Eric Lustbader - The Testament

"He's not subtle enough to be able to lure the Guardian away."

"Sometimes women don't respond to subtlety. Surely you know his reputation with women," Camille said. "It's my considered opinion that in this area Jenny Logan is terribly vulnerable. St. Malo gave me the measure of the Guardian. Has Spagna even met her?"

"You have a point."

"This is anything but an ordinary operation, my love. A mistake now could prove irreparable." She looked out as they turned into rue de la Comete, searching for the shop lights.

"Bien. Cornadoro it is," Jordan nodded. "On one condition."

The limo had stopped in front of a shop whose hand-painted sign said Thoumieux Couteaux. They got out, Camille leading the way into the shop. It was small and cramped inside. The walls were covered with photos of knives, the small glass case at the rear displayed three neat tiers of elegant knives, all handmade.

"Bon soir, Madame Muhlmann." The small man bustled out from behind the display case. He had a bald head and the long fingers, elegant as his knives, of a surgeon.

"Is it ready?" Camille asked.

"Bien sur, madame." He smiled shyly. "Precisely to madame's specifications." He held a small knife in his open palm.

Camille took it. It was a small stainless-steel folder with pearl scales. She touched the hidden mechanism and the blade popped open. He slid across the counter copies of the two photos she had taken and sent to him via her cell phone. Consulting them, she satisfied herself that he had made an exact replica the knife she had found hidden away in Jenny's compact.

She thanked the knife-maker as she paid him. Outside the shop, she turned to Jordan. "What is your condition for using Damon Cornadoro?"

"I've told him to use the name Michael Berio. Jenny Logan will recognize his real name, I'm quite certain." Jordan smiled the secret smile he reserved only for her. It was an expression of intimacy, and of complicity. "You're right: we've waited patiently, planned for too long-at this stage we cannot afford any mistakes. You'll monitor him in the field, keep him on a tight leash. Just be careful."

"You know I will," Camille said, entering the limo with him.

The long black car edged away from the curb, turned a corner. In a moment, it had vanished into the stream of nighttime traffic.

Bravo and Jenny arrived in Venice more or less on time. As Jordan had promised, they were met at Marco Polo Airport by a man who introduced himself as Michael Berio. He was tall and very fit-looking, with wide shoulders, sturdy runner's legs and not an ounce of fat to be seen. His hair, cut long in the current Venetian fashion, was thick and prematurely white, curling at the nape of his neck. His face was wide, with prominent cheeks and jawline and unblinking eyes the color of the lagoon at night. He was dressed in loose black clothes and seemed to move on gimbals, in the manner of a martial arts expert. His eyes lingered on Jenny-not just her face, but her body as well.

He led them outside into the humid night. "I have a private motoscafo waiting for you," he said in a mild voice that belied his physical presence. And there it was, rocking gently at its mooring several hundred yards from the terminal doors, the mahogany facing gleaming, the brass fittings glittering in the moonlight.

As Jenny was about to step onto the motorboat Berio caught her around the waist and swung her onto the deck. He held her a moment too long, his eyes locked on hers, then he went to cast off the lines as Bravo came on board. The guttural sound of the engines echoed off the stone facade of the bulkhead, and they nosed out into the black water.

At all times of the day, Venice appeared suspended between sea and sky, but it was at night when it seemed like a city out of a fairy tale, its design resembling a gigantic seashell. Crossing the flat water of the lagoon at speed, Venice was twinned, its perfect reflection spread across the water like a mirage. The moon, painted as if by Tiepolo in the midnight pigment of the sky, burst across the water in ten thousand tiny scimitars, as if reminding these new guests of the city's Eastern roots, the fabulous trade with Constantinople that in centuries past had made the fortunes of the merchants and doges of the Serene Republic.

Here and there, stars glimmered, their light, along with that of the moon, frosting every detail of the Gothic campaniles, Byzantine basilicas, Renaissance libraries, Flamboyant Gothic palaces.

Standing beside Bravo, Jenny could feel him relax. It was as if the outermost layer he had donned during their flight had been peeled away by the soft wind of the lagoon.

"I feel like I'm home." His voice was tinged with wonder, as if it was filled with the same starlight that made city, sky and sea gleam as one. He took a deep breath, let it out. "Smell that, Jenny? All the centuries, year by year, lie beneath the water, waiting to be resurrected."

He turned to her, saw her quizzical look. "Don't you understand? For centuries, Venice has been the Order's home. It's only logical that the cache of secrets would be hidden here."

They had slowed considerably as they entered shallower waters. The channel was marked by the signature striped poles of Venice. Ahead lay the first sweeping curve of the Grand Canal, which ran through the city like the beckoning forefinger of the dissolute Casanova, once one of La Serenissima's most notorious residents.

On their left rose the magnificent basilica of Santa Maria della Salute. Bravo had always thought it fitting that this was the first major structure one came upon when entering the Grand Canal. Venice had about it a haunting beauty tinged with melancholy. Breathtaking La Salute, for instance, had been commissioned in 1622, in the waning days of the Black Death. The church had been built in gratitude to the Virgin for ending the plague that had ravaged the city's inhabitants.

But, in truth, it was the nature of Venice that was the source of its particular melancholy. Built as it was out of the caranto-the base of clay and sand-of the lagoon, the ineffable beauty of its waterways created a sense of impermanence, as if at any moment it would crumble and sink into the patiently waiting water. This was especially true during the acqua alta, when the lagoon rose into the city, inundating the piazettas and first floors of the palazzi.

On their left, white as a lace veil, the Doge's Palace appeared from out of the darkness, as if brought to life by the moonlight. More than any other single structure, this magnificent feat of Gothic architecture embodied Venice's dizzying reversals of perspective of sea and sky. The ground floor appeared lighter than air, the frothy confection of its many delicate arches, galleries and open arcades supporting a stolid fortresslike structure, complete with militaristic corner towers and capitals.

Each time he entered the Grand Canal, passing between La Salute and the Doge's Palace, Bravo had the eerie sensation of stepping through a mirror into another world where magic had always existed and still did.

The motoscafo, its sleekness somewhat sinister as it glided by St. Mark's Square, passed the sculpture of the winged lion of the Republic-one of fourteen depicted in varying ways in the square. Four of these creatures had appeared to the prophet Ezekiel, and the lion was subsequently adopted as the sign of St. Mark the Evangelist, under whose protection Venice had placed itself.

Somewhat further on, the boat slid to a stop at a small slip, where a fleet of porters in the gold and blue livery of the Hotel d'Oro waited to unload baggage. They seemed slightly confused when none materialized and more than slightly put out until Berio briskly slipped euros into their hands. Here again, the observant visitor could see that he was at the crossroads of West and East. While Venice was one of those cities where anything could be had for the right amount of money, it was also true that nothing could be gotten here without euros crossing the right palm.