The Company of Saints Read Online Free PDF Page A

on. They talked about the flight, Johnson made a joke at the expense of the local carabinieri which made Walden laugh, and after that he seemed to relax. They went upstairs to the suite where Johnson opened the window and leaned out. The lights were playing over the black water; a gondola with a load of tourists came close enough for the serenade ‘O Sole Mio’ to float like a lament over the hum of passing launches.
    â€˜I don’t know what they expect to find by now,’ Johnson remarked. ‘I gather there wasn’t much left to bury. Analysis will tell us what sort of explosive they used.’
    â€˜Does it matter?’ Walden queried.
    â€˜It could be a pointer,’ Johnson explained. ‘The more sophisticated the device, the easier to eliminate groups that can’t get hold of it.’
    â€˜But it has to be the Russians,’ Walden said.
    Johnson glanced at Davina.
    She answered the question he hadn’t asked. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You can talk in front of Tony. This is only routine stuff. Later,’ she reached out and touched his hand, ‘we’ll have to go into a huddle. When our Italian friend arrives.’
    The house on the Street of the Assassins had a small television set. The man whose name was Italy ate his meal of spaghetti alle vongole sitting in front of the screen. He listened to the commentators, saw replays of the scene on the Grand Canal, watched the night cameras relaying the continued activity in the area. There was a young woman in the house; she had opened the door and given him a kiss as soon as he was inside. ‘Congratulations,’ was all she said.
    It was a small, very dark house, low-ceilinged, with narrow windows. It belonged to a Venetian antique dealer who relished the historical significance of his address and enjoyed himself filling the sinister little building with early furniture and some rare Renaissance bronzes whose owners didn’t know what they were selling. His shop was closed for renovations; part of the lower floor showed subsidence caused by the waters of the canal. He had moved his stock upstairs, called in the builders and gone off on a buying expedition with his wife to Rome. His daughter had stayed behind.
    The girl came and stood behind his chair, watching the screen in silence. Messages of outrage were coming in from world leaders. The Pope’s image appeared, and the girl laughed. ‘You’ve made quite a stir, Italy.’
    The man looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Shut up,’ he said.
    The report returned to the Grand Canal; there was nothing new to tell the audience. The taxi boat had not been found. He leaned forward and switched the television off. He felt the girl’s excitement coming at him like electric waves. Some of the women were like that. Death gave them an orgasm. As soon as someone was killed they wanted to fuck. He didn’t feel like it. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said. ‘And not with you. So cool off.’
    She shrugged. She was slim, dark-eyed, with the olive skin of the true Venetian. Somewhere, centuries back, there had been a Moor in the bed of a Valdorini. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. A pity. She liked men with his colouring. But he might feel different tomorrow. Then so might she.
    She took the tray away and washed the dishes by hand. She had been brought up to be economical. They didn’t use the machine unless it was full. By 11.30 the lights were out and the house was a blind face in the crumbling wall of ancient houses. The water ran close to the edge of the narrow street outside, and a sinister humped bridge, too narrow to cross except in single file, spanned the sluggish flow. And in that flow, carried by the unseen tides that crept in from the sea, floated the remains of the boat and the people who had died that morning.
    Alfredo Modena was in his sixties. He was a quiet, rather dour man who could have been an