Covert One 2 - The Cassandra Compact Read Online Free PDF

rain down from the sky.
     
    __________
     
    Amid the terror and fearful uncertainty that gripped the square, one man, hidden behind the pillar supporting one of the granite lions of St. Mark's, remained calm. At first glance, he appeared to be in his early fifties. But possibly it was the mustache and goatee that made him look older. He wore a French-cut sport coat in window-pane check with a yellow rosette in the lapel. A paisley cravat was nestled against his throat. To the casual observer, he appeared a dandy, perhaps a tenured academic or a genteel retiree.
     
    Except that he moved very quickly. Even as the echoes of gunfire caromed around the piazza, he was already heading in the direction of the fleeing gunmen. A choice had to be made: follow them and the American who was in pursuit, or go to the wounded man. He didn't hesitate.
     
    “Dottore! Let me pass! I'm a doctor!”
     
    Cowering tourists responded instantly to his perfect Italian. In seconds, he was kneeling by the bullet-ridden body of Yuri Danko. One glance told him that Danko was beyond anyone's help except perhaps God's. Still, he pressed two fingers to the man's throat as though feeling for a pulse. At the same time, his other hand was busy inside Danko's jacket.
     
    People were beginning to stand up, look around. Look at him. Some were moving his way. As shell-shocked as they were, they would still ask questions that he would rather avoid.
     
    “You there!” the doctor said sharplv, addressing a young man who looked like a college student. “Get over here and help me.” He grabbed the student and forced him to hold Danko's hand. “Now squeeze... I said squeeze!”
     
    “But he's dead!” the student protested.
     
    “Idiot!” the doctor snapped. “He's still alive. But he will die if he doesn't feel any human contact!”
     
    “But you---”
     
    “I must get help. You stay here!”
     
    The doctor pushed his way through the crowd gathering around the slain men. He was not concerned about the eyes that darted to meet his. Most witnesses were notoriously unreliable under the best of circumstances. Under these conditions, not a single person would be able to describe him accurately.
     
    The first hee-haw of police klaxons reached him. Within minutes, the entire square would be overrun by carabinieri and cordoned off. Potential witnesses would be rounded up; the interrogations would go on for days. The doctor could ill afford to be caught in the dragnet.
     
    Without seeming to, he moved swiftly to the Bridge of Sighs, crossed it, went past the stalls where hawkers peddled souvenirs and T-shirts, and slipped into the lobby of the Danieli Hotel.
     
    “Good afternoon, Herr Doktor Humboldt,” the concierge said.
     
    “A good day to you,” replied the man who was neither a doctor nor Humboldt. To the few who needed to know, his name was Peter Howell.
     
    Howell wasn't surprised that word of the massacre hadn't yet reached the august oasis of the Danieli. Very little of the outside world was permitted to penetrate this fourteenth-century palace built for the Doge Dandolo.
     
    Howell turned left into the magnificent living room and headed for the small bar in the corner. He ordered a brandy and, when the bartender's back was to him, closed his eyes for an instant. Howell had seen his share of dead men, had initiated and been on the receiving end of extreme violence. But the cold, stark killing in St. Mark's still managed to sicken him.
     
    He drank half the brandy in a single swallow. When the liquor hit his bloodstream and he felt himself relax, he reached into his coat pocket.
     
    Decades had passed since Howell had been taught the pickpocket's skill. Feeling Danko's notepaper between his fingers, he was glad to see that he hadn't lost his touch.
     
    He read the sentence once, then a second time. In spite of knowing better, he had hoped that something on the page would give a clue as to why Danko had been slaughtered. And who might be