He turned to her, saw her quizzical look. 'Don't you understand? For centuries, Venice has been the Order's home. It's only logical that the cache of secrets would be hidden here.'
They had slowed considerably as they entered shallower waters. The channel was marked by the signature striped poles of Venice. Ahead lay the first sweeping curve of the Grand Canal, which ran through the city like the beckoning forefinger of the dissolute Casanova, once one of La Serenissima's most notorious residents.
On their left rose the magnificent basilica of Santa Maria della Salute. Bravo had always thought it fitting that this was the first major structure one came upon when entering the Grand Canal. Venice had about it a haunting beauty tinged with melancholy. Breathtaking La Salute, for instance, had been commissioned in 1622, in the waning days of the Black Death. The church had been built in gratitude to the Virgin for ending the plague that had ravaged the city's inhabitants.
But, in truth, it was the nature of Venice that was the source of its particular melancholy. Built as it was out of the caranto-the base of clay and sand-of the lagoon, the ineffable beauty of its waterways created a sense of impermanence, as if at any moment it would crumble and sink into the patiently waiting water. This was especially true during the acqua alta, when the lagoon rose into the city, inundating the piazettas and first floors of the palazzi.
On their left, white as a lace veil, the Doge's Palace appeared from out of the darkness, as if brought to life by the moonlight. More than any other single structure, this magnificent feat of Gothic architecture embodied Venice's dizzying reversals of perspective of sea and sky. The ground floor appeared lighter than air, the frothy confection of its many delicate arches, galleries and open arcades supporting a stolid fortresslike structure, complete with militaristic corner towers and capitals.
Each time he entered the Grand Canal, passing between La Salute and the Doge's Palace, Bravo had the eerie sensation of stepping through a mirror into another world where magic had always existed and still did.
The motoscafo, its sleekness somewhat sinister as it glided by St. Mark's Square, passed the sculpture of the winged lion of the Republic-one of fourteen depicted in varying ways in the square. Four of these creatures had appeared to the prophet Ezekiel, and the lion was subsequently adopted as the sign of St. Mark the Evangelist, under whose protection Venice had placed itself.
Somewhat further on, the boat slid to a stop at a small slip, where a fleet of porters in the gold and blue livery of the Hotel d'Oro waited to unload baggage. They seemed slightly confused when none materialized and more than slightly put out until Berio briskly slipped euros into their hands. Here again, the observant visitor could see that he was at the crossroads of West and East. While Venice was one of those cities where anything could be had for the right amount of money, it was also true that nothing could be gotten here without euros crossing the right palm.
Having been amply rewarded for wasting their time out on the dock, the phalanx of porters accompanied the three visitors into the hotel. The lobby was two-tiered (so its guests would not be inconvenienced by the acqua alta) and lit by the glow of fanciful chandeliers of golden fish and lamps of turquoise mermen and sconces of silver shell clusters conceived and manufactured by the master glassblowers of the island of Murano, which lay a small distance away in the lagoon. There was a pair of enormous fireplaces surmounted by carved marble mantels on which sat Louis XIV-style clocks of fired porcelain and ormolu. The settees and chairs were their match in ornateness and style, all filigreed gold, carved wooden cabriolet legs and mounded silk cushions.
Jordan had booked them one room, but since they had dealt with this situation before, they made no comment. Perhaps one room was all he could get: the hotel was filled to capacity. Berio left them, finally, after they had checked in, promising to pick them up in the morning and take them wherever they might need to go. When Bravo tried to tell him they didn't need him, he was insistent.
'Mr. Muhlmann's orders,' he said, opening his jacket just enough for them to glimpse the grips of the gun slung in its shoulder holster. He grinned hugely before turning his broad back on them and walking with his rolling gait back the way they had come.
'What d'you make of him?' Bravo said as they went up in the elevator.
'Is he dangerous, or does he merely think he is?'
The doors opened and they got out.
'He couldn't keep his eyes off you,' Bravo said.
'You're imagining things.'
'No. It was how he looked at you, how he touched you.' Bravo put the old-fashioned key into the lock.
'How did he look at me, how did he touch me?' she said.
'As if he was ready to eat you up.'
Her eyes flashed. 'You aren't jealous, are you?'
He turned the key, pushed the door open, and they went inside. The room was large and looked like the inside of an oyster shell-not only the plush furniture but the walls, as well, were covered in a moire silk fabric. To the left, up two low stairs, was the bathroom; fish swam across its tiles. He walked to one of the Byzantine-shaped windows, which overlooked the canal and the palazzi beyond. Starlight fired a thin crescent at the crown of the basilica of La Salute. The canal seemed to be made of jeweled moonlight and shadows, mimicking the pattern of the silk.
Jenny flopped onto the lush, high bed. 'I think you are jealous.'
Bravo looked back at her. 'Of Vin Diesel?'
She laughed, watching him slyly as he went toward the bathroom.
'I don't know about you,' he said, 'but I feel like I need an excavating tool to get all the layers of sweat and grime off me.'
The light came on, a butter-yellow glow, and then the water began to run. The door had a full-length mirror affixed to it, and by moving a bit on the bed she contrived to watch his reflection as he stripped off his clothes. She didn't want to watch-she knew what she'd feel at the sight of his naked body, but she couldn't help herself. His image, the sound of the running water brought back to her with heart-stopping force their erotic encounter in the tub outside Mont St. Michel.
Her eyes drank him in, the line and form, the play of shadow and light over his musculature. There was something about his flesh-the contours, the texture, the color, even the constellation of birthmarks on the large outer muscle of his upper left thigh-that drew her like a magnet. She was hot and cold, the feeling traveling through her with the astonishing energy of a bolt of lightning, leaving her weak. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down the shadowed valley between her breasts. All at once she could feel the grime on her-the crusty sweat-stink of travel and anxiety-like a rime of salt. Her thighs moved on the bed, and she pressed her palms together between them.
'Bravo,' she said, but he couldn't hear her, he'd moved from her view into the fountain of water. It was just as well, she thought. She was not in full possession of all her faculties. She could not be held responsible…
All at once, she couldn't bear to be on the bed a moment longer. On bare feet, she crossed the room to an inlaid fruit-wood bureau. A bottle of wine stood on a silver platter, along with two glasses and a note. She opened the envelope, read the typewritten sentences.
Hearing him padding out of the tub, she said, 'A present from your friend Jordan, how thoughtful.'
Someone had forgotten the corkscrew. It was of no matter to her. She took out a round compact she'd had specially made for her. It had a lead lining to keep out X-rays. She opened it, removed a small folding knife with mother-of-pearl scales. At the touch of her thumb, the blade zipped open. With a deft twist of her wrist, she uncorked the bottle with it, poured them both wine. When she looked up, he was standing in the doorway in a swirl of steam.
'Pretty nifty.'
She smiled, put the knife and compact away.
He was staring at her with a peculiar intensity.
'What?' Her hands were suspended in midair. 'What is it?'
'I wonder,' he said slowly, 'if you'll come over here.'
There was only a towel around him, its dampness hinting at the contours beneath.
'You're expecting me to keep my distance.'
'Would I have any reason to think otherwise?'
Her expression was very serious as she brought the glasses to where he stood and handed him one. 'I haven't had time to wash.'
