Ignoring the pain, I moved on quietly.
A few minutes later, the palette of shadows ahead changed. The moon must have appeared from behind a cloud as an unexpected glow was cast on a stone wall about twenty yards ahead. The light enabled me to clearly make out the shadow of Ascardi cautiously traversing the length of the wall. This was an opportunity. Ascardi must have sensed he was exposed, in the very same instant that I fired. He dove for the ground, but he had reacted too slowly. I heard his grunt of pain from where I was standing. I was certain I’d hit him, but whatever damage I’d caused hadn’t been debilitating. He slithered rapidly around the end of the wall before I could get off another shot.
At the very least, I knew that injuring Ascardi would probably have slowed him. I just wasn’t sure if that would be enough.
I tried to move forward, but my legs didn’t respond. My lower muscles cramped and froze. There was no choice but to stop for a moment. My will was fighting a losing battle with my body. As my breathing became labored and shallow, I placed my hand over the knife wound on my side. It had started bleeding heavily again. My vision wavered as the trees and bushes around me passed in and out of focus. Whether it was from blood loss, concussion, or simply the overwhelming pain, it didn’t matter. It was clear I was done. Unless my last shot was true, Ascardi would escape.
Despite my state, I attempted to lunge forward again only to find myself face down on the ground. Any iota of strength I had left abruptly abandoned me. I tried to bend my knees to help me push up to a standing position—nothing. I tried the same with my arms—same response.
Shit.
I took a long, slow breath and gritted my teeth. Using a tree as support, I hoisted myself to my knees. I paused again. I could do this. I would do this.
Unexpectedly, I heard the all-too-familiar noise of a helicopter’s beating blades. Raising my head painfully upward, I couldn’t see a thing through the clouds, but it was there, the sound of the blades and now the bird’s engine growing louder and closer. The aircraft may as well have been a thousand miles away. For me, ten feet was out of reach. Suddenly, the shape of a small chopper was silhouetted against the night sky. It was slowly descending toward fields on the far side of the island like an apparition. There were no landing lights visible on the machine. That meant it wasn’t official. It was here for Ascardi.
This madman was going to get away. He’d regroup. Every trial had been for nothing. More lives would be lost, and the world would probably never know the name of the delusory villain behind it all.
No way.
I clung to the tree next to me like it was life itself. A few agonizing seconds later I was on my feet, unsteady as a leaf in the wind but gradually pushing through what was left of the thinning greenery. I didn’t bother trying to conceal myself. It was too late for that.
The scrub virtually disappeared as a half wall appeared in front of me. I fell against it and clutched the stonework for support. I looked down and across the water below. A drop led to steps down to the water’s edge. They continued along the side of the channel, then veered right, just out of sight.
Just beyond the steps, an arched bridge spanned the channel across to the eastern part of the island. All Ascardi had to do was cross that bridge, rendezvous with his chopper, and disappear.
I searched but couldn’t see him. I assumed he was just around the bend, out of sight but heading for the bridge. I’d wait, taking the shot when he came back into view on the bridge … Nope, not with a handgun at this distance, and not with my level of impairment.
But I lacked the strength to scale down the wall and the time to go around it. I looked across. The grass underneath the helicopter splayed in the chopper’s downdraft. The machine was only a few feet above the ground, almost at the point of landing.
I did the one thing I could do. I climbed over the wall and fell the ten feet to the steps below.
The pain as I hit the stone was like a gigantic vice had crushed my entire body, sparing no limb. I know I passed out, but it must have been only for a second, because when I looked up, I could just make out the desperate figure of Ascardi running in the distance. He was on the approach to the bridge, sprinting forward and clutching his arm.
I wasn’t going to make it in time.
Again I felt the anger well inside me, consuming me. The anger overpowered the pain and exhaustion. I was half on my feet and dragging myself haphazardly down the steps before I realized what I was doing. If I could get closer to the river bend, I might have a chance of a shot. The pain fought back as my muscles spasmed erratically, sending more waves of agony through my body. Suffering versus rage: it was a pretty even match.
As I reached the bend, I saw that Ascardi had made it to the middle of the bridge. I watched as he looked over his shoulder and saw me. I raised my gun. My hand was unsteady; sweat poured into my eyes. My vision was distorted—the river, the bridge, Ascardi, they were all changing shape and focus, blurring at the edges. How could I possibly calculate the distance of the shot in this condition? I saw that he had stopped. He changed his stance, his feet apart, facing in my direction. It took me half a second to realize what he was doing as he held up his pistol with his good hand and pointed it at me.
Neither of us had anywhere to go. The moment seemed almost suspended in time. We would both die here.
All I could do was focus on staying upright and keeping my gun as steady as possible. I knew my hands were wavering as Ascardi appeared in my sights one second and then vanished the next. I heard the chopper’s engine reduce power as it landed. It was now or it wasn’t going to happen. I knew this would be a shot of faith rather than skill. I breathed out and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the hammer smacking down on the firing pin in the empty chamber echoed through my head, completing my defeat.
I would die here alone, and Antonio Ascardi would get away.
Then I heard the sound of my shot, only it wasn’t my shot.
Then I understood. Of course, Ascardi. I braced for the bullet.
Nothing.
I looked up and saw Antonio Ascardi doubled over, clutching his stomach. A second later he toppled forward off the bridge and into the water.
I breathed again. Relief and confusion. Another troubled soul had joined the island’s previous one hundred and fifty thousand. But how?
My legs gave way for the last time, and I crashed onto the stone. I strained every aching muscle to turn behind me and look up. My vision was distorted to the point where I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing. Standing at the wall at the top of the stairs was the blurred outline of a man. I concentrated on his image. He looked to be in a bad way. Bloody bandages covered parts of his face, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. There was no doubt, however, about the rifle he held in his hands, the smoking gun. I was dimly aware that I was fading in and out of consciousness, and the disorder of my rambling thoughts told me I wasn’t thinking straight. I tried to get a grip. I knew the face from somewhere. I had it, and then I didn’t. I couldn’t place him. The man at the wall smiled, but it was a cold smile. A cold smile—that was it. Suddenly, I knew who he was, but I didn’t understand.
Then I allowed the pain to take me. Cue: exit stage.
Epilogue
Five months later …
The crowd were on their feet and applauding wildly. The volume of their response filled the cavernous space with warmth, human warmth. Emotions were running high, and not only with the audience. Next to me, a cascade of tears was streaming down Aislinn Byrne’s cheeks. They weren’t tears of pain. It was not just an appreciation of our performance; it was also a declaration of defiance. This was not the first time that the population of Paris had united in their resolve to be free. The message was clear: no one is going to intimidate us; no one is going to destroy our culture and our way of life. No terrorist will ever be granted that power. Five minutes on, they were still applauding. The power of rebellion.
Aislinn, Patrick Jay, and I locked
eyes with each other as we joined hands in the middle of the stage. I briefly wondered if my face mirrored their demeanor as they stood proud and impudent. I glanced back to the audience, still cheering. Their faces portrayed the same resolve. The three of us took one final bow, looked out at the audience, held our hands high, and applauded them. Their strength gave us strength.
It had been five months since that night on Poveglia Island when I had seen Antonio Ascardi die. I’d spent a good deal of that time recovering, first in hospital and then at my apartment in Venice, California. The knife wound, the gunshot wound, and the extreme concussion—my journey to back to health had been difficult. Mentally, I had not been in a good place.
None of the physical damage had been permanent, and soon I was keen to get back to work: my creative work. I was pleased when an invitation arrived for Aislinn, Patrick Jay, and I to perform at the reopening of the Palais Garnier. Standing on the stage, gazing at the splendor of the revered concert hall, alive with humanity and hope, it was like the bombing five months earlier had never happened. Box five had been rebuilt; it was pristine, and the historical venue was as magnificent as ever.
That night, we performed the finale of the show we had started several months before.
Eventually, we were allowed to leave the stage. As we walked back to our dressing rooms, the atmosphere was festive. Backstage crew were cheering, and champagne bottles were popping before we’d even cleared the performance area. When I made it to my own dressing room, I sat down and stared at the man in the mirror. Despite the adulation, he still looked weary and a little troubled. Worry lines ran like rivers across his brow, and the eyes seemed to have lost some shine. Permanent or temporary—who knew?
As had been too often the case, my mind retreated back to the events of a tour plagued by violence and deceit. Every memory led me back to that night on the ‘island of death,’ the night that had almost cost me my life.
“It will get easier,” said the voice behind me. Jack Greatrex, sitting in a chair against the wall, was almost too smart for his own good, but I knew he spoke from experience.
“I know,” I said. “Being back here has refreshed the memories … and the questions. It makes you wonder how tragedy can turn a sane man into a killer.”
“Are you talking about Ascardi or you?”
I didn’t respond.
“I’m also thinking about all those who died,” I said.
“And how many more would have died, if not for your actions?”
“I know,” I repeated, “but Ascardi’s grief spoke to the lust for revenge that lies in us all,” I said.
“I would have called your role more that of a guardian. I know you punish yourself for those who were lost, but it would have been many more if Ascardi had continued unimpaired. If you hadn’t stopped him that night, he would have been able to trigger all those needless deaths,” said my friend.
“Elena,” I said. “I don’t know that I’ll ever unravel the mystery of that beautiful but tortured soul.”
“Perhaps that one is best left as a ‘love unresolved.’ It is the Italian way.” I recognized the voice of Joe Santoro, although I hadn’t noticed he’d entered the room.
“Enough of this morbid reflection,” I announced, smiling. “This is the first time the three of us have been together without either being in a hospital or facing imminent death. We should celebrate.” I indicated the bottle of expensive French champagne on my dressing room table.
Greatrex poured us each a glass.
I looked at my two friends. While I was in hospital in Italy, they had been to see me. I had been keen to fill in the blank moments of that night. They had explained how the two of them had dealt with Ascardi’s guards as Greatrex’s boat had arrived at Poveglia. It was sheer good luck that Ascardi’s men had stored some left over C4 explosive in the bow of the boat in an attempt to keep it dry. Greatrex had taken it with them as they searched for me.
“When we heard the gunshots from the basement, we knew there were too many shots being fired for it to be going well for you, Nicholas. We couldn’t get in unseen through that trapdoor, so a couple of hastily placed explosives, and there we were,” Greatrex had explained.
Back to the moment.
I raised my glass. “To the two of you and your childish need to blow things up,” I said. “Thank you.”
They both nodded. That was as sentimental as we were going to get.
There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez,” I said.
A security guard poked his head around the door. “There are two men here to see you, Monsieur Sharp. They would not give their names, but they have government credentials.”
Greatrex, Joe, and I just looked at each other, our eyebrows raised. “What now?”
“Show them in please,” I responded.
In walked Jasper De Vries from Europol, followed by his brother, Thomas De Vries, also in the family business. I hadn’t seen the former since the Ascardi affair had ended, and the latter since I’d given him the slip on the train.
I felt myself tensing up, unsure which way this was going to go.
“If you’re here to continue your vendetta against Nicholas, you’re going to have an insurmountable issue with me,” said Greatrex, now on his feet.
“And me,” added Joe, looming above them.
I put up my hand. Time to show a little faith. “Agent De Vries, Jasper, we are all feeling a mite grateful just to be sitting here this evening. I believe I owe you an apology for the way I manhandled you on the roof of the basilica.”
The room was silent as Greatrex, Joe, and I waited for a reaction.
“Let’s be clear, Sharp. You didn’t manhandle me; you beat the crap out of me,” he said.
A few seconds more of silence passed. You could feel the unease in the room. Both Greatrex and Joe voicelessly exuded their concern, their foreheads furrowed as they both moved forward on their chairs. Then De Vries smiled, and for the first time it didn’t feel like an icicle through my heart.
“And in doing so you saved countless lives in the Piazza San Marco that day. I’m afraid it’s I who owe you an apology.”
I breathed out, not having realized I was holding my breath.
De Vries continued. “I think I should explain a few things. First, let me formally introduce my brother, Agent Thomas De Vries. As I believe you know, Thomas also works for Europol. What you probably don’t know is that he works in our European Cybercrime Centre.”
I nodded.
“After I had been patched up following our altercation on the roof that day, I had a very interesting conversation in the hospital with one Norbert Fontana. The man has the backbone of an invertebrate. After you shot that cell phone from his ear, he was in need of some serious plastic surgery. While I had nothing to officially hold him on, I felt that your protestations were so strong there was a small chance you may be telling the truth. I threatened Fontana with a life in prison and no prospect of remedial surgery. He decided to talk. In fact, he wouldn’t stop.”
Greatrex and I glanced across the room at each other, the traces of a grin creeping onto both our faces.
“After talking with him,” the agent continued, “I spoke to my brother. Thomas was already examining reports of increased online activity by some suspected terrorist groups. Despite my earlier misgivings about your innocence, I had asked him to look at the backgrounds of the groups who claimed responsibility for the events we were blaming on you, Mr. Sharp.” He paused. “Yes, despite what you may think, I am a professional who pursues all avenues to get to the truth. My brother had wanted to eyeball you; he’s old-fashioned that way. This is why he volunteered for the duty of following you on the train to Venice. When I told Thomas what Fontana had told me, a picture started to form. It didn’t paint Antonio Ascardi in a very favorable light.”
Again, Greatrex and I looked at each other. This was all starting to make sense.
“An interesting aside to this was that Thomas als
o discovered that other people were looking into Ascardi’s activities. He traced those enquiries and ended up having a very interesting conversation with a General Colin Devlin-Waters, retired … or maybe not so retired,” he added. “Either way, it appears the General has quite a reputation, and he spoke very highly of you.”
I just stared at De Vries, unwilling to interrupt.
“So,” he concluded, “that is why and how I ended up on Poveglia Island, with my visit apparently timed to perfection. It’s also why I decided to shoot Antonio Ascardi instead of you.”
The agent smiled again, allowing a hint of his previous coldness to creep into his expression. Then he added, “It could have gone either way really.”
Laughter erupted around the room. I knew it was at my expense, but I didn’t really care.
“I am extremely grateful to you, Agent De Vries, but I have one question,” I said.
Both agents looked at me.
“Elena Beria,” I continued. “What can you tell me about her background, her story?”
Joe Santoro gave me a dismissive look, as though I should have known better.
Thomas answered. “Sometimes it is better not to know everything, Mr. Sharp. Elena Beria had a history full of contradictions. Perhaps it is better just to remember that she gave her own life to save yours.”
It was obvious that no one was going to tell me anything more. I just had to inhale, exhale, and move on.
Greatrex shared the champagne with the agents, who had decided they were off duty. The atmosphere in the room lightened. We talked a while and invited the De Vries brothers to the post-show party for the reopening of the Palais Garnier.
“Sadly, we won’t be able to join you,” said Jasper De Vries. “We have a plane to catch. I do, however, have one most important question to ask you, Nicholas,” he added.
The room went quiet. We all waited.
“Tonight I sat there in the audience, listening to the uplifting and spirited music that you, Ms. Byrne, and Mr. Olden created. I found it moving.”
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