John Sneeden: The Hades Conspiracy

Pauling had realized he was being followed shortly after leaving the conference a half hour earlier. Once he realized someone was on his tail, he’d made a snap decision to walk to St. Mark’s Square. It was always crowded, and crowds increased his chances of slipping away.

Pauling leaned to the right, which allowed him to see through the maze of heads. The tall Mediterranean-looking man with a black unibrow was still there, smoking a filter-less cigarette while pretending to read a map. As he took another draw, he glanced briefly in Pauling’s direction.

What now? Should he flee or remain in place? Both had their advantages and disadvantages.

The bald man’s lips moved, and Pauling saw something he hadn’t noticed before — a thin wire running out of the man’s ear and into his coat. Pauling’s pulse quickened. If the man was talking through a hidden mic, that meant other watchers were likely hidden throughout the square.

As he pondered his next move, another tour group arrived at the basilica. A middle-aged woman marched in front, holding a sign with the name of her tour company printed on both sides. Once everyone had gathered around her, she spoke with a decidedly British accent. “Welcome to the heart and soul of Venice, St. Mark’s Basilica!”

While she gave the group a brief history of the famous cathedral, a plan surfaced in Pauling’s thoughts. It would involve some risk, but at this point, what didn’t?

“Any questions?” Receiving none, the woman gestured toward the steps. “Fantastic. Everyone, please follow me inside, and please stick together. Remember, I have your tickets and will present them at the door on your behalf.”

Pauling’s heart thumped faster. He looked back. Unibrow still stared at his map, waiting for Pauling’s next move.

“Hurry on now,” the Brit guide implored.

It was now or never. Crouching slightly, Pauling turned and pushed his way into the group.

“Watch yourself, mate!” a man growled.

Two more gave him a gentle bump to convey their displeasure.

“Sorry, passing through,” Pauling said.

Only he wasn’t. Once he arrived in the middle, he turned and walked with them. Fortunately, most gazed up at the arched entrance and failed to notice their new companion.

The group came to a halt at the top of the steps as the guide talked to one of the attendants. Pauling stole a glance behind him. The plan seemed to have worked, at least for the moment. Unibrow was in full panic mode. His eyes swept the square, clearly alarmed his target was no longer in sight. He reached up and touched his ear, then his lips moved, alerting the other spotters.

A moment later, Unibrow looked suspiciously toward the British tour group. Fearing he’d be spotted, Pauling stooped and pretended to tie his shoes. Had he been seen? He hoped not but couldn’t be sure. Thankfully, the group began walking again. Pauling straightened and moved with them. As they passed through the arched entrance, he stole another glance back. Unibrow was gone. Pauling shifted his gaze back and forth but couldn’t find him. Was that good or bad? He didn’t know.

Now in the narthex, Pauling broke from the group and hurried to the right. An attendant guarded the doorway to the stairs. Pauling pulled out his wallet and fished out five euros, the fee to ascend to the Horses of St. Mark — also known as the Triumphal Quadriga — on the second-floor balcony.

After receiving his ticket, Pauling entered and raced up the steps. He had a plan now, and it was predicated on reaching his destination before his pursuers caught up.

Pauling’s lungs burned when he exited onto the second floor. He was an archaeologist, not an athlete, and the short climb left him gasping for air. Most of the tourists were turning right toward the Triumphal Quadriga, but Pauling turned left. Two minutes later, he reached his destination: the restrooms at the rear. Brushing past a man who was leaving, he made his way to the last of three stalls. After entering, he locked the door behind him, sat on the toilet, and prayed he hadn’t been seen.

Several seconds later, the outer door opened slowly. Too slowly. No one entered that way. After several long seconds of silence, the person stepped inside. Pauling froze in place, straining to hear. For now, the person seemed to be standing in one place. Maybe they were listening too.

Seconds later, footsteps approached the stalls. Pauling’s heart beat wildly as he weighed his options. The flimsy metal door offered no protection whatsoever. A teenager could probably kick it in. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was only one way he could get out of this alive. He would have to preemptively attack — use the element of surprise to his advantage.

His plan settled, Pauling reached out and quietly undid the latch.

The footsteps drew closer. It was obvious the man was going to start on the last one and work his way down. Legs appeared in the gap below the door. Fingers grabbed the handle. Pauling crouched, ready to charge.

Suddenly, the outer door to the restroom opened, and someone called out. “Tyler?” The accent was American.

“What?” said the person standing outside the stall.

Pauling put his face in his hands. The boy standing outside was in his teens.

“Get out here now,” barked the man.

“I have to take a leak.”

“Do you think I was born yesterday? You just went.” Hearing no response, the man continued. “I didn’t pay all of this money for you to sneak off and play video games.”

“Can’t I just—”

“Now!”

The boy let out a sigh of disapproval, then moved toward the door.

Pauling remained in the stall until the basilica was set to close. It was probably overkill, but he had to make sure his pursuers had given up the chase. People had come in and out during that time, but all seemed to be there for legitimate reasons.

He stood and carefully opened the stall door. As he suspected, the room was empty. After splashing some water on his face at the sink, he exited into the corridor. A security guard turned and walked briskly toward him, clearly surprised someone was still there. He frowned and tapped his watch. “We’re closed.”

“Sorry. I’m leaving now.”

Rather than moving off, the officer remained at his side. It was clear the man was going to escort him all the way out. Pauling thought about asking if there was a back exit, then realized that might raise a red flag. Besides, if the spotters knew he was there, they would be watching the building from all sides.

A minute later, Pauling exited onto the basilica steps. Night had fallen, and St. Mark’s Square was a hive of activity. Tourists moved in and out of the shops and cafes. Locals crisscrossed the plaza, while others just milled around, talking and taking in the sights.

He scanned the crowd. There were a few tall men, but none looked like Unibrow. Nor did he see anyone else looking in his direction. Most seemed to be caught up in their own worlds. Thankfully, it looked like he was in the clear.

Pauling didn’t like lingering in such a prominent place, so he took the steps down and turned toward Calle Canonica, a narrow street at the northeast corner of the square. While hidden in the stall, he’d plotted a circuitous route to his house, one that would eventually take him to the Rio de San Zulan, one of Venice’s largest canals. From there, he’d walk several blocks to a water taxi stand he’d used several times in the past. If all went well, he’d be home in just under an hour. His home had been purchased in the name of a trust, so very few even knew of its existence. The key was to get back without being followed.

Forty minutes later, he rounded a corner and saw the Rio de Sand Zulan a block away. A feeling of relief washed over him. The taxi stand was minutes away. Not only that, but as best he could tell, there was no one on his tail. An aficionado of spy novels, Pauling had doubled back a few times and entered several stores, and at no point had he seen anyone who looked even remotely suspicious. In fact, he was now beginning to wonder if the whole thing had been a figment of his imagination.