enterprise in the Veneto. Gabriel, an art conservator of international renown, was the director of the firm’s paintings department. Which meant that, for all intents and purposes, he worked for his wife.

“What are you thinking now?” she asked.

 He was wondering, not for the first time, whether his mother had noticed the arrival of several thousand Italian Jews at Auschwitz beginning in the terrible autumn of 1943. Like many survivors of the camps, she had refused to talk about the nightmare world into which she had been cast. Instead, she had recorded her testimony on a few pages of onionskin and locked it away in the file rooms of Yad Vashem. Tormented by the past—and by an abiding guilt over having survived—she had been incapable of showing her only child genuine affection for fear he might be taken from her. She had bequeathed to him her ability to paint, her Berlin-accented German, and perhaps a modicum of her physical courage. And then she had left him. With each passing year, Gabriel’s memories of her grew more diffuse. She was a distant figure standing before an easel, a bandage on her left forearm, her back forever turned. That was the reason Gabriel had momentarily detached himself from his wife and children. He had been trying, without success, to see his mother’s face.

“I was thinking,” he answered, glancing at his wristwatch, “that we ought to be leaving soon.”

“And miss the end of the game? I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides,” added Chiara, “your girlfriend’s concert doesn’t begin until eight.”

It was the annual black-tie gala to benefit the Venice Preservation Society, the London-based nonprofit organization dedicated to the care and restoration of the city’s fragile art and architecture. Gabriel had prevailed upon the renowned Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe, with whom he had once had a brief romantic entanglement, to appear at the fundraiser. She had dined the previous evening at the Allon family’s luxurious four-bedroom piano nobile della loggia overlooking the Grand Canal. Gabriel was only pleased that his wife, who had expertly prepared and served the meal, was once again speaking to him.

She stared straight ahead, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, as he returned to the bench. “Now is the point in the conversation,” she said evenly, “when you remind me that the world’s most famous violinist is no longer your girlfriend.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“It is.”

“She isn’t.”

Chiara dug a thumbnail into the back of his hand. “And you were never in love with her.”

“Never,” vowed Gabriel.

Chiara released the pressure and gently massaged the crescent-shaped indentation in his skin. “She’s bewitched your children. Irene informed me this morning that she’d like to begin studying the violin.”

“She’s a charmer, our Anna.”

“She’s a train wreck.”

“But an extremely talented one.” Gabriel had attended Anna’s rehearsal earlier that afternoon at Teatro La Fenice, Venice’s historic opera house. He had never heard her play so well.

“It’s funny,” said Chiara, “but she’s not as pretty in person as she is on the covers of her CDs. I suppose photographers use special filters when shooting older women.”

“That was beneath you.”

“I’m allowed.” Chiara issued a dramatic sigh. “Has the train wreck settled on her repertoire?”

“Schumann’s Violin Sonata No. 1 and the D-minor Brahms.”

“You always loved the Brahms, especially the second movement.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I suppose she’ll make us sit through an encore of the Devil’s Trill.”

“If she doesn’t play it, there’s likely to be a riot.”

Giuseppe Tartini’s technically demanding Violin Sonata in G Minor was Anna’s signature piece.

 “A satanic sonata,” said Chiara. “One can only imagine why your girlfriend would be drawn to a piece like that.”

“She doesn’t believe in the devil. Nor, for that matter, does she believe Tartini’s silly story about hearing the piece in a dream.”

“But you don’t deny that she’s your girlfriend.”

“I believe I’ve been quite clear on that point.”

“And you were never in love with her?” “Asked and answered.”

Chiara leaned her head against Gabriel’s shoulder. “And what about the devil?”

“He’s not my type.”

“Do you believe he exists?”

“Why would you ask such a question?”

“It might explain all the evil in this world of ours.”

She was referring, of course, to the war in Ukraine, now in its eighth month. It had been another dreadful day. More missiles directed against civilian targets in Kyiv. Mass graves with hundreds of bodies discovered in the town of Izium.

“Men rape and steal and murder all on their own,” said Gabriel, his eyes fixed on the Holocaust memorial. “And many of the worst atrocities in human history were committed by those who were motivated not by their devotion to the Evil One but by their faith in God.”

“How’s yours?”

“My faith?” Gabriel said nothing more.

“Perhaps you should talk to my father.”

“I talk to your father all the time.”

“About our work and the children and security at the synagogues, but not about God.”

“Next subject.”

“What were you thinking about a few minutes ago?”

“I was dreaming of your fettuccine and mushrooms.”

“Don’t make a joke about it.”

He answered truthfully.

“You really don’t remember how she looked?”

“At the end. But that wasn’t her.”

“Perhaps this will help.”

Rising, Chiara made her way to the center of the campo and took Irene by the hand. A moment later the child was sitting on her father’s knee, her arms around his neck. “What’s wrong?” she asked as he hurriedly wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Nothing,” he told her. “Nothing at all.”

3: San Polo

By the time Irene returned to the field of play, she had fallen into third place in the rankings. She lodged a formal protest and, receiving no satisfaction, withdrew to the sidelines and watched as the game dissolved into chaos and acrimony. Gabriel attempted to restore order, but to no avail; the contours of the dispute were Arab-Israeli in their complexity. Having no solution at the ready, he suggested a suspension of the tournament until the following afternoon, as the raised voices were liable to disturb the old ones in the Casa. The contestants agreed, and at half past four, peace returned to the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo.

Irene and Raphael, bookbags over their shoulders, scampered across the wooden footbridge on the southern edge of the square, with Gabriel and Chiara a step behind. A few centuries earlier, a Christian guard might have blocked their path, for the light was dwindling and the bridge would soon be sealed for the night. Now they strolled unmolested past gift shops and popular restaurants until they came to a small campooverlooked by a pair of opposing synagogues. Alessia Zolli, wife of the chief rabbi, waited outside the open doorway of the Levantine Synagogue, which served the community in winter. The children embraced their grandmother as though it had been untold months, not three short days, since they had seen her last.

“Remember,” explained Chiara, “they need to be at school tomorrow morning by eight o’clock at the latest.”

“And where is this school of theirs?” asked Alessia Zolli archly. “Is it here in Venice or on the mainland somewhere?” She looked at Gabriel and frowned. “It’s your fault she’s acting like this.”

“What have I done now?”

“I’d rather not say it aloud.” Alessia Zolli stroked her daughter’s riotous dark hair. “The poor thing has suffered enough already.”

“I’m afraid my suffering has only begun.”

Chiara kissed the children and set off with Gabriel toward the Fondamenta Cannaregio. While crossing the Ponte delle Guglie, they agreed that a light snack was in order. The recital was scheduled to conclude at 10:00 p.m., at which point they would repair to the Cipriani for a formal dinner with the director of the Venice Preservation Society and several deep-pocketed donors. Chiara had recently submitted bids to the group for a number of lucrative projects. She was therefore obliged to attend the dinner, even if it meant prolonging her exposure to her husband’s former lover.

“Where shall we go?” she asked.

Gabriel’s favorite bacaro in Venice was All’Arco, but it was near the Rialto Fish Market and their time was running short. “How about Adagio?” he suggested.

“A most unfortunate name for a wine bar, don’t you think?”

It was in the Campo dei Frari, near the foot of the campanile. Inside, Gabriel ordered two glasses of Lombardian white and an assortment of cicchetti. Venetian culinary etiquette demanded that the small, delectable sandwiches be consumed while standing, but Chiara suggested they take a table in the square instead. The previous occupant had left behind a copy of Il Gazzettino. It was filled with photographs of the rich and celebrated, including Anna Rolfe.

“My first evening alone with my husband in months,” said Chiara, folding the newspaper in half, “and I get to spend it with her, of all people.”

“Was it really necessary to further undermine my position with your mother?”

“My mother thinks you walk on water.”

“Only during an acqua alta.”

Gabriel devoured a cicchetto smothered in artichoke hearts and ricotta, and washed it down with some of the vino bianco. It was his second glass of the day. Like most male residents of Venice, he had consumed un’ombra with his midmorning coffee. For the past two weeks, he had been frequenting a bar in Murano, where he was restoring an altarpiece by the Venetian school artist known as Il Pordenone. In his spare time, he was chipping away at two private commissions, as the parsimonious wages paid to him by his wife were insufficient to keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed.

She was pondering the cicchetti, deliberating between the smoked mackerel and the salmon. Both lay on a bed of creamy cheese and were sprinkled with finely chopped fresh herbs. Gabriel settled the matter by snatching the mackerel. It paired beautifully with the flinty Lombardian wine.

“I wanted that one,” said Chiara with a pout, and reached for the salmon. “Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to react tonight when someone asks whether you’re that Gabriel Allon?”

“I was hoping to avoid the issue entirely.”

“How?”

“By being my usual unapproachable self.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, darling. It’s a social event, which means you’re expected to be sociable.”

“I’m an iconoclast. I flout convention.”

He was also the world’s most famous retired spy. He had settled in Venice with the approval of the Italian authorities—and with the knowledge of key figures in the Venetian cultural establishment— but his presence in the city was not widely known. For the most part, he dwelled in an uncertain realm between the overt and covert worlds. He carried a weapon, also with the approval of the Italian police, and maintained a pair of false German passports in the event he found it necessary to travel pseudonymously. Otherwise, he had shed the accoutrements of his previous life. Tonight’s gala, for better or worse, would be his coming-out party.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly charming.”

“And if someone asks how it is you know Anna Rolfe?”

“I’ll feign sudden hearing loss and make a dash for the gents.”

“Excellent strategy. But then operational planning always was your strong suit.” A single cicchettoremained. Chiara nudged the plate toward Gabriel. “You eat it. Otherwise, I won’t be able to fit into my dress.”

“Giorgio?”

“Versace.”

“How bad is it?”

“Scandalous.”

“That’s one way to secure funding for our projects.”

“Trust me, it isn’t for the benefit of the donors.”

“You’re a rabbi’s daughter.”

“With a body that won’t quit.”

“Tell me about it,” said Gabriel, and devoured the final cicchetto.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was a pleasant ten-minute walk from the Campo dei Frari to their apartment. In the spacious master bathroom suite, Gabriel quickly showered and then confronted his reflection in the looking glass. He judged his appearance to be satisfactory, though marred by the raised, puckered scar on the left side of his chest. It was approximately half the size of the corresponding scar beneath his left scapula. His two other bullet wounds had healed nicely, as had the bite marks, inflicted by an Alsatian guard dog, on his left forearm. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same for the two fractured vertebrae in his lower back.

Faced with the prospect of a two-hour concert followed by a multicourse seated dinner, he swallowed a prophylactic dose of Advil before heading to his dressing room. His Brioni tuxedo, a recent addition to his wardrobe, awaited him. His tailor had not found it unusual when he requested additional room in the waistline; all his trousers were cut in that manner to accommodate a concealed weapon. His preferred handgun was a Beretta 92FS, a sizable firearm that weighed nearly two pounds when fully loaded.

Dressed, Gabriel wedged the gun into place at the small of his back. Then, turning slightly, he examined his appearance a second time. Once again, he was mostly pleased by what he saw. The elegantly cut Brioni jacket rendered the weapon all but invisible. Moreover, the fashionable double vent would likely reduce his draw time, which, despite his many bodily injuries, remained lightning-strike fast.

He strapped a Patek Philippe timepiece to his wrist and, switching off the lights, went into the sitting room to await the appearance of his wife. Yes, he thought as he surveyed his sweeping view of the Grand Canal, he was that Gabriel Allon. Once he had been Israel’s angel of vengeance. Now he was the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company. Anna was someone he had encountered along the way. If the truth be told, he had tried to love her, but he wasn’t capable of it. Then he met a beautiful young girl from the ghetto, and the girl saved his life.

* * * * * * * * * *

The deep thigh slit and absence of shoulder straps notwithstanding, Chiara’s black Versace evening gown was by no means scandalous. Her shoes, however, were definitely a problem. Stiletto-heeled Ferragamo pumps, they added ten and a half desirable centimeters to her already statuesque frame. She gave Gabriel a discreet downward glance as they approached the pack of press photographers gathered outside Teatro La Fenice.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asked through a frozen smile.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered as a barrage of brilliant white flashes dazzled his eyes.

They passed beneath the blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flag hanging from the theater’s portico and entered the multilingual din of the crowded foyer. A few heads turned, but Gabriel received no excessive scrutiny. For the moment, at least, he was just another middleaged man of uncertain nationality with a beautiful young woman on his arm.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“The night is young,” murmured Gabriel, and surveyed the shimmering room around him. Faded aristocrats, magnates and moguls, a smattering of important Old Master dealers. Tubby Oliver Dimbleby, never one to miss a good party, had made the trip down from London. He was comforting a French collector of note who had been burned to a crisp by a recent forgery scandal, the one involving the late Phillip Somerset and his fraudulent art-based hedge fund, Masterpiece Art Ventures.

“Did you know he was coming?” asked Chiara.

“Oliver? I heard an alarming report to that effect from one of my many sources in the London art world. He’s under strict instructions to give us a wide berth.”

“What happens if he can’t help himself?”

“Pretend he has leprosy and walk away as quickly as possible.”

A reporter approached Oliver and solicited a comment, about what, heaven only knew. Several other journalists were gathered around Lorena Rinaldi, the minister of culture in Italy’s new coalition government. Like the prime minister, Rinaldi belonged to a far-right political party that could trace its lineage to the National Fascists of Benito Mussolini.

“At least she didn’t wear her armband,” said a male voice at Gabriel’s shoulder. It belonged to Francesco Tiepolo, owner of the prominent restoration company that bore his family’s famous name. “I only wish she’d had the decency not to show her photogenic face at an event like this.”

“Evidently, she’s a great admirer of Anna Rolfe.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Me,” said Chiara.

Francesco smiled. An enormous, bearlike man, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Luciano Pavarotti. Even now, more than a decade after the tenor’s death, autograph-seeking tourists flocked to Francesco on the streets of Venice. If he was feeling mischievous, which was usually the case, he indulged them.

“Did you see the minister’s interview on RAI last night?” he asked. “She vowed to purge Italian culture of wokeism. For the life of me, I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.”

“Neither did she,” said Gabriel. “It was just something she overheard during her most recent visit to America.”

“We should probably take the opportunity to pay our respects.”

“Why on earth would we do that?”

“Because for the foreseeable future, Lorena Rinaldi will have the final say over all major restoration projects here in Venice, regardless of who’s footing the bill.”

Just then the lights in the foyer dimmed and a chime sounded. “Saved by the bell,” said Gabriel, and escorted Chiara into the theater. She managed to conceal her displeasure when settling into her VIP seat in the first row.

“How lovely,” she said. “I’m only sorry we’re not closer to the stage.”

Gabriel sat down next to her and made a small adjustment to the position of the Beretta. At length he said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

“The night is young,” replied Chiara, and dug a thumbnail into the back of his hand.