by Tom Savage
“Perfetto,” Nora said, and Aldo smiled some more. She waved to her friends on the wharf as Aldo put the boat in gear and headed toward Accademia Bridge. Nora relaxed in her seat, gazing out at San Marco on her right and Dorsoduro on her left, staring in awe at the majestic dome of Santa Maria della Salute as she passed by it. The ornate architecture and the myriad pilings rising straight up from the water for mooring hundreds of boats always amazed her, and there was something delightful about gliding under bridges every couple of minutes. She figured Venice must have a world-record number of pedestrian bridges above the canals; she guessed nearly four hundred. She’d been all over Europe, and she’d enjoyed most of it, but Venice was one of her very favorite cities here. The dramatic layout appealed to her as an actor; the entire place was one great big soundstage.
The boat left the wide canal for a narrower one, heading north to the Canale delle Fondamente Nove. Aldo steered past the vaporetto landing and along the shore until they came to a stark gray Gothic structure on a rise with steps leading up from the fondamenta to a wrought-iron gate. He tied the boat at the nearest dock.
“That is the back door of the convent,” he explained, pointing up at it. “The service entrance. See the bell beside the gate? Ring it and they will answer. I wait here for you.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Aldo. You’ve been working all day now. Take a break, have dinner, and pick us up at San Marco Vallaresso at seven forty-five, okay? We’ll be all dressed up for the Danieli, so—”
“Mrs. Baron,” he said, and his constant smile disappeared. Nora stared in surprise. “Yes, I know you are not Signorina Simmons. We have a—how you say?—a friend in common: Mr. Green. I say nothing to you until now because there are always the other people around. I will be with you tomorrow, too—I am taking you and the other lady to the train station. Until then, I have been told to wait and be with you always. I know that Signor Naldi and Signor Ventura are detectives. I also know that Jeff is staying here in the convent.”
Nora stared some more. “You—you know Jeff?”
“Yes, I have known him for several years. And I am pleased to finally meet his wife.”
She studied the man, reassessing him. He was obviously an Italian agent of some kind, not merely a friendly water taxi pilot. She shook her head, thinking, I really must get used to all this spy stuff…
“Oh,” she finally said, “I see. Well, in that case, thank you, but I’m quite all right. Jeff will accompany me back to the pensione. Take a break now, Aldo. I insist.”
He smiled again. “Very well. I will be at the landing to take you to the party—Signorina Simmons.”
She laughed, thanked him once more, and stepped onto the dock. He waited while she crossed the wide fondamenta, climbed the stairs, and rang the bell. Only when the gate was opened by a young woman in a black habit did he pull away from the dock and motor off along the canal. Nora watched him go before turning to the nun.
“Buongiorno,” Nora said. “Per favore—um—parla lei inglese?” The nun smiled and shook her head, so Nora tried again. “Um, mio marito è ospitata dalle tue pensione, Signor…” She trailed off, not at all sure what name Jeff would be using here. He often used aliases, Mr. Noone being a favorite because it was his little joke, meaning no one. But he could just as easily be registered here as Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown or Mr. Bojangles. And her attempt at Italian was probably so appalling that she’d never be able to—
The young woman suddenly nodded as though she actually understood Nora’s request. She let Nora enter and shut the gate behind her, then raised a hand and said, “Momento.” To Nora’s astonishment, she produced a cellphone. She spoke in rapid Italian, listened, and signed off, indicating that Nora should follow her.
Nora looked around as they walked. Inside the gate was a walled garden with trees and flower beds; they were mostly bare now in winter but would probably be something to see in the spring. Two buildings were here, the cloister and a smaller, two-story house beside it that was presumably the pensione where Jeff was staying. It was connected to the main structure by a covered, colonnaded walkway. Flagstone paths led to arched oak doors in two distinct wings of the main building; a third path on her right led to the back door of the guesthouse. The big door of the wing on her left was ornately carved and flanked by stained glass windows, so that would be the chapel, Nora reasoned. The smaller door straight ahead of them led into the main house.
The kitchen, to be exact. Nora smiled at three black-robed women who were preparing food, and they turned to smile as she passed. Judging from the scents, fresh fish and freshly baked bread were among tonight’s offerings. Beyond the kitchen was a large, empty dining room—a refectory, Nora remembered from her Catholic school days—with long wooden tables. This led to a vaulted main hall dominated by a big front door and a stone stairway leading up to a wraparound balcony along rows of doors. Another tier above it was ringed by an identical balcony. The lighting here was muted, provided by an iron chandelier in the high ceiling. She heard voices and music through one archway, a piano lesson in progress. Nora assumed she was being taken to the office of someone in charge, and was brought to a door near the staircase. The silent young nun knocked once and waited.
“Avanti,” called a voice from beyond the door. The nun opened it and stepped aside to let Nora pass. Nora smiled her thanks and went inside, and the door closed behind her.
The handsome older woman behind a desk dominated by a recent-model computer was not yet in her eighties, and her eyes and ears seemed to be fully functional. Despite Jeff’s outrageous lies, Nora knew this woman could only be the abbess. She was in full black-and-white regalia: tunic, scapular, wimple, and veil, with a heavy gold crucifix on a chain around her neck. The woman rose and came around the desk to greet her.
“Good afternoon,” she said in perfect American English. “Welcome to Santa Maria Magdalena. I’m Mother Agnes.”
Nora stared. “You’re American!”
The older woman grinned. “Yes, dear, and so are you. If I’m not mistaken, you’re Jeff’s wife, Nora Baron.”
Chapter 13
Nora sank into the visitor’s chair at the plain oak desk. Mother Agnes went around to resume her seat.
“From the look on your face, I’m guessing Jeff didn’t tell you about me,” the nun said.
Nora shook her head, recovering from her second big shock in the last few minutes. First the boatman, now the nun. What next? she wondered. Perhaps the mayor of Venice was Jeff’s college roommate…
“I’m sorry, Reverend Mother,” she said. “My husband is constantly surprising me. If I may ask, how do you know him?”
Mother Agnes smiled. “He’s been here before. He stays here when he’s in Venice. When he’s working. My husband was his colleague.”
“Your husband? But I thought—”
“I came late to the veil, my dear. Robert—my late husband—was killed on a mission for the Company, and I was left a widow. I’d thought about taking the vows before I met Robert, and after he was gone…well, I decided to pursue the dream. I came to Santa Maria Magdalena in a hands-across-the-sea program twenty years ago. I fell in love with this place, and with Venice, so I stayed. And here I am.”
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Nora said, indicating the office.
“This order has diminished a great deal over the last few years. So have all the holy orders in the world, I’m sad to say. We were once sixty strong, but today there are only eighteen sisters here, and no novices. There weren’t many choices when our last Reverend Mother was called to Paradise. They offered me the gig, and I was humbled. There is exactly one American abbess in all of Italy, and you’re looking at her—if you’ll forgive me the sin of pride.”
Nora laughed. “You have a computer, and your women have cellphones. You’re the most unusual nun I’ve ever met.”
“My dear, I’m the most unusual nun I’ve ever met! But enough of this—what can I do for you?”
“O
h, yes, I nearly forgot. I’m meeting Jeff. I should call him and tell him I’m here.” She reached inside her shoulder bag.
“Jeff isn’t here, Nora,” the abbess said. “He went out about an hour ago.”
Nora jumped up from her chair. “Out? But we were supposed to meet—” She paused, thinking, then pulled out her cellphone. She’d switched it off after her call to Jeff in Murano, and she hadn’t checked it since. Sure enough, she had a new voicemail. “Excuse me a moment.” She raised the phone to her ear.
“Hey, Pal. I can’t meet you here after all. Something’s come up involving our—um—our comrades, so don’t come here, okay? I’ll meet you at your place after the party tonight. Love you.”
She returned the phone to her purse. Somewhere close by, a loud bell began to toll. No sense in calling him now, she reasoned; he’s busy. She didn’t have Aldo’s number, and she wouldn’t call her crew at Pensione Bella, either. A water taxi would be quickest, but it would be expensive, and she was in no particular hurry. The municipal vaporetti stopped just west of here; she could be back at the pensione in time to get ready for the party. No harm done.
“Is everything all right, Nora?” Mother Agnes asked, raising her voice above the pealing of the bell.
Nora smiled as she rose. “It’s nothing, Reverend Mother, just some crossed wires. I really must remember to check my messages more often. How do I get from here to the vaporetto landing?”
“Ah, it is a short walk along the water from where you came in. I’d take you there myself, but that bell is calling us to vespers. I’m so pleased to have a face to go with your name—Jeff constantly mentions you. You must promise to visit me again soon; you’re welcome here whenever you’re in Venice. And please call me Mother Agnes. ‘Reverend Mother’ is a bit much for anyone who isn’t actually in my charge. Come, I’ll walk you to the gate.”
As they emerged into the main hall, Nora saw several nuns moving toward a doorway beyond the stairs. They bowed to Mother Agnes as they passed, and Nora was treated to more fleeting smiles. The abbess led her back through the refectory and kitchen, then across the garden to the iron gate. Nora thanked her again and walked to the station, which turned out to be even closer than she’d expected.
She bought a ticket at the ACTV office. She was traveling from the top-center point of the island to the bottom-center one. The western route from here to San Marco Vallaresso was shorter, but there were nearly twenty stops along the way and a bit of backtracking after the transfer. She opted to go around the eastern end of the island to Santa Elena and transfer there to the #1 line for the rest of the trip. She traced this route on the office map: nine stops, all in all.
She barely noticed the scenery on the canals this time, and she pulled her coat more firmly around her against the cold winter wind across the water. She kept half an eye on the names of the vaporetto stops as they arrived, waiting for Santa Elena, but she was preoccupied with her thoughts. It wasn’t like her husband to make an appointment and then break it, not unless it was really important. Something’s come up involving our—um—our comrades. Jeff had emphasized that last word. He was off somewhere, following up on something that had to do with the Russians, and Nora wondered what it could be.
She assessed the situation as she knew it: The general would leave Venice in the morning, and in the afternoon she would get Galina away from her people and into Aldo’s water taxi. The exact manner in which they would accomplish that would be tricky to stage, but everyone involved was a performer. Professional actors could do this. Nora and Galina would slip away in the confusion. A boat ride to the mainland, a waiting car to the airport, a waiting jet to Washington, D.C. And Natalia Fedorovna would go on as Nina in tomorrow night’s performance of The Seagull.
Still, Jeff’s sudden activity was worrying, and now she’d have to wait until tonight after the reception to find out what he was doing…
She almost missed her landing. She came out of her reverie in time to see that they were stopped at Santa Elena, and that most of the passengers getting off or on here had already done so. She leaped up from her seat, hurried to the gangway, and made it onto the wharf just as the boat prepared to pull away and resume its route. Another ten-minute wait, then the #1 glided in, and she boarded with the crowd. Four more stops, and she was back at San Marco Vallaresso.
It was just going on 6:30, according to her watch. The pensione was a ten-minute walk from here, so she was ahead of schedule. She set off north along Calle Vallaresso, aware of the freezing wind. The temperature had definitely dropped since she’d left the convent, and the sky had darkened considerably; heavy gray clouds were filling the sky. Perhaps Venice would soon be treated to a rare snowfall. She reached into her shoulder bag for her gloves, and one of them slipped from her hand and fell to the pavement behind her. She turned around and knelt down to retrieve it.
That’s when she noticed the woman in the black coat. She’d been walking about ten yards behind Nora in the same direction, which wasn’t unusual; what was odd was that she stopped when Nora did. Nora rose to her feet with the glove, making a show of putting it on while she got a good look at the woman. The collar of the woman’s coat was turned up, covering the lower part of her face, and she wore a hat and sunglasses. When she saw that Nora was looking at her, she turned her head to gaze off down an adjoining alley as though she were looking for an address. It was a totally artificial gambit; Nora the actress knew that immediately.
Nora thought of her husband in the piazza this morning, in his ridiculous American tourist drag, and yesterday as the shaggy old guy with the big nose. This woman—nearly six feet tall, dark hair, pale skin, thickly built like an athlete, in her late twenties or early thirties—was doing something similar. The hat and sunglasses and turned-up collar were camouflage, Nora would swear to that, and she was deliberately keeping Nora ahead of her. There was only one logical explanation for it: Nora was being followed.
Chapter 14
The actor in Nora kicked in and took over. She turned around and resumed her walk, outwardly the carefree tourist in Venice—but inside was a different matter. She was thinking feverishly, wondering who this could be. More than that, she was wondering what to do.
She made a quick decision. She wouldn’t take this woman to Pensione Bella; she would lead her elsewhere and lose her, but where? She’d just passed Harry’s Bar, the famous tourist trap that had once been the haunt of Hemingway, Picasso, Sinatra, and a host of other celebs. It would be crowded—especially now, at cocktail hour—but Nora wasn’t familiar with the place; she didn’t know if it had any convenient escape routes. No, Harry’s Bar was out.
There was always Piazza San Marco, of course. It was just east of here; if she turned right at the next corner, she’d be there in no time. There were crowds and shops and cafés to mill about in or vanish into, or maybe the Basilica…
A sudden memory gave her an idea. In her last visit to Venice, ten years ago, she’d found a pretty little shop along this calle that specialized in Venetian masks. What was it called? Something operatic…Oh, yes: Un Ballo in Maschera, after Verdi. The Venice Carnival that occurred every February in the days leading into Lent was one of the city’s big events, and the elaborate costumes and masks involved in the festivities were world famous. The shop was up here somewhere, near the Pensione Bella, which is how Nora had come to be familiar with it. She’d gone in the shop—or, rather, through it—several times during that trip.
She’d wandered in the first time to see the masks, with an idea of maybe buying one for her then eleven-year-old daughter. Even at that young age, Dana was showing signs of becoming an actor like her mother, and dress-up clothes and masks were of particular interest to her. The handcrafted masks turned out to be much too expensive for a university acting teacher’s salary, but Nora had noticed the physical setup of the shop itself, and she’d taken advantage of it.
The shop was situated in a narrow building, with doorways at either side of the room. One door
opened onto Calle Vallaresso close to her pensione, and the other into an alley that led directly to the western end of Piazza San Marco. If she walked through the shop, she could avoid walking all the way to the next corner and doubling back along two more alleys until she eventually came into the alleyway to San Marco. The shortcut had shaved several minutes off her daily sightseeing trips, and the friendly old lady behind the counter in Un Ballo in Maschera didn’t seem to mind.
Nora hoped the old lady wouldn’t mind her using the shortcut once more—if the shop was still there, and if it was open.
It was there, and it was open. Nora slowed as she approached the Calle Vallaresso entrance to the shop, listening. The measured, heavy footsteps of the big woman behind her continued, matching Nora’s pace. With the odd echo in the alleys, it was difficult to gauge the distance, but Nora figured the woman was still about ten yards behind her.
A group of tourists, three older Japanese couples with shopping bags, approached Nora along the calle, talking excitedly and laughing as one of the women snapped cellphone pictures of all the beautiful buildings. Nora moved toward the shop, glancing in a display window at a dramatic array of Carnival masks adorned with jewels and feathers, timing herself by the pace of the group. They smiled and nodded to Nora as they passed by her, and she smiled back. The moment the six winter-coated bodies were between her and her follower, blocking the woman’s view of her, Nora swiftly pushed open the glass door and slipped inside.
The old lady wasn’t there today; a slender young man stood behind the counter, showing an elaborate mask to two giggling young women. The man glanced past his customers at Nora, whom he clearly assumed was another customer. “Buona sera.”
“Scusi,” Nora said to him, immediately becoming the confused tourist in his wonderful city. “I seem to be lost. Um, which way to Piazza San Marco?”