Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“Police,” I said to Claudia. “We’ll have to use the Grand Canal.”

She said nothing, just stared at Ca’ Venti as we passed. No turning back. Ahead a gondola was approaching-no passengers, just someone heading home.

“Come here,” I said to Claudia, pulling her to me and kissing her, the only thing we’d be doing at this hour on a quiet canal. She put her hand on the back of my neck, then rested her forehead on mine, both our faces hidden.

“Adam,” she whispered, shaking.

“Ssh. It’s going to be all right.”

I heard the faint splash of the gondolier’s pole. In the front of the boat, Rosa peeked out from under the tarp. “He’s gone,” she said, but I stayed with Claudia for another minute, locked together, my head filled with her. It was going to be all right.

Near the Grand Canal it was lighter and, more important, noisier. A vaporetto was heading across the water, its noise loud enough to cover the sound of our own engine. I waited until it was closer, then started ours. No trouble this time. The cord caught and the engine roared, loud enough to bounce off the walls of the buildings. Or maybe just loud to us, listening for it. An ordinary motorboat, usually an insect buzz in Venice’s water traffic. I nosed us out to the broad canal.

The police boat was off to the right, a bookend to the other, with the same blue light. It was standing guard near the center of the canal, with sight lines not just to us but to the traghetto stand across, anything streaming down to San Marco. The terrace lights were on at the Gritti. I idled the boat for a minute, churning the water but not going anywhere. They’d blocked the Fornace, just in case. If they spotted us here, they could radio to the other end and trap us in between. Over by the Gritti, a pack of tourist gondolas went by with lanterns. What you saw at this hour at the hotel end of the Grand Canal. Taxis at the Europa, the Monaco. A few private boats going to Harry’s. But not a single motorboat with a young couple and a bulky tarp. Farther down, the lights of Salute reflected on the water, then there was only a brief shadow before San Marco lit up everything. Nowhere to hide.

The vaporetto was getting closer, lumbering toward Salute on our side of the canal, as slow and bulky as a land bus. Big enough. I lifted my head as if I’d been shaken awake, then looked in both directions. San Marco was impossible; easier to double back to the Giudecca. But not on the Fornace. The trick would be to catch the vaporetto at the right moment. Even at this speed there wouldn’t be any leeway.

I watched it get nearer, its bulk coming between us and the rest of the canal, and then, as it reached the Fornace, I put the boat in gear and shot out to run along its starboard side, invisible to the police while I chugged along in its shadow. We began to rock a little in the wake. A few people on deck noticed us, one waving us away with his hand, warning us. In another minute the vaporetto would head for the Salute landing station, squeezing me, but not before we passed the Rio della Salute, still blocked from view, and I swung away and headed down the side canal.

The Salute rio ran parallel to the Fornace but farther down, almost at the customs house. If I entered the Giudecca there, away from the waiting police boat, I might be able to run along the dark side of the Dogana and reach the bacino at its tip, pulling toward San Marco into the Grand Canal boat’s patrolling area but too far away to be seen. If I could outrun the Giudecca boat. This canal was narrower than the Fornace and even quieter. Only a few people lived at this end of Dorsoduro, wedged in between the great church and the customs house. We were out of it in minutes, turning left to hug the tip of land, almost afraid to look back. We had no lights to see, and our motor was far enough away to be indistinct-no reason to notice us at all. Just keep going. In seconds we’d be out of range.

“They’re coming,” Rosa said, facing backward.

Maybe just to look, a routine check. But the minute I speeded up they’d know, without even having to pull back the tarp.

Claudia turned around, spotting the light too. “Go behind San Giorgio,” she said. “Like before.”

“We can’t. We’ll never lose them there.”

“At least it’s dark there, remember? Nobody saw us.”

“Nobody was chasing us,” I said. “Okay, hold on, it’s going to bump. Rosa, hang on to him.” Rosa, who had been watching us, just nodded.

We passed the tip of the customs house with its golden ball and I swerved slightly to the left, streaking across the basin toward the doges’ palace, then along the curve of the Riva. The one place in Venice I’d wanted to avoid, open and bright, center stage. But also busy with traffic, boats to the islands and Danieli taxis and ferries leaving for the Adriatic. I realized that, unexpectedly, the boats here became trees in a forest, something to dodge around, slip behind. We passed San Zaccaria, passed the Rio dei Greci, the way to the Questura, heading finally toward the darker end of Venice, the empty public gardens and the lagoon beyond. In the lagoon, still covered by clouds, we could make it. We hit the wake from another boat, lifting up, then smashing down with a thud, water spraying over everything. Moretti cried out. Our speed now was drawing attention, too fast for the harbor. If I could pull away into the city again, thread us somehow through the back of Castello, we might lose the police, but the canals were a maze here, watery blind alleys. The police hadn’t outrun us yet. Just a few more seconds and we’d be in the dark.

On cue, a searchlight came on behind, hitting the water next to us in a long white beam, then moving left until our boat was flooded with light. Claudia ducked, lowering herself out of sight. I swerved, but whoever was operating the light had the rhythm of it now and followed us, tracking us smoothly. In a minute there would be a horn, someone yelling at us to stop. My mouth went dry.

“There are two,” Rosa said. “Only one has the light.” Calculating odds. What she must have been like on their other raids, harrying Germans.

Moretti crawled out from under the tarp and pulled himself along the side of the boat. We hit another wake and I could see him grimace, pain and something more, a frantic desperation, blinking against the glare, as if the light itself were hitting him, making him hurt. Then, almost before I could register what was happening, his hand came up and a gun went off, a roar past my ear. Claudia screamed. He fired again, and suddenly the light went off, hit or just temporarily doused.

“Stop it! You’ll kill us!” Claudia shouted, jumping at him and grabbing the gun. It was Rosa who snatched it, however, handing it over to Claudia and pulling him back to the tarp.

“What can you hit like this?” she said to him gently, putting the towel back on his wound. She pulled out her own gun. “Don’t worry. You,” she said to Claudia, “can you shoot?”

“No. Stop. If we do this-”

The light came on again, touching the edge of the boat, and then there was gunfire, bullets hitting the water next to us. We crouched down, Claudia and Rosa peering back at the police boat. I kept steering, bobbing my head, a moving target. There was a sharp thunk behind me, a bullet hitting wood, not far from the motor. Not far from any of us. Real bullets. I felt everything rushing out of control. Cut the engine. Hold up your hands. It was time to stop. Real bullets.

“Get the light,” Rosa said, steadying her hand and firing, a marksman’s stance.

“They’re going to kill us all, and he’s going to die anyway,” Claudia said, her voice jagged.

“Then take one with you,” Rosa said. “Shoot. It’s Fossoli, and this time you have a gun.”