At the entrance to the Doge’s Palace I lined up to buy a ticket. It being winter, the queue was short. The one security guard on door duty seemed uninterested in anyone who wasn’t an attractive female turista. I felt a little guilty taking advantage of his lecherous mind. As I waited, I kept my face glued to a map of Venice that I had picked up on my walk along the waterfront. First rule of fitting in: look like you have a purpose.
My shoulder muscles slackened with relief when I’d bought my ticket and entered the palace. I didn’t join a tour; I wanted to be free to roam as much as possible. A map of the palace had come with admission. I studied it. If I remembered my history, the Basilica San Marco had been designed as the Doge’s personal place of worship. The basilica structure virtually adjoined the northern wall of the palace.
Time. I glanced at my watch. It had taken me far too long to get down the canal to here. I had less than thirty minutes to make it to the roof of the basilica by 1 p.m. Ascardi had been very specific about the timing, his attention to detail unsurprisingly exact.
Get the timing right, get it wrong. Either way, people were going to die today.
Chapter 30
Massive archways standing tall like stone sentries surrounded the space as I passed through the Porta della Carta and entered the Palazzo courtyard. The roofless quadrangle was vast, and the multi-stories of functioning rooms in the Doge’s Palace revolved around it. Groups of tourists wandered around, guidebooks in hand, soaking up the iconic building’s checkered history. Keeping my hat low and my head down, I studied the map in front of me. It looked like I’d have to make my way up to the next floor. Tourists and tour groups loitered, absorbed in their studies of the building’s art and architecture. One more fascinated soul would fit in. All the security guards seemed preoccupied giving directions to tourists and monitoring the inquisitive hands of children touching things they shouldn’t.
I made my way across the palace courtyard to an imposing set of steps. According to my map they were called the Scala dei Giganti, the Giant Steps. It made sense; they were huge. I climbed them, ascending to a long, majestic gray-stone balcony, following the crowd along and through a pair of imposing double doors. The excessive grandeur made today’s wealthy look like they were living on struggle street. Intricately ornate gold leaf edging framed massive frescoes on the walls and ceilings. Vast polished stone floors reached like runways from wall to wall. I briefly gasped at the splendor but was too worried that I wasn’t going to make my deadline to appreciate it. I pressed on. There was little doubt the basilica was close, but I couldn’t yet figure out how to get to the roof to access it. What I really needed was a Robert Langdon type to show me the way.
I headed toward the Doge’s apartments, sniffing out access to the roof. Too many people roamed the area for me to break a window unnoticed. Then Robert Langdon appeared; I heard the words, “Secret itinerary tour people, follow me please.”
About fifteen eager tourists followed an English-speaking Italian guide. “And now we will leave the public section of the palace and inspect the Piombi, including the cell where Giacomo Casanova was imprisoned. The cell is up this way, just below the roof.”
“Below the roof” was all I really heard. I dawdled a moment and waited for the tour to pass me by. Then I joined on at the end, hoping the group was large enough for me to assimilate unnoticed. The guide led us through a door with a sign reading “No public access.”
I was in.
Ten minutes later, as we ambled along a wooden corridor high up in the building, we passed a window through which I saw an enormous domed roof arched like a massive conservatory just a few yards away. At the roof’s peak, where there could have been a telescope, there was a cross. This was it, the basilica.
I paused until the rest of the group turned the next corner in the corridor. No one noticed me stop; I didn’t think anyone had noticed my presence at all.
Reaching across the wide stone sill, I tried to open the small double window. It didn’t budge. Pulling my faithful lockpick from my wallet, I worked the lock, running the tool’s sharp edge around the window frame and along the gap between the two panes. Then I reached in, grasped the window handles and pulled hard. They opened toward me so quickly I nearly lost my balance. A solid-looking wire grating was the next hurdle. Although once sturdy, the grating now felt rusted and weakened to the touch. The cement that joined the metal to the stone window surrounds had also deteriorated. Again I used the lockpick to work the rim of the grating where it joined the cement, digging it out as much as possible. Acutely aware of time, I climbed up onto the sill and kicked out with both my feet. The grating fell away, clattering down to the roof below.
I paused to listen for any reaction to the sound. Two seconds later I heard the clatter of footsteps approaching down the stone corridor. Someone investigating the noise, another tour group, or my group returning? Because of the echo effect on the stone walls and floor, I couldn’t be sure which direction they were coming from, but the loudness of the footsteps suggested they were only seconds away.
With people so close, I couldn’t afford the extra noise that would be created by my feet impacting the loose terracotta tiles of the next-door roof. I rolled over the edge of the window ledge, swung myself down and hung precariously by my clenched fingertips. I counted to thirty, hoping whoever was in the corridor would just pass by disinterestedly. My injured arm throbbed mercilessly under the pressure of my weight.
As I counted thirty-one, my hands gave way.
On the basilica roof, I waited another minute, my back pressed against the wall of the building I had just left, waiting for a cry of discovery. I heard nothing.
The basilica’s roofline revealed itself as a world above a world. Dips and pitches, curves and stone half walls rolled out before me like a disorderly maze. I felt the heat of the new afternoon’s sun radiate from every exposed surface. My biggest immediate problem was once again being spotted from the air. I would need to find some cover quickly. Ascardi had told Greatrex that police and security personnel would take up positions around the building and on the balcony high above the piazza at 1 p.m. Police helicopters would patrol until the prime minister had left the area. He was not due to arrive until three, but if I wasn’t in position by one, I’d never make it. I glanced up at the clock tower across the piazza: ten to one … probably the same odds of me succeeding.
A walkway spanned the basilica’s rooftop, presumably for maintenance crews. I ran quickly along it, staying low, melting into the shadows of the roof’s domes where possible. I’d have to remain up here undetected for over two hours. That was a big ask.
My first job was to locate the scaffolding that Greatrex had told me would be near the stonework at the base of the center dome. I found it easily. As expected, a long, thin package wrapped in a folded builder’s sheet was stowed under the lowest scaffold. I reached down and picked it up, immediately feeling the all-too-familiar shape of an M40A5 sniper’s rifle in my hands. The outline of the chunky McMillan stock and slender length of the 25-inch stainless barrel were almost comforting as I ran my fingers along the coarse material. They were also proof that Ascardi’s financing of the building’s restoration gained his people unrestricted access.
Suddenly, I heard the distant sound that had plagued me all day. A sniper’s worst nightmare. The beating of the chopper blades was getting louder, each rotation doing my head in a little more. I had a sense of being hemmed in by the deadly birds of prey that hunted overhead. Climbing under the scaffolding, I lay down flat on my stomach and waited. If they spotted me, I would have no means of defense. Vulnerability defined. I waited some more. Eventually, the chopper passed above and the threatening sound of its roaring engines and palpitating blades faded.
Feeling exposed, I climbed toward the eastern edge of the roof, overlooking the Piazza San Marco. The elaborate facade on this side of the building rose above the edge of the rooftop, providing good cover from the balcony and piazza below.
> I looked down at the balcony. Four armed polizia marksmen lined the balcony’s width. All of them held high-powered rifles, but their eyes scanned the piazza below rather than the rooftop above and behind them.
I turned back and inspected the area behind me. A professional shooter’s greatest concern was being ambushed while lying in wait for his prey. This environment did not encourage me in any way.
If I was lucky enough to evade the choppers overhead and the marksmen on the balcony below, there was still every chance the roof would be inspected before the prime minister’s appearance. Directly behind me, steep steps climbed to a door into one of the mammoth domes, allowing access to the roof and a plain view of my back.
My only hope was that security services had already secured the building roof and then locked the door from the inside. Hopefully, no one would see the need to open it again to reexamine the skyline. Either way, I’d still have to take precautions.
With a little under two hours to wait, I needed to find a position that allowed me a full view across the piazza without being seen. To my left I saw that the contour of the roof contained two smaller pitches. I crawled up over the first section and kept going until I was in the shadow of the second pitch. From there you could still overlook the piazza below but not be seen from the dome doorway. I had found my hide.
I climbed into position. The first job at hand was to check my weapon. I pulled the rifle out of the old builder’s sheet, inspecting the parts I could access. The gun appeared well serviced and maintained. I hadn’t expected otherwise. I removed the detachable Schmidt & Bender Police Marksman 16 x 50 scope, which would act as my binoculars without exposing the gun’s barrel until necessary. I then pulled out the box magazine: one round. Ascardi had stuck to his word.
Again I heard the familiar beat of helicopter blades. Now was a good a time as any to test the camouflage capability of my hide. I laid the rifle into the gutter a little way back from the facade. Positioned in the shadow of the gutter, I hoped that from the air the gun would look like one long line among a series of other long lines. Shrinking into the corner behind the facade, I covered myself in the white builder’s sheet, its color closely matching the iron roof and the stone building. I was about to see if it matched enough. If the chopper crew saw me, I had nowhere to go.
Once again I heard the helicopter coming closer. Thirty seconds later it hovered directly above me. The bird’s downdraft pumped air down, causing the edges of my hide to begin to flap; I grabbed at them. Between its pulsing blades and whining engine, the chopper’s piercingly loud presence resonated menacingly across the rooftops. I could hear nothing but the bird’s mechanical caterwauling as I pulled myself tight, bracing myself for bullets to enter my body. Surely, they’d seen me.
From under my sheet I glanced toward the balcony below. One of the marksmen raised an arm, signaling something—I couldn’t tell what—to the chopper crew above. I clenched my fists and huddled further into a ball; any second now the pain would come.
A period of somewhere between a few seconds and an eternity dragged past, then I heard the pitch of the helicopter engines change. At first the throbbing noise grew even louder, deafeningly so. Then I realized, as the sound grew deeper, that more power was being applied. The bird was slowly moving off. The marksman must have been giving them the all clear. Nicholas Sharp, invisible man.
There was nothing to do but wait … and pray. Just as well I was at church.
Chapter 31
Now it was a game of patience. Snipers often wait hours, minimizing movement and staying alert for their prey lest they become someone else’s. The real challenge, however, was to retain focus and tranquility.
Once I had scoped out the piazza below, I formulated the distance and trajectory to different locations around the square. I didn’t know exactly where my target would be positioned, so I had to cover all possibilities. Truth be told, I didn’t even know who my target would be.
I calculated the wind’s velocity. The breeze blew directly off the Adriatic Sea, across the lagoon, and between the buildings either side of the northern section of the piazza. The distance wasn’t huge, but the wind was erratic like that of an inland lake. This would not be an easy shot.
Having taken every precaution, my mind began to wander as I looked down at the crowded piazza.
Everyone has a tipping point. The line where logic descends into emotion. What had pushed Antonio Ascardi over the edge to the point he would condemn many of these innocent people to death?
The entrepreneur had achieved success beyond most people’s imaginations. If you believed him, he’d done it his way. Not many can say that. His obsession with technicality and detail buttressed his talent for seeing a bigger picture. Together with his savviness for business, this unique skill set formed the foundation of his vast empire. What more could a man like that need?
Yet something had triggered him or perhaps triggered a dormant psychosis within him, or maybe it was never particularly dormant, just concealed, like a privacy setting hiding some forbidden content away from public view.
Could a man live with being that conflicted?
I laughed to myself. Take a look in the damn mirror, Sharp.
There must have been a trigger. Financial? Possible but unlikely; the man was obscenely wealthy. Who could touch him in that way? His sister’s death? That seemed possible, although I didn’t understand why that would have driven the light away so completely.
I thought about everything that had happened up to this point. Sure, Ascardi had instigated some dreadful events and laid the blame at my doorstep, but there was more to this; it wasn’t just about me. I knew it. Men like Ascardi conventionally have a higher purpose, yet Antonio Ascardi wasn’t, and had never been, a conventional man; his words at the Teatro La Fenice revealed that his goals were certainly skewered, unconventional, obscured.
No matter what angles I considered, all the hypothetical deliberation in the world boiled down to one thing. I needed to stop him. One moment, one bullet.
I fought to refocus on the view before me. The piazza was filled with color and vibrancy: families with kids running around enjoying themselves; older tourists, taking the trip of a lifetime, savoring every moment in an exciting and unique environment; locals earning their living, performing the tasks they performed every day, serving coffee, selling tickets, guiding tours. A litany of life’s stories. I wanted to yell down to them, “Run now and keep running.” Abruptly, a vision flooded my reality—an explosion, desperate screams, blood splattered chairs and tables, mutilated corpses.
There could be no warning anybody.
The decision. I had to decide where to consign my bullet. Ascardi was a clever man; whatever I decided he would find a way to make his plans come to fruition. I was sure of that. So, the logical choice was to take Ascardi out, put an end to it.
I looked down across the piazza. Which families, which children would I be sentencing to death by doing that? I couldn’t do it … I wouldn’t do it. Anger and frustration seethed through me like poison from a viper. What could I do? Murder an elected prime minister? No, not in me … or was it? If it meant saving lives …
Was there a way to take out Fontana and his sidekick? I could see several cafés and ristorantes. I didn’t know which one Fontana would be seated at. I was certain he’d be in view, so he would have a view. I’d get a clean shot, but only one bullet … for two men, Fontana and Domenico. It wouldn’t work that way.
Again, let the anger grow. I would control it, but it would also empower me. How dare this malfeasant force me into this position?
I realized I was so focused on doing what I couldn’t do that it prevented me focusing on identifying what I could do. Think forward. I scanned every corner of the piazza. An answer would be out there. I just had to find it.
Minutes went past. Helicopters flew overhead three more times. Each time I grew more confident about my concealment. With each passing moment I could feel the pressure rise. Keep
scanning.
The crowds were building now. Word was out. Groups of people were milling around hoping to get a glimpse of the prime minister as he entered or left the basilica.
Then there he was, Italy’s top politician, surrounded by men in dark suits—I guess it’s the same the world over. The prime minister strode across the piazza toward the basilica. Antonio Ascardi was walking beside him. My instructions were to shoot after the inspection of the restorations, not before. I still had time, but if there was an answer out there, it evaded me.
The crowd thinned out a little after the PM entered the building. From my position, I could see thirty yards in front of the basilica but not the entranceway itself. Ascardi would know that and position the prime minister accordingly when the time came.
Sure enough, ten minutes later security personnel were laying out sections of sturdy metal fencing, each section linked to form two opposing L shapes. They created a laneway and staging area for the VIPs and crowd control barriers for the media and public in preparation for the “impromptu” press conference.
I raised my scope, still covered by the builder’s sheet, and scoured the cafés and restaurants around the piazza’s perimeter. It took three minutes to locate Norbert Fontana and Domenico. They were at a café at a forty-five-degree angle across the piazza from me, on the north side. It was a fair shot, around four hundred feet; I could make it, although there was no point. Two men, just one bullet.
Don’t get frustrated. Think.
Fontana was pulling out a chair for Aislinn. She’d have no idea what was at play here. Then Patrick Jay appeared from the shadow of a nearby portico and pulled up a chair at the table.
LETHAL SCORE Page 19
