LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  I zig-zagged my way across the next roof, trying to make the police snipers’ job as difficult as possible. Bullets splintered the rooftiles either side of me, kicking shards of porcelain into the air. I made it to the end of the roof, dove and rolled over the edge. A round of gunfire echoed across the rooftops as the capping I’d just arched over shattered into pieces. The second roof, the one with the skylight, was lower. As I landed, I pressed myself up against the wall of the higher building. It was temporary cover at best. The helicopters would need to swing around to get a clear shot. That movement might give me one brief opportunity.

  As the choppers began to swerve, I sprinted to the skylight, bending down to rip an old tile off the roof as I ran. The crews in the two helicopters must have figured out my plan. They were coming in fast, spraying bullets from the sky.

  I raised the rooftile above my head and smashed it down on the skylight. The surface cracked but didn’t break, and the tile bounced off. I wasn’t going to make it. I grabbed the tile and raised it again. As I began the downward motion, I felt my skin tear as pain shot through my arm. I dropped the tile. It was simply luck that it landed on the cracked skylight and crashed right through it. It took me all of two seconds to jump through the open space, land on the floor below and roll away from the barrage of airborne gunfire to claim protection under the solid roof.

  The polizia would quickly work out the street address of my refuge, but I had to prioritize my wound. Blood was seeping steadily from my upper left arm. Spasms of pain shot through my nervous system as I wiped it away. It could have been worse. The bullet had only grazed me. It needed a wash and a bandage, but that would have to wait. I took off my jacket and ripped the sleeve off my shirt. As I tightened it around the wound, the waves of pain increased. For a moment I felt my consciousness wane. A minute later I was okay, and the bleeding appeared to have slowed.

  My next priority was an extraction plan. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to keep moving. I was in some sort of attic. Steep stairs led down to the next floor. I took them two at a time. It would be too late for the front door. The polizia would be on the street by now. Fortunately, the house was empty, so there was no one to say, “He went that way.” Small mercies.

  I found the back door. It led to a small courtyard. Windows from neighboring houses backed on to the space, sheltering it from the street. In other circumstances it would be a place to relax and share a glass of wine under the vines. To me it looked like a potential kill zone. I ran to the opposite wall and chose a window that would be large enough to climb through. The glass shattered into thousands of small pieces as I drove my foot through it. A moment later I’d cleared some of the jagged remnants away and hoisted myself through.

  I needed to get out of the area, but I figured I wouldn’t survive long back on the streets. With only about four hours to lay low before Ascardi expected me at the Piazza San Marco, I headed out the front door, straight into a dark, narrow laneway. That was good. There was no one in sight. I jogged slowly toward what I thought was the laneway’s northern end. When I got there, I stopped and stuck my head around the corner: a wider alleyway smattered with small shops, street vendors, and a thin crowd.

  I ventured out and made my way east. An idea was starting to form in my overtaxed brain.

  The alleyway gave way to a small piazza at the eastern end. Two polizia stood on the piazza corner opposite me. I ducked back into the shelter of a doorway, wondering if they’d seen me. I counted ten seconds. No reaction. Stepping back out into the alleyway in the direction from which I had just come, I walked straight into the sightline of a group of four uniformed polizia who seemed to be searching door-to-door. The group of law officers saw me as soon as I saw them.

  “Smetta, Lei e in arresto!” Then in English, “Stop, you are under arrest!”

  Without thinking, I turned and ran across the piazza. I knew the polizia behind me would be drawing their guns and giving chase. I’d have to chance it with the two officers already in the piazza. People scattered as I ran across the space and turned down the first laneway I came to. I heard the officers call out; they couldn’t fire a shot with so many people milling around, so I just kept running. All I could do now was run.

  I had one hope. Attempting to maintain a northerly direction, I belted down three alleyways before I saw sunlight streaming onto a broader section of footpath ahead.

  I burst into the open, recognizing the Riva del Vin on the Grand Canal. I had inadvertently doubled back close to my hotel. The paths beside the canal hosted a plethora of humanity. Restaurants were busy serving breakfast to locals and tourists alike, and early shoppers were making a start on the day. I wanted the polizia to see me—that was part of my ill-considered plan. I ran in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. The clomping boots and barked commands told me the officers were close. I was counting on the crowd to continue to keep the cops’ bullets at bay. People seemed to be calling out and pointing at me. If my plan was to have any hope of success, I had to be noticed.

  I ran up the steps leading onto Ponte di Rialto, the most famous bridge in Venice, pausing for a split second to make sure everyone saw me turn right onto the bridge. I sprinted up the next lot of steps toward the center of the bridge’s arc. Five paces in, before any of my uniformed pursuers saw me, I ducked to the left behind a vendor’s clothes stand. I grabbed a bright red coat and a woolen hat off one of the racks and moved back down toward the steps, putting the clothes on as I went. The vendor didn’t notice what I’d done, and no one on the bridge seemed the wiser.

  The polizia rounded the corner onto the bridge. I bent down behind a stand selling tourism trinkets, trying to look like I’d dropped something. Again, no one seemed to pay me any attention; they were too busy gawking at the officers running past.

  I waited a few seconds for the first wave of polizia to pass by, my nerves strained to breaking point. I figured there would be a second wave in the next minute or so, then a swarm.

  I took advantage of the break and slipped unnoticed back down the bridge stairs and swung to the right. I probably only had a minute, two at the most, to make my play. Another cobbled laneway opened up to a small waterside piazza by the canal. It was signed as the Campo Erberia. There were fewer people here. The small piazza was surrounded by buildings on three sides. At the far end there was an old wooden pontoon where a couple of gondolas were tied up alongside an unattended barge. From the way their arms gesticulated wildly, I assumed the two brightly dressed gondoliers were heavily involved in discussion. They were fifteen yards away, with no customers in sight. Fortunately, their eyes were focused up the canal as they chatted. I quietly padded over the stone space and down onto the pontoon, stepping unnoticed onto the barge. The freezing water enveloped me as I slipped quietly over its side and into the canal.

  The Grand Canal’s cold waters enveloped me like a freezing liquid coffin. Every painful stroke up the waterway took me a little further away from the chaos I’d hastily created to mask my exit. I was driven by the hope that the authorities would be searching the streets around Per Rialto rather than the canal itself. Even in the extremely cold water, the wound in my arm felt like searing hot coals were pressing against it, the constant pain reminding me that this was a short-term strategy.

  Keeping mainly under the cover of moored boats, pontoons, and pylons, I swam slowly up the canal. At best I only had around fifteen minutes in the water before being debilitated by hypothermia. I knew what I was looking for, but I didn’t have long to find it.

  Ten minutes later, my initial burst of energy began to subside. Each stroke required more strength than I had to give; each kick screamed in painful futility. Two minutes further on and my aches had turned into debilitating numbness, my body demanding immediate submission. Then I saw what I’d been searching for. A pair of giant wooden double doors rose out of the water. The canal water ran under the doors, presumably into an upmarket boat shed of sort. I swam to the doors, grabbing desperately for
the support their brass handles offered. Pausing to take a couple of painfully deep breaths, I mustered what energy I could and dove underneath them.

  I came up in a dark cavern. A small shard of light filtered through the gap in the doors, allowing me to make out the shadow of a stone landing and the shape of a hull looming above me. I treaded water as I listened for sounds inside the space, hearing nothing.

  Slowly making my way around to the stern of the boat, every tired muscle crying for relief, I fumbled around in the dark. No ladder—that would have been too easy. As my right foot gained purchase on the shaft of the craft’s submerged propeller, I heaved myself up, grabbing a cleat on the transom to stake my beachhead. Instantly, my slippery fingers lost their grip on the smooth metal and I slid downward, falling silently back under the water. Seriously short of strength and energy, I willed my way back up, kicking as hard as I could with increasingly failing legs. Frantically gasping for air as I broke the surface, I regained my breath for a minute, clutching at the boat’s rudder before endeavoring to escape the bone-chilling water again. I knew I’d only have the strength for one more attempt. Using the submerged propeller as a lever one last time, I lunged upward. My fingers found the cleat but immediately started slipping off again. I dug deeper, my hand like a frozen claw on the metal. The wound in my arm shot stabbing pain through my torso as I pulled myself slowly toward the transom. For the second time that morning I thought I would pass out, then suddenly I was over, somersaulting chaotically into the boat. Relief beyond words.

  Shivering on the deck, I felt waves of warm blood oozing down my arm. I was well aware that too many people’s lives depended on me pulling myself together and not bleeding out where I lay, but awareness isn’t everything.

  A minute or two passed before I found the mental clarity needed to assess my situation. The craft appeared to be some sort of luxury launch. Not unusual around Venice. If you could afford a large home on the canal, you could afford a luxurious boat.

  Crawling my way painfully along the vessel’s deck through the unlocked cabin doors, I half clambered, half fell down the couple of steps onto what I assumed in the dim light to be some sort of lounge area. In the darkness my hands groped around, eventually finding the plush softness of the craft’s padded seats.

  I leaned against one of them and untied the knot in the shirt that was wrapped around my injured arm. The blood began to flow freely. Ignoring the throbbing spasms, I refolded the shirt and tied it back around the wound. Stripping off my sodden clothes, I wrapped myself in an old picnic blanket that had been left folded on the seat.

  It was exhausting work, so I laid down … just for a minute.

  Chapter 29

  When I came to, I was shivering uncontrollably. My whole body was so blindingly numb it was difficult to even raise my arm to look at my watch; two hours had gone past.

  If moving a limb was difficult, getting to Piazza San Marco undetected would be near impossible. Even if I pulled myself together physically, every law enforcement officer for a hundred miles would be centered on bringing me to justice.

  I wanted to contact Greatrex and the General, but I couldn’t give the authorities any opportunity to track my location. As I struggled for clarity of thought, I became all too aware that the coldness that racked my body was slowing my thoughts. Nicholas Sharp, befuddled arctic lone wolf.

  Despite my haze, I knew the only way I could prove my innocence was to prove Antonio Ascardi’s guilt, and I only had a few hours to do it.

  Belatedly, I gritted through the pain and forced myself to move, feeling my way around the cabin in the near darkness. I desperately required dry clothes and nourishment—biscuits, chocolate bars, anything. Maybe even a first-aid kit. My arm needed to be properly bandaged, and something to mute the pain would be helpful. As I groped through the small cupboards and gear stowed under seating, my fingertips became my eyes.

  Ten minutes later, my plunder lay on the seat next to me. Halfway through my search, to my relief, I’d found a flashlight. Using the light, I’d easily located dry biscuits in a galley cupboard. I had also found a first-aid kit and some drinking water. That was a savior. After washing my wound out, I wrapped it in a clean bandage and downed some ibuprofen. The arm still throbbed, but it was functional, and the pain was dulled.

  My surprise discovery was a spare set of keys to the boat. I suppose it made sense to have a spare set in case the originals went overboard. Their discovery got me thinking. Perhaps …

  A short time later I had a plan that would succeed brilliantly or fail miserably. There would be nothing in between.

  My confidence grew as I climbed up onto the bow to confirm that keys for the craft also unlocked the doors that opened onto the canal. I left the two doors closed, but a nudge from the boat would now push them open.

  Further rummaging below decks had produced a dry, warm jumper, track pants, and a plastic weather jacket. Turning the ignition key, I was rewarded with a low-pitched purr from the boat’s powerful inboard engine. I prayed the dock’s walls were thick enough to mute the rumbling noise from the house above.

  I didn’t wait around to find out. Edging the throttle slowly forward, the boat clicked into gear and began sliding gently through the water. When the bow made contact with the large wooden doors, they swung open.

  As the harsh daylight tortured my eyes, a collage of color and chaos revealed itself. Narrow-beamed canal barges carried their first deliveries of the day. Gondolas and water taxis ferried eager tourists to their destinations, enjoying the uniqueness of the city as they cruised the waterways. Some private craft, many not dissimilar to my own, swept along the waterway with a sense of purpose and direction. Under the watchful eye of the warm winter sun, the scene appeared jubilant, almost festive. I just felt apprehensive.

  Using the boat to get to the piazza was my only chance. Plan A was to blast out of the dock and roar down the canal. People would turn, the polizia would notice, but I may have a chance of making the piazza, abandoning the boat, and disappearing into the crowd. I dismissed the idea as too risky. There were just too many polizia in the area, and the distance was too great for a quick sprint.

  Plan B. It would take a bit of nerve, but there was no way around it. As I left the darkness of the pen and moved into the daylight, I swung the helm to starboard and joined the other craft on the canal, keeping my pace leisurely and measured.

  For the first time I could see the splendor of my temporary transport. Long and narrow, the sleek craft was constructed of glistening polished wood with cream-colored plush vinyl cushioning on the seats. The helm sat in front of a long, low cabin area midship. The opulent cabin opened out to a small rear deck. It clearly belonged to someone of means, so that was the role I would have to play.

  I positioned myself as low as possible in the driver’s seat while maintaining a clear view ahead. As a former marine, I knew boats, so handling the craft was not a problem. Maintaining this gentleman’s charade in the center of Venice was a different game. It was a long way from beaching a six-man marine inflatable in enemy-controlled territory. To help me along I had found an Italian straw hat under the boat’s dashboard, which I wore low over my face. Combined with my new upmarket woolen jumper, I hoped my outfit gave me the look of a man who belonged on this craft. My appearance, at least from the waist up, had changed considerably from the description of the man the polizia were chasing.

  I pinned everything on the fact that an affluent gentleman cruising the canal in open daylight wouldn’t register as unusual. My natural instinct was to regress to plan A, shove the throttle to full, and make a run for it. I had to dig deep for enough self-control to fight the urge. It was difficult to look relaxed and carefree when every nerve in my body was drawn tight as a piano string.

  As I motored under the Ponte di Rialto, my apprehension almost swallowed me whole. Numerous polizia still roamed the busy areas either side of the canal and on the bridge above. I’d noticed at least two helicopters circling overh
ead, crews with binoculars hanging from their open cabin doors. My heart rate skyrocketed as I passed an oncoming polizia boat, but the officers onboard didn’t even give me a second look. For a reckless second I was tempted to wave to them—stupid idea.

  The canal widened after I passed under the Ponte dell’Accademia. Then the Piazza San Marco, in all its splendor, appeared on my left.

  I had a chance here.

  But where would I moor the boat? If I appeared uncertain or lost, my movements would attract the attention I was endeavoring to avoid. I eased back on the throttle to drift past the piazza without stopping or losing the momentum needed to steer. I surveyed the waterside facilities.

  Gondolas and water taxis queued in their multitudes along the southern edge of the piazza. Any strange craft there would be noticed.

  I motored further along the lagoon. As I headed east, fewer boats lined the waterfront. A little way further along, and further away from the piazza, I nudged the boat to the shore and tied it to an available bollard on the stone wharf, where I hoped it would remain undiscovered for at least a few hours.

  I climbed up onto the landing. Several people milled around, but far fewer than in the piazza itself. Law enforcement in the piazza would be on high-alert and extremely attentive to anything out of the ordinary. They would have the dual role of searching for me and protecting the Italian prime minister, whose visit I could only assume was going ahead. Ascardi’s instructions would have me in position a couple of hours before the prime minister’s visit to the basilica, but he hadn’t advised me how I could get to the building undetected.

  I walked along the waterside pathway, discreetly hugging the buildings. My wound wasn’t visible, and I’d lifted my appearance above conspicuously scruffy.

  It didn’t take long to make it to the Palazzo Ducale just before the entrance to the piazza. I’d been instructed to find my way to the basilica roof, but I couldn’t go in through the front; my limited knowledge of Italian history would have to get me in through the back.