Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (9)

“I just got it, too.”



Julian had booked a room for the night at the Gritti Palace. Gabriel saw him to the door, then made his way to the Campo Santa Maria del Giglio. There was not a tourist in sight. It was as if a drain had opened, he thought, and washed them out to sea.

On the western side of the square, next to the Hotel Ala, was the entrance to a narrow, darkened calle. Gabriel followed it to the vaporetto station and joined three other passengers—a prosperous-looking Scandinavian couple in their late sixties and a world-weary Venetian woman of perhaps forty—waiting beneath the shelter. The Scandinavians were huddled over a map. The Venetian woman was watching a Number 1 crawling up the Grand Canal from the direction of San Marco.

When the vessel nudged against the jetty, the Venetian woman boarded first, followed by the Scandinavians. All three claimed seats in the cabin. Gabriel, as was his habit, stood in the open-air passage behind the pilothouse. There he was able to observe a single late-arriving passenger emerging from the calle.

Dark hair. Slim-fitting trousers. A quilted Barbour jacket.

The man from Harry’s Bar.





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 his permesso, 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 gloomy sotoportegi, 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 unlit sotoportego. 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.



He fell 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 the sestiere, 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 a corte bordered 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.”