Page 87 of Vengeance in Venice
He must have done. Foscolo had recognized the writing.
Somehow, Solomon kept walking.
“You are abroad early,” he managed, every nerve ending aware, his gaze searching constantly for other threats that could finish him before he even got to the Rialto. Surely no one could have known he would come by this particular route…? Had Giusti been watching him, seen him tie up the boat? If so, then he knew about Alvise. And Alvise did not know about him.
Unless Alvise…
God help me, I wish I were alone. The thought flitted through his brain, and he discarded it at once, for at this stage, it didn’t matter. He had to deal withthisreality. Whatever it was.
Giusti said quietly, “Foscolo sent me. He said you might be suspicious. I’m to watch your back.”
“You’re to go home. It’s not about suspicion. Your presence will scare off Lampl.”Or complete the ambush. He could not allow Giusti onto the bridge.
With every tiny hair standing on end, Solomon turned the final corner, and the Rialto Bridge stood silhouetted against the lightening sky, directly in front of him, arched and ageless and deceptively simple, spanning the splendor of the Grand Canal.
“Wait here,” Solomon instructed Giusti. Whether or not the man was on his side, that much was vital—though, of course, he could not force him to obey. “Don’t let him see you.”
Without pause, he kept walking, tensing for the immediate attack from behind, from right or left. None came. Giusti remained where he was. Solomon could no longer hear Alvise’s footsteps and had no idea if that was good or bad. He climbed the steps onto the empty bridge. It looked oddly naked without its usual covering of scurrying and admiring people. But every arch hid a possible threat, a possible enemy.
No one stood at the other end. No one approached it. Even this, the busiest of the canals, was quiet. Only a couple of boats in either direction seemed to be moving in the still water, like dots in the distance.
His footsteps sounded on the bridge, echoing in his ears so that he could not be sure what moved behind him. It recalled an incident in Jamaica when he had been alone and followed stealthily for some purpose he had never discovered. He had missed David’s presence then, for, like now, ambush had seemed inevitable.
Ruthlessly, he pushed the memory out. He could not afford to let the smallest part of his attention wander. Foscolo had said he would have a man watching, but if he had, Solomon could not see him. He could see no enemy either, which surprised him. He had expected Lampl to be here first, lying in wait.
He stopped in the middle of the bridge and faced the water. He could not see Giusti to his right. Nor Alvise. And he heard no footsteps. No one approached the bridge from either side of the water. He turned to face the other direction and leaned as casually as he could muster, as though he had come to watch the sun rise. He found the right angle to lounge, with his back half against the side of the bridge, from which he could see all approaches, and waited for someone to emerge from the arches, or from one end of the bridge or the other. The air felt unnaturally still. The water below barely moved.
The two men appeared quite openly from a side street some yards to the left of the bridge, on the opposite bank to where Solomon had left Giusti and, presumably, Alvise. They moved smartly through the gray dawn light, one very much larger than the other.
The smaller man was Lampl, and he had clearly brought his bodyguard. Nevertheless, Solomon maintained his lounging position and kept observing the bridge and all approaches to it. He only straightened when Lampl had climbed the steps, and even then, he made sure he could see both sides of the bridge.
The large man—much more brutal in appearance now that he was nearer—waited at the top of the bridge steps. Lampl advanced alone, wearing a long, dark overcoat against the damp chill of dawn. He looked neither scared nor triumphant, just serious.
He inclined his head with normal civility and spoke in English. “Mr. Grey.”
“Herr von Lampl.”
The Austrian came to a halt a foot or so away, an unthreatening distance. “Thank you for coming. We do not have long.”
“You say you have proof of who poisoned my wife.”
“I do. But I need some assurances from you.”
Solomon was more than happy to listen. The longer he kept Lampl here, the longer he was giving Foscolo to find the real proof. “Go on.”
“You must tell no one except the British consul.”
Solomon blinked. “What on earth does the British consul have to do with justice in Venice?”
“Nothing except influence,” Lampl said vaguely. “Leave this proof with him and then you must flee Venice immediately. Never return.”
“I don’t understand,” Solomon said flatly. At the far side of the bridge, the large man hadn’t moved. Nor, as far as could tell, had Giusti. Where was Alvise? And Foscolo’s man?
“I don’t have time to explain it to you.”
“Make the time,” Solomon said, hiding his alarm at this hurry.
Lampl whisked open his overcoat and Solomon tensed, but the quick, slender hand diving into the coat’s inside pocket only produced a small glass phial. “Take it.”
