The servant in the black suit hovered without purpose.
‘He’s dead,’ the man said.
Pagan made no response. He moved toward the front door and was gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
VENICE
GURENKO WAS COLD. IN THE UNDERHEATED MAIN HALL OF THE SCUOLA he sat at the centre of the long table, facing the Italian Prime Minister, a small bald man delighted that his country was playing host to the Russian President, delighted that Venice in particular had been selected as a meeting-place. Hadn’t it once been a crossroads of Europe, a forum for men of vision? He rambled on about democracy and democratic ideals and the dangers of fascism, then segued into the subject of great art. It was, Gurenko thought, an altogether boring speech, most of which he managed to tune out.
Every now and then he would gaze away from the Italian, his eye drawn – where else? – to the paintings on the walls. They excited and startled him. He could hear the paintings; they spoke to him in subtle whispers. A sense of vibrancy entered him, a surge of anticipation.
As soon as the Prime Minister was silent, Gurenko would stroll from one picture to the next, studying each, ignoring the expert – a florid man with a handlebar moustache – whose task it was to point out the salient features of the works. Gurenko didn’t need a lesson in art history. No, he’d enter each painting as he came to it, he’d move into the dimension between the frames, he’d lose himself in those delicate combinations of shadow and colour.
The security people stood along the wall, watching. They were happy with Venice as a venue. It was an island, easily protected. A couple of official photographers held their cameras in a reverential way. Gurenko rearranged his position. His bones were beginning to lock. The cold was feathered by damp and the air had a suggestion of mildew. It was this dampness and chill that Budenny had used as an excuse for his absence. Claiming a headache and the onset of a cold, he’d remained in the hotel. Fictions, Gurenko thought. He was probably watching TV, feet up, vodka in hand. Maybe he’d even found himself a local girl for amusement.
The Italian Prime Minister had apparently finished his speech. His aides and associates and the prominent dignitaries who’d gathered in Gurenko’s honour applauded. Gurenko clapped his hands too, more from relief than appreciation. He got to his feet and was at once surrounded by people – the Prime Minister, his deputy, the mayor of Venice, and the art expert. Why couldn’t he be left alone to wander the Scuola? Why did they press in on him with such an eagerness to please?
‘This way, Mr President,’ said the art expert, and took Gurenko gently by the elbow, leading him towards the paintings.
Gurenko smiled. He’d suffer this fellow, but he wouldn’t listen to him. Great art was something you explored alone. It was a private experience, a communication between yourself and a painter long dead. There was, he thought, an element of a seance about the business, a spiritual affair.
Pagan went hastily, crossing the dark of the Campo Sant’ Angelo, hurrying along the Calle della Mandola where he came to a bridge that led him to the Campo Manin. He had no idea where the Scuola Grande di San Rocco was located or if Gurenko was even going to be there. The newspaper he’d seen in Marseille Airport had mentioned the place, and Barron had casually remarked that the Russian was scheduled to view some paintings; it was a matter now of luck and timing.
How to proceed? This side of the Grand Canal, the other – Venice lay around him in the manner of a formless labyrinth, a place beyond the skills of any cartographer, blind alleys, side-streets, bridges, a cold intricate cage of a city. He was panicked by his lack of geography. He reached the Campo Manin, thinking The Scuola, how the hell do I find the damn place? He kept hearing Barron say Tick tick …
OK, you ask, you just go up to somebody and ask and hope whoever it is speaks reasonable English. Among the pedestrians he stopped in the Campo Manin he came up luckless three times, somehow managing to choose winter tourists, a Turk, a middle-aged American couple trawling the historic places of Europe, a slender long-haired girl in a metal-studded leather jacket who spoke only Italian, Non capisco, non capisco.
When he encountered an elderly man carrying a rolled umbrella, his luck changed. The man was a retired professor of literature, who walked with less speed than Pagan would have liked, but who was prepared to show him the way to the Sant’ Angelo vaporetto station, where he would be ferried across the Canal to san Toma, and from there it was a short walk to San Rocco. There were signs; Pagan only had to follow them. The alternative, on foot, would mean crossing the Rialto and going by way of Campo San Polo, a long way round through a parrocchia, a neighbourhood, in which it was easy to get lost.
They left the Manin, loosely followed the course of the Rio di Luca for a short distance, reached the Grand Canal, where the retired professor indicated the vaporetto station. There was no sign of activity. ‘Here you must wait,’ he said.
‘I can’t wait,’ Pagan replied. He looked across to the opposite bank. What was the distance? One hundred, two hundred feet? It was frustratingly short.
The elderly man smiled as if impatience were a character defect he’d managed to eliminate from his own life. ‘Of course, the signore could always swim.’
‘It crossed my mind,’ Pagan said. He imagined going into the water, ploughing desperately to the other side.
‘There is always the expensive water-taxi,’ said the professor. He nodded his head towards a small launch docked some yards away.
Pagan moved toward the launch, looked down into the cabin, where a white-haired man in a heavy sweater and muddy boots was chewing on a tramezzino. The professor, eager to help the anxious Englishman, followed. He spoke to the taxi-driver in Italian; there was haggling, which increased Pagan’s impatience. How long did he have? If Carlotta had planted a device in the Scuola, when was it timed to detonate?
The professor said, ‘For twenty thousand lire, he’ll take you across. It’s exorbitant.’
Exorbitant or not, Pagan agreed, stepped down inside the launch, thanked the man. The driver started the motor, the craft throbbed violently. Pagan turned, facing the other bank, beating the palm of his hand on the brass rail. This rushing, this motion – what if it were futile in the end? He stared at the lights on the other side as the water-taxi vibrated so vigorously it shook his bones.
‘San Toma,’ the driver said.
The crossing had taken about a minute, no more. Pagan crammed some money into the driver’s hand.
‘Sterling, sorry,’ Pagan said, and he skipped up on to the bank, grasping a wooden rail for support. He’d given the driver everything he had, about seventy pounds, which wasn’t bad for a minute’s work. He hurried away from the taxi, looking for the signs the professor had mentioned, couldn’t find them. He walked quickly, sometimes breaking into a sprint. Finally he came to a small blue plaque with arrows, one of which pointed to San Polo, the other to San Rocco. How far? he wondered. He felt drained, operating on weak batteries.
He knew he’d reached San Rocco when he saw the congregation of police and security personnel and the harsh arc-lights rigged up by TV crews, people milling restlessly in the street, vendors selling coffee and tea and sandwiches, the whole circus of security and sustenance that follows the president of an important nation. The Scuola itself was lit by a series of electric beacons, which played criss-cross upon the surface of the building and created the impression that the structure was floating a few feet off the ground.
He saw at once that it was going to be impossible to get close to the rather unimposing building because armed guards behind a yellow tape blocked the way, but he had little choice except to try somehow, even if he understood that there was an excellent chance of having himself shot in the process. He shoved forward, pressing past photographers and media hawks and members of the footloose clan that called themselves stringers. He heard complaints on either side as he pushed – rude bastard, where do you think you’re going, hey buddy watchit. He elbowed people aside, causing hot cof
fee to spill down the front of somebody’s coat. He reached a point where he could go no further because he’d come face to face with an Italian soldier with an automatic rifle, who immediately stuck the weapon in Pagan’s chest.
Pagan raised his hands to show they were empty, then, in a pantomime of caution, reached inside his coat for his identification – at which point the soldier undid the safety-catch on his rifle and prodded Pagan hard. The soldier, you could see, had quickly reached his limits. He was under orders to take no prisoners. His imagination had been fired by his superior officer, who had given long lectures on certain radical elements in Italian society, of which there were many – extreme rightists, remnants of the Red Brigade, hardline Communists who felt Gurenko was betraying the muddy ideals of Stalin. Pagan could belong to any such murderous outfit.
‘Look,’ Pagan said, flashing his ID, which might have been a library card for all the soldier knew.
‘Look,’ Pagan said again. ‘For God’s sake.’
The soldier seemed alarmed when a couple of nearby journalists, having witnessed this altercation, crowded around, firing all kinds of questions, trying to get a look at Pagan’s identification, sniffing as they always did around the periphery of any story that might alleviate their tedium. They’d followed Gurenko from London to Paris and now to Venice, and they were due to track him to Bonn next, and Brussels after that, and so far the statements that had emerged from his meetings with heads of state invariably amounted to the usual platitudes. Here, for their diversion, was a little human drama, and it galvanized them.
They wanted to know what Pagan was trying to do here, did he have sinister intent, was he merely demonstrating against Gurenko, was he a radical or what, what was the goddam scoop? The soldier popped Pagan again with the rifle, forcing him back. One of the journalists, a wild-haired Irishman from Radio Telefis Eireann with booze on his breath, muttered something about the inherent brutality of the military mind. It was, Pagan thought, getting out of hand, the whole situation drifting away from him, the scribblers clustered at his side, the guard in front of him. It had begun to assume a raggedness he hadn’t expected. He could make no headway with the soldier, and the journalists were clamouring in their abrasive manner for information. The soldier stuck his gun into Pagan’s flesh again, this time with a certitude that meant he intended to use the damn thing, he was a hair away from pulling the trigger, he had a heavy responsibility. Nobody was allowed under the tape unless they’d been authorized.
A man in a navy-blue coat appeared just behind the guard. An Italian, tall, bespectacled, with an air of control about him, he was the kind who took charge of matters in a quiet, persistent way. Nothing flustered him. He was the voice of reason itself, reason bolstered by the fact he had a gun concealed in his clothing and immediate access to back-up. He stared at Pagan in a stiffly officious fashion. He seized the identification card and studied it and then said, ‘You are a long way from home, Mr Pagan. A very long way.’
He raised the yellow tape and allowed Pagan to pass under it. Pagan’s access to a forbidden area agitated the hacks, who pleaded for information, firing questions, bitching, whining, wondering just what the hell was going on and who was this guy who’d been allowed under the tape and into the sacrosanct space beyond.
Pagan was led to the side of the Scuola, where immediately a swarm of Italian security agents surrounded him and began frisking him thoroughly. His holstered gun was discovered and confiscated. The bespectacled agent still had Pagan’s ID in his hand.
‘My name is Androtti,’ he said. ‘I am in charge of security here.’
Pagan said, ‘I don’t think we have time for polite introductions, Androtti. I work with Special Branch, anti-terrorist section—’
‘I have read your identification. I know your affiliation,’ Androtti said. ‘What I do not know is the reason for your presence here. Explain.’
‘I don’t think there’s time for that,’ Pagan said.
‘How so?’
‘You’ve got a bad situation on your hands. I have good reason to believe there’s an explosive device inside the building.’
Androtti raised an eyebrow, took off his glasses, rubbed the lenses in the folds of his scarf. ‘And this good reason – what is it?’
‘It’s too long to go into—’
‘And what do you expect of me? I should clear the building, interfere with the proceedings on the grounds of your claim? I will need more knowledge, Mr Pagan.’
‘I’m telling you, you don’t have time to fuck around.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’ The Italian replaced his glasses and looked ecclesiastical for a second, a priest awaiting a confession.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Pagan said. He stared past the Italian, looked at the entrance to the Scuola, wondered what might happen if he made a rush towards it. Guns would be drawn, the night filled with bullets. He’d never reach it.
‘Please, Mr Pagan. Your story. I am waiting.’
‘I don’t think you understand me,’ Pagan said. ‘This place could blow at any second.’
‘I have serious reservations,’ Androtti said. ‘If I were to believe every crazy story I hear—’
‘This one isn’t so crazy—’
Androtti raised a hand. ‘Enlighten me. Give me sufficient reason to interrupt the situation inside the building.’
Pagan was quiet a moment. He gazed at Androtti and the clutch of agents standing behind him. There was no way in the world he could shove his way past them. And even if he could, what might he achieve inside the building? Where to search? Where to start?
‘OK,’ he said ‘It’s your funeral, friend. If this place goes up – and I believe it will – the guillotine’s coming down on your head. Not mine. I warned you. I’ve done all I can. When the smoke clears, you’re the one covered in ash, not me. I’ll be back in London, nice and safe. You’ll be busy trying to explain your dereliction of duty. Sound good to you? Sound like a cheerful prospect?’
Androtti stepped forward; there might have been a vague menace in his movement, as if Pagan’s story were a testimonial to the failure of Androtti’s security detachment, something that offended the Italian’s dignity. He brought his face very close to Pagan.
‘Mr Pagan. We have declared the building safe. The Russians, who conducted their own examination after us, have declared it safe also. And now you descend from nowhere to tell me that we might have overlooked something?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’ Pagan shrugged and moved back from the man. ‘If you’re through with me, I’ll leave. The rest is up to you. Give me my gun and my ID because I don’t fancy lingering here in the circumstances.’ He stared at the building, pondering its lethal potential. He imagined it erupting, the night on fire, a great sunburst of destruction over the city.
Androtti looked hesitant. Whether he feared more for his position than the chance of the Scuola Grande exploding all about him, Pagan couldn’t tell. Androtti turned his face, glanced at the doorway, then looked back at Pagan again – who was conscious of how time diminished in ways he had no means of measuring. There was no schedule, no timetable: there might be minutes, there might be hours.
Androtti spun round, spoke hurriedly in Italian, and his agents dispersed, moving toward the entrance of the building. ‘Very well, very well,’ he said to Pagan. ‘We’ll see.’
There was instant flurried activity, people abruptly leaving the Scuola, Gurenko bustled quickly away, followed by a thicket of aides and associates and security men. Seconds later, a group of men and women carrying aluminium cases of electronic equipment hurried into the building with the anxiously concentrated expressions of people whose work takes them routinely along the borderlines of sudden death.
Androtti hooked his arm firmly through Pagan’s, moving him away from the Scuola, where soldiers had already begun to disperse the crowds, who showed a moblike reluctance to be chased away without acceptable explanation. Somebody was bellowing into a m
egaphone, issuing warnings in English and Italian, shouting that the square had to be cleared immediately.
Androtti steered Pagan into a quiet street which led to a small bridge over the Rio della Frescada. Ungathered laundry, stiffened by the night air, hung across the canal. Inverted shirts, palely lit from windows, were ghostly presences. Androtti took a small cheroot from his coat pocket and lit it with a gold-plated Zippo. He blew smoke past Pagan’s shoulder.
‘Now what?’ Pagan asked. Wind fluttered the laundry. The sound made him uneasy, as if somebody were whispering in the dark.
‘We wait. We see.’
Pagan, who felt the danger imminent in the night, sniffed the aroma of Androtti’s cheroot, and was filled with tension. He had a sense of being suspended in a place where time was measured only by Carlotta’s chronometers, mad devices that ticked in an arhythmic way, now fast, now slow, sometimes not at all. He imagined her somewhere in the city, cold and wet, walking the darkened bank of a canal, seeking a place where she might hide for a time and then, when she was ready, resurface. In what form, though? he wondered. And where?
He shut his eyes, propped himself against the stone parapet. He understood he had reached the limits of himself; his mind had become an unfocused collage of faces and voices – Barron, Carlotta, Katherine Cairney, others who passed in and out, the bit-players of consciousness.
Androtti said, ‘You seem to have angered some people along the way, Pagan. Of course, I recognized your name as soon as I saw your identity card. We had received a bulletin issued by Scotland Yard to the effect that you are a fugitive wanted for questioning. The matter of a dead nurse in a French hospital. Assault on a fellow officer. Disregard of regulations. Insubordination. It’s an impressive list.’
Jigsaw Page 44