The English Assassin

Grand Canal and boarded a traghetto that would take him to the San Rocco.
     
    THEexplosion of lightning shattered the studied calm of the lobby of the Luna Hotel Baglioni. The lights dimmed, braced themselves, then flickered back to life. Signore Brunetti, the head concierge, clasped his hands and murmured a prayer of thanks.
    Gabriel led Anna across the lobby to the dock. Jonathan walked a step ahead of them. Deborah was a step behind, the Guarneri in one hand, the Stradivarius in the other. Signore Brunetti lifted his hand in farewell and wished her the very best of luck. The rest of the staff broke into circumspect applause. Anna smiled and pulled her hood over her head.
    Three water taxis waited at the dock, engines idling, dark varnished prows shimmering in the rain and lights. Jonathan went first, followed by Gabriel. Looking to his right, he saw Moshe and Yitzhak standing atop the footbridge at the entrance of the Grand Canal. Moshe was looking in the other direction, eyes fastened on the crowd at the San Marco vaporetto stop.
    Gabriel turned and motioned for Anna to step outside. He handed her off to the driver of the second water taxi, then followed her into the cabin. Jonathan and Deborah climbed aboard the first taxi. Moshe and Yitzhak stayed on the bridge until the taxis passed beneath it. Then they descended the steps and boarded the final boat.
    Gabriel glanced at his watch: seven-thirty.
     
    THEGrand Canal curves lazily through the heart of Venice, like a child’s reversedS , in the bed of an ancient river. On Gabriel’s instruction, the taxis kept to the center, following its long, gentle sweep around the edge of San Marco.
    Gabriel stayed inside the cabin with Anna, the curtains drawn, the lights doused. In the first taxi, Jonathan stood at the prow next to the driver, eyes on the move. In the third, Yitzhak and Moshe did the same thing. All three were thoroughly soaked ten minutes later when the taxis turned into the Rio della Frescada.
    This was the portion of the journey that worried Gabriel the most. The narrow canal would force the taxis to slow dramatically, and there were four bridges between the Grand Canal and the San Rocco. It was the perfect spot for an assassination.
    Gabriel pulled out his telephone and dialed Jonathan. Anna squeezed his hand.
     
    ZACCARIACordoni was pacing the ground-floor hall of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, dressed in a black suit and his trademark maroon silk scarf, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Fiona Richardson, Anna’s manager, was at his side.
    “Where is she?” Cordoni asked.
    “She’s on her way.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “She called me before she left the hotel.”
    “She’s not going to back out, is she, Fiona?”
    “She’s coming.”
    “Because if she backs out on me, I’ll see to it that she never performs in Italy again.”
    “She’ll be here, Zaccaria.”
    Just then Anna entered the room, surrounded by Gabriel’s team.
    “Anna! Darling!” breathed Cordoni. “You look absolutely delicious this evening. Is there anything else we can do for you to make tonight a smashing success?”
    “I’d like to see the upper hall before the audience arrives.”
    Cordoni held out his hand gallantly.
    “Right this way.”
     
    ANNAhad performed at the San Rocco twice before, but in keeping with her pre-performance ritual she slowly toured the venue to make certain everything was to her liking—the placement of the stage and the piano, the arrangement of the seats, the lighting. Gabriel did the same, but for a very different reason.
    When the inspection was complete, Cordoni led her through a doorway behind the stage into a large gallery with dark wood floors and tapestries on the walls. Adjacent to that room was a small parlor that would serve as Anna’s dressing room. A security man from the scuola stood guard at the door. He wore a burgundy-colored blazer.
    “I’ve printed two programs for this evening’s performance,” Cordoni said carefully. “One with ‘The Devil’s Trill’ and one without it. The doors will be opening in five minutes.”
    Anna looked at Gabriel, then at Fiona Richardson. “I’m not sure an evening in Venice would be complete without Tartini. Hand out the program with ‘The Devil’s Trill.’ ”
    “You’re sure, Anna?” asked Fiona.
    “Positive.”
    “As you wish,” said Zaccaria Cordoni.
     
    WHENCordoni and Fiona Richardson were gone, Anna removed her coat and opened the case containing