Scorpia

land. It backed onto a wide square with trees and bushes planted in ornamental tubs. There were men—servants—everywhere, setting up rope barriers, positioning oil-burning torches and unrolling a red carpet. Carpenters were at work, constructing what looked like a small bandstand. More men were carrying a variety of crates and boxes into the palace. Alex saw champagne bottles, fireworks, different sorts of food. They were obviously preparing for a serious party.
    Alex stopped one of them. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you tell me who lives here?”
    The man spoke no English. He didn’t even try to be friendly. Alex asked a second man, but with exactly the same result. He recognized the type: he had met men like them before. The guards at Point Blanc Academy. The technicians at Cray Software Technology. These were people who worked for someone who made them nervous. They were paid to do a job and they never stepped out of line. Were they people with something to hide? Perhaps.
    Alex left the square and walked round the side of the palace. A second canal ran the full length of the building and this time he was luckier. There was an elderly woman in a black dress with a white apron sweeping the towpath. He went up to her.
    “Do you speak English?” he asked. “Can you help me?”
    “Si, con piocere, mio piccolo amico.” The woman nodded. She put the broom down. “I spend many year in London. I speak good English. Who can I do?”
    Alex pointed at the building. “What is this place?”

    “It is the Ca‘ Vedova.” She tried to explain. “Ca’ … you know … in Venice we say casa. It means palace. And vedova?” She searched for the word. “It is the Palace of the Widow. Ca‘ Vedova.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “There is a big party tonight. For a birthday. Masks and costumes. Many important people come.”
    “Whose birthday?”
    The woman hesitated. Alex was asking too many questions and he could see that she was becoming suspicious.
    But once again age was on his side. He was only fourteen. What did it matter if he was curious? “Signora Rothman. She is very rich lady. The owner of the house.”
    “Rothman? Like the cigarette?” But the woman’s mouth had suddenly closed and there was fear in her eyes.
    Alex looked round and saw one of the men from the square standing at the corner, watching him. He realized he had outstayed his welcome—and no one had been that pleased to see him in the first place.
    He decided to have one last try. “I’m looking for Scorpia,” he said.
    The old woman stared at him as if she had been slapped in the face. She picked up the broom and her eyes darted over to the man watching them. It was lucky he hadn’t heard the exchange. He had sensed something was wrong, but he hadn’t moved. Even so, Alex knew it was time to go.
    “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”
    He made his way quickly up the canal. Yet another bridge loomed ahead of him and he crossed it. Although he didn’t know exactly why, he was grateful to leave the Widow’s Palace behind him.
    As soon as he was out of sight, he stopped and considered what he had learnt. A boat with a silver scorpion had led him to a palace, which was owned by a beautiful and wealthy woman who didn’t smile. The palace was protected by a number of mean-looking men, and the moment he had mentioned the name Scorpia to a cleaning lady, he had suddenly become as welcome as the plague.

    It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough. There was going to be a masked ball tonight, a birthday party.
    Important people had been invited. Alex wasn’t one of them, but already he had decided. He planned to be there all the same.

Chapter 3: INVISIBLE SWORD

    The full name of the woman who had entered the palazzo was Julia Charlotte Glenys Rothman. This was her home—or one of them, anyway. She also had a flat in New York, a mews house in London and a villa overlooking the Caribbean Sea and the white sands of Turtle Bay on the island of Tobago.
    She walked along a softly lit corridor that ran the full length of the building from the jetty at one end to a private lift at the other, her high heels clicking on the terracotta tiles. There was not one servant in sight. She reached out and pressed the lift button, the white silk of her glove briefly touching silver, and the door opened.
    It was a small lift, barely big enough for one person. But she lived alone. The servants used the stairs.
    The lift