I got up but then sat back down. Oh, what the heck. Tearing another piece of paper I rushed to scribble. Dear Juliet, please protect my loved ones and ensure a happy ending to my journey. M.E. I crossed the courtyard to place it with the other ones on the iron gate at the end of the garden.
***
August 26th, Verona, A Short Distance from Casa di Giulietta, During this Time
He had followed her at a safe distance on Via Cappello Street. When she entered the tourist building, he took out his phone as it pinged, announcing a new message. About time that extended background check on the target arrived. He could always count on Jeff to come up with the information on such a short notice. A quick survey through the scanned document gave him the essentials. So Miss Ellington was unmarried and lived alone in a condo near the airport where she worked. She shared a previous apartment with a Josh Slater from 2013 to 2017. Ah, more interesting, he thought with a sly grin was the additional information about her missing travel companion, Miss Goodrich was born in New York on January 1st 1990 and died August 3rd 2017. The report mentioned she died following a car accident involving a Mara Ellington, who was driving her car at the time of the accident. There had been no request for a refund to the DuPont Company Office, operating the VSOE, for cause of cancellation of the ticket. Regardless, the passengers log listed her name as a no show.
Scratching his jaw, he lifted his eyes to see the target leaning from Juliet’s balcony with a dreamy expression on her face. She seemed to enjoy herself while looking below at the assembly of sighing chicks of all ages and their boyfriends trying to pull them off the site.
But something was bothering him with this report. When he’d asked her why she traveled alone on this unusual train trip, she became evasive and replied that her friend had become unavailable. He recalled her down-cast eyes and tight-lips curt answer. Why had she refused to give further explanation about her missing friend?
A surge of unexpected sympathy for her raised and shimmied his heart. Something resonated in his soul as if he had a gut feeling she was lying by omission for a good reason. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was convinced her motive for lying were more personal rather than illicit.
When death strikes people close to you, you get swept off your feet like a hurricane and when you touch down you remain maimed for life. He knew this too well. She must be still in the tornado’s eye if she wasn’t even willing to acknowledge the death of someone close. He couldn’t help but admire her somehow for having taken this trip anyway. She held her head up even if she didn’t seem comfortable chatting with the other train passengers.
From his vantage point, he squinted, trying to make out exactly what she was doing. He wouldn’t have believed she was the type to write those silly letters to Juliet’s secretaries to ask help with her love life. What love life? The report said she was the sole owner of her condo. Was she seeing someone new? Could he have anything to do with her current involvement with Rachid’s organization? He ran a hand through his scalp and looked at his watch. She had been sitting on this bloody bench for the last two minutes scribbling a note on a scrap of paper. Had she given someone a rendezvous and was waiting for him to arrive? His palms were sweating, a telltale sign he was still missing pieces of the puzzle at hand. A normal response for a trained FBI agent would be to assess each situation under every angle to rule out any potential risk they might present. He dismissed with a flicker of nonchalance the pinch of jealousy he couldn’t be feeling. That would be ridiculous and nonprofessional.
The woman was unpredictable. After writing for another minute, instead of adding it to the rest of the memos on the wall, she balled up the paper and threw it in the garbage. Odd. Was she hiding something she didn’t want others to see or would someone come and retrieve her message from the paper basket?
But to his surprise, she changed her mind and wrote something else and left it with the other ones on the wall. Now, that should be interesting.
***
August 26th, Verona, On the Way to Porta Nuova Train Station, A Few Minutes After 4 PM
Another glance at my watch had me bolting from the bench. Unless I raced back to the train station, I’d be late and might even miss the train’s departure.
Panting like a dog in hot weather, my joy at arriving at the station with a minute to spare evaporated when I entered the station. Where had all these trains come from? There had been only two stationed along with us when we arrived. It was impossible to locate the VSOE from where I stood, and when the long whistle announcing departures blasted, I couldn’t locate from which track it originated. Too many trains blocked my view. With dozens of trains to scan, there was no time to check each of them because the VSOE was to leave in two minutes!
After running back and forth the length of half a dozen of passenger cars I sat for a moment on a bench designed for the waiting passengers to catch my breath and think better. Stroked by an idea, I shot up and climbed on the bench, stretching my neck to spot the navy and gold tone of the VSOE from my improved vantage point. A second whistle from the previous direction announced an imminent departure. But of which one? The timing was corresponding with my timetable. I sat back on the seat on which I had just stood, closed my eyes a second and concentrated. Then, I looked around the station and noticed I had re-entered the station by error from a different door. I’ve never run so fast in my life, backtracking my steps. As the sound of another whistle resonated, a figure was leaning out of one of the train’s opened door, waving at me with wide gestures to attract my attention. The train’s door were closing when he pulled me in.
“Trying to ditch us, Miss Ellington?”
Steinfield’s face and tone greeted me with a mix of mischievousness and suspicion. I didn’t bother to reply. Too busy catching my breath, I kept my eyes on the Peasley carpet to avoid the look from the staring passengers upset by my lack of punctuality and headed straight for my cabin.
Chapter 9
August 26th, Arrival in Venice, Late Afternoon
An hour and a half later, the train crossed over the Venetian lagoon on the long causeway also known as the Ponte della Liberta leading from Mestre to the city center. The silhouette of the city as we approached filled me with excitement, and I rushed to disembark, glad of having completed this journey. Steinfield followed me at a close distance as if this was just another normal sunny day to go about his business. I was more than ready to explore and couldn’t wait to get my main luggage soon enough to be on my way.
Many passengers of our train were greeted by an employee of the DuPont Company. Holding up a sign marked “Orient-Express Passengers”, he ushered them toward an assigned water-taxi heading to the ritzy Cipriani Hotel on Giudecca island, which was affiliated with the VSOE. The hotel was a short distance from the grand canal. I had made other arrangements for a more central hotel location near the Piazza San Marco.
My shadow parked himself beside me, eyeing me with curiosity.
“Why in such a rush, Miss Ellington? Anyway, I don’t think it’ll take long for you to get your luggage since you were, if I recall, the last one to get on board at Victoria Station. Therefore, your bag should be one of the first one out.”
Did he do this on purpose, making me remember that deplorable incident?
“Well, Agent Steinfield, if I recall, you didn’t go on board in London so your luggage will be in a different compartment.”
He beamed me a megawatt smile and lifted, for me to see, his nylon black duffel bag.
I stomped toward the unloading area of the passengers’s bags and rechecked the directions to my hotel.
After receiving my luggage, I gave it a cursory inspection to check that no one had tampered with the locking device. Looked fine so far. I readjusted my purse’s strap on my shoulder, transferred my carry-on to my left hand and carted my massive and bulky bag on the uneven pavement to the vaporetto station. The constant screeching and rickety sound of the wheels on the pavement le
ft me sceptical of their performance and life expectancy.
“I’ll be more than happy to help you if you ask nicely,” he said with a mocking tone.
I ignored him and continued on my not-so-merry-way. However, the reluctant luggage protested by threatening to tip over every ten feet because of its shifting contents.
I was glad when the staff of the Vaporetto No. 2, heading for Piazza San Marco, took it and stacked it at the front of the boat during the twenty-
minutes boat ride. I kept my nose glued to the window to enjoy our approach to the city center. I got up and opened the dirty window to snap a few shots as we arrived. The view of the famous Piazza should have been postcard perfect, a floating wonder with laced palaces surmounted by Venice most recognizable symbols, the tall red bricked Campanile with its bell tower. The only flaw marring the exquisite picture was the presence of a gigantic monster of a cruise ship docked there and ruining the romantic effect of San Marco’s landing stage.
Steinfield had perched himself beside me, his attention alternating between the other passengers, the bags stowed at the front of the water taxi and his phone.
After I retrieved my luggage, I crossed the amazing Piazza, tugging and readjusting my bags for the approximate eight-minute walk to the hotel. When I arrived at a small bridge, I stopped, baffled. What? No access ramp? People had no choice but to climb the twelve steps up then down to cross it. Quaint.
Two men dressed in Renaissance costumes passed me carrying their cello cases as if their anachronic outfits was perfectly natural in this setting. My sticky agent’s eyes were still glued on my back. Since I was supposed to be alone on the trip, I had to adapt. Steeling my back, I pulled in my abdominals, taking in a deep breath, and reached for the rickety rolling wardrobe. A hand gave mine a light swat before I could grab the handle.
“Stubborn woman,” he grumbled, already up four steps toward the top of the bridge with my luggage as if it was feather weight. It was when empty.
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” I said once across. I would have taken over once again, but he lifted his hand to stop me.
“I’m not leaving you or your luggage out of my sight. Get used to it,” he said with a tone that left no room for argument. “What’s your hotel’s name?”
We had arrived at the cross street shown on my itinerary, but there was no sign of a hotel. The civic number were jumping on this commercial street, but there was no sign to guide me further. I asked direction from three store owners who all pointed in the same direction, with a different street name. At last, after our sixth pass on the same street, I lifted my head and spotted a small elegant sign, lost among the other shop signs: “Hotel Flora”. It also featured an angled arrow pointing to Calle del Pestrin. We crossed no street. I would have noticed.
My luggage guard was rolling his eyes as if I hadn’t marked down the right address. Undeterred, I back stepped to place myself under the arrow. Unbelievable. Facing me was a six-foot wide passage way, about one hundred feet long, which presented at its end a wrought-iron glass door surmounted by the hotel’s name above it.
The 17th century Palazzo breathed “magic, refinement and peace”, boasted their website. Besides its unparalleled location near San Marco Square, this boutique hotel offered only forty rooms, keeping it at an intimate size. Mine would face either the colorful terra cotta rooftops or the whimsical lush garden.
The congenial manager of the hotel greeted me in English and summoned a scrawny young man wearing a dread lock hairdo. The porter looked more like an expat beach boy than a capable muscled porter. Nevertheless, he wore the hotel’s name tag so I guessed I shouldn’t worry.
“Hmm, if you don’t mind, if you have an elevator, I prefer to take it up myself.” Not wanting to cheat him out of his tip, I opened my purse to offer him a few euros.
“Sorry, but the elevator is not large enough to allow luggage. I’ll meet you by your room in a minute.”
I was glad that Steinfield followed him and the staircase while I took the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. The employee was not kidding because sardines would have to be on a diet to fit inside it.
Once the ported departed my room, Steinfield followed me inside.
He gave a long whistle that broke the silence while he looked around.
“You always travel pauper style, Princess?” he said with a touch of sarcasm.
I was about to comment, but he added; “Okay. Never mind. Now, let’s check this luggage of yours.”
He grabbed the heavy monster and swung it on the bed. “Geez, are you hiding a corpse in there, Miss Ellington?”
I unlocked and opened the luggage while he opted to perch himself on the facing love seat a few feet away.
“Anything missing?” he asked.
“No. Everything seems fine.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
Not that I had anything to hide but the idea of the man going through all my underwear and brassieres was not particularly appealing.
To my surprise he proved to be very systematic and attentive and even folded each item afterward. I didn’t need to ask because his grim expression said it all as he turned back to me once finished with his inspection.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“You do nothing. I have to go tend to some things, but I will be back later. I’ll see if they have a room for me. Lifting his head to check the intricate Murano glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, he shook his head as he exited to the door.
“Don’t bother; this hotel fills up at least six months in advance!” I called after him.
“I’m positive I’ll find something cheaper around, Princess. And by the way, I wouldn’t advise you leave this hotel until I’m back in”—he checked his watch—“two hours. I’ve got to go to San Marco Police Station.”
I kept my mouth clamped, for once, to expedite his departure.
Once he was out the door, I took the essentials out of my suitcase and carry-on. There was no point in spreading myself around for just two nights here. Despite my careful packing techniques, every piece of clothing was now wrinkled, the trademark of the typical tourist.
Ah, at last—a nice long soothing shower. Next I planned to indulge in a forty-five minute nap. But before lying down, I unlatched the iron clasp, closing the shutters to open the windows. The fresh breeze carried the songs of the chirping birds as if they were trying to compete with the chime of the clock tower announcing five-thirty. I dropped on the fluffy duvet bedding. A sinking delight. Better set my alarm to avoid over sleeping. I wondered if I’d find the ringing of the bells as charming at 2:00 AM. One thing was for sure—now that my every possession had been duly searched and examined, I could finally relax and enjoy my trip and leave behind this whole bizarre interlude about carrying bombing equipment.
I stepped out of my hotel at 7:35 PM and made my way to the Teatro San Gallo, only a ten-minute walk from my hotel. I had booked online tickets from home to see the Venezia Show, a multimedia presentation depicting the story of the city. The English presentation had earned rave reviews on the web.
I had just enough time to pick a good seat before the eight o’clock show.
The street’s name were hard to read in the dim light of the lamp posts. Written with hard to see eroded painted letter, it made the street’s identification somewhat tedious, considering they were way above eye level, a good ten feet up. Overall, the shabby chic of the buildings took in an eerie strangeness during daylight with the otherwise deserted streets.
Despite the reassuring spots of brightness, it still didn’t prevent the buildings from casting grotesque shadows which seemed to lurk at every street angle. My internet connection was scanty here, so my GPS and Venice map application couldn’t be of much help now that my smartphone showed I was offline. Great. Bizarre how such a tourist city could become nearly a ghost town once the overflow of visitors have disappeared.
The noise of my f
ootsteps resonated too loud on the pavement, reminding me I was alone on the little street I’d ventured into. Up ahead was a dark passageway even smaller than the one leading to my hotel. Its narrowness could, in fact, allow the neighbors from the facing building to shake hands through their windows if they wanted. Moreover, the exiguity of the space, stressed by the dark beat up old plastered walls, held an aura of decay as if the bright sunny colors of the plaster had turned musty and crumbled once they lacked the benevolent gaiety of daylight.
I counted how many streets and bridges I should cross while following the calle Salvadago.
Now, this bridge shouldn’t be there.
A young couple of teenagers crossed it and walked in my direction. Once they’d reached my level, I lifted a hand up.
“Excuse me. Do you speak English?” I asked, full of hope.
“No parlo Engliese,” the guy with the ponytail answered, lifting his shoulders up and down and opening his hand to convey his uselessness to help me. Undefeated, I changed tactic. Besides, the vague possibility of also having trouble finding my way back to the hotel crossed my mind. Not that I thought I was lost, but the chance of orienting myself in this maze of dark empty streets was less than reassuring with every passing minute.
I brandished my Venezia Show pamphlet in front of the girl and pointed at it with my index finger. Next, I waved my hand in the direction ahead while doing my best clueless pantomime.
She was sporting more piercings than a fisherman’s bait box but took the brochure, and after studying the mini map pictured on the back, she signaled to go straight with a cascade of Italian directions that sounded no better than Chinese to my ears. I noted the cadence, flipping of the finger left then right up and the cocking of the hand as if she was showing me a corner street. Then, after more “i” “o”, and rolling of the “r”, she raised one index finger and crossed her other index finger over it and stared at me with an expectant expression.
Express Pursuit Page 9