returned to Stefana, and Bravo's training had continued with redoubled intensity.
Judging that he was in close enough, Rule prepared himself, clambering down into the middle part of the boat, where it wasn't decked over. The hold stank of fish. The topo was nearing the shingle. It would surely bring two of the Guardians-perhaps three. It didn't matter. He had come to get Bravo, and get him he would, by any and all means.
Bravo found Paolo Zorzi a hundred yards away, leaning against the seawall, smoking languidly, as if he hadn't a care in the world. Yet he stood up quickly enough when Bravo softly hailed him.
Zorzi flicked the rest of his cigarette away, a bright spark fading into the mist. 'Did you work out the code?'
'Unfortunately, no,' Bravo lied. He was still mindful of Zorzi's being on his father's list of possible suspects. 'I'll need a bit more time.'
Zorzi spread his hands, smiling. 'Not to worry. That's one thing we have here in abundance.'
Beneath a misty, silver-blue sky, they headed back to the monastery. On the way, Bravo counted three Guardians; they regarded him with a curious mixture of boredom and anxiety.
'You must be hungry,' Zorzi said affably. 'Let's sit down to table and afterwards if you wish I can help you with the cryptography. I'm an old hand at that sort of thing, and I have a number of seminal texts I can lend you.'
'I'd be interested to see the books,' Bravo said neutrally. He had no intention of allowing Zorzi anywhere near his father's cipher. 'And now that I think of it, I'm famished.'
They passed another two guards, who flanked the side door, and passed inside. The smell of stone and candle wax filled the rather gloomy interior. The image of Jesus hung on the walls.
They entered a large room. The stone walls were thick and without adornment of any kind. There were no windows. The space seemed cold and forbidding, giving the impression of at one time being a stronghold or keep.
A heavy plank trestle table was set for a meal-though not obviously dinner, which would be taken much later in the evening. Still, tall white candles flickered in silver holders, and several dishes were laid out: a simple seafood risotto and sarde in saor, an ancient recipe involving marinating fresh sardines in vinegar-drenched onions. It was a typical mariner's dish, used to prevent scurvy on long voyages.
As they sat down, Zorzi poured wine from a bottle. He said, 'What form did the cipher take-was it a transposition code or possibly one of your father's clever substitution variants?'
Bravo smiled. 'The sarde in saor is excellent.'
'Try the risotto,' Zorzi said, again all affability. 'You'll find it as good or better.'
In fact, it was, and Bravo said so.
Zorzi seemed pleased, though somewhat preoccupied, it seemed to Bravo. Bravo was hardly surprised, as his suspicions were growing exponentially. He had now turned his mind to leaving here without either Zorzi or any of his henchmen following him. Even though he had yet to find the solution to his father's most recent cipher, he knew he had to get away from this island and from Zorzi as quickly as possible.
When the topo emerged from out of the mist, the Guardian patrolling that section of the shoreline immediately called to two of his companions, as Zorzi's protocol dictated. Zorzi had told them that the guest must not be disturbed for any reason, only Zorzi himself was to be allowed access. An odd order, but they followed unquestioningly nonetheless, for that was how he had trained them.
By the time the others arrived, the prow of the boat was scraping against the shingle. The topo seemed to be carrying one passenger. They hailed it in the Venetian dialect, then in Roman Italian, and, finally, in French, without receiving a response. As they cautiously approached, they saw that the figure was hunched over, an old man clutching a cane apparently to keep him from falling forward.
Still, they were on their guard, and even more so as they boarded the topo, because at once the old man stood up, though still horribly bent over. He spoke to them, then, his voice so thin and quavery they were forced to approach him to hear that he said: 'I didn't give you permission to board my vessel.'
His face was hidden by a white mask, and he wore the traditional bauta and tabarro though it was nowhere near Carnevale. His dementia caused them to snigger.
'You, sir, are on the island of San Francesco del Deserto,' the Guardian who first spotted the topo said. 'You're trespassing on our property.'
'But how could that be?' The old man's voice had taken on ah ugly querulous tone. 'You don't look like Franciscan monks to me.'
The Guardian lost patience. He had better things to do than to contend with an old, demented Venetian who thought it was February. 'You'll have to leave, old man.'
'Who do you think you are, talking to me in that rude manner?' The old man raised his cane threateningly.
The Guardian laughed and grabbed the cane. 'That's enough foolishness-'
In one stunningly swift motion, Anthony Rule drew back his arm, freeing the thin blade from its cane casing and, before the Guardian could say another word, thrust a foot of razor-sharp forged steel through his heart.
As he withdrew the blade, while the Guardian thrashed and frothed, the other two Guardians sprang into action. They came at Rule from the left and the right simultaneously. He feinted right, moved left, neatly spitting the second Guardian with his sword-cane. But now the third Guardian struck the hand that held the sword so hard it went numb, and the sword dropped to the deck.
The Guardian drew a gun and leveled it at Rule.
'Take off your mask and bauta,' he ordered.
Rule did as he asked.
His eyes opened wide. 'Signore Rule! What are you-?'
'I can explain everything.'
The Guardian shook his head. 'You will explain to Signore Zorzi and no one else.'
'That's precisely what I won't do. I-'
'Be still!' The Guardian indicated the mask and bauta. 'Drop them both to the deck. Now!'
As Rule dropped the bauta, he flicked the mask hard and fast. It spun into the Guardian, its sharp edge laying open the bridge of his nose. As the Guardian reared back, Rule moved forward. One hand wrested the gun out of the Guardian's hand while the other struck him in the solar plexus. He doubled over and Rule drove his balled fist into the side of his neck. The Guardian went down and stayed down.
Quickly and with an economy of motion, Rule stripped the Guardian of his clothes and, throwing off his voluminous cloak, pulled them on over his own.
'You don't want to show me the cipher.' Zorzi shrugged, poured espresso from a small metal pot set above a flame. 'Fair enough, you're the Keeper, it's your decision.' He smiled broadly as he pushed one of the tiny cups over to Bravo. 'Your father was tight-lipped just like you. In fact, I am struck by how similar you two are. He and I were close, when he was abroad I supplied him with whatever he needed-men, materials, you understand.'
Bravo understood more than Zorzi knew. It was time to go on the offense, he thought. 'He relied on you.'
'Yes, of course. Absolutely. We confided in one another.'
Bravo knew he was lying. For the first time since he'd found Jenny's bloody knife beside the corpse of Father Mosto, he felt on solid ground again. He knew where he and Zorzi stood. Carnevale was over, the masks had come off, good and evil were restored to their proper corners in the Voire Dei. Satisfied, he said, 'Have you had any word on Jenny?'
Zorzi drank his espresso straight and in one shot, as if it were a macchiato. 'We have discovered where she is.'
All at once, Bravo had no interest in Jenny or in her fate. She had made her bed, now she could lie in it. She had gulled him, in much the same way, he imagined, that she had gulled his father. The traitor's identity had shook Dexter to his core, Father Mosto had said. 'It was someone he knew well and trusted completely.' Bravo felt suddenly sick to his stomach and wanted nothing so much as to rid himself of the rich food Zorzi had fed him. They were both traitors-Jenny and Zorzi, collaborating together to undermine the Order and bring it down.
'There is something I must ask you.' Zorzi frowned. 'I am wondering whether you have had any contact with Anthony Rule.'
