'Why do you ask?'
'Ah, then you have seen him recently.'
'As a matter of fact I haven't seen Uncle Tony in more than a year.' With his hatred as a catalyst, Bravo found that it wasn't difficult to lie to this man.
Zorzi shrugged, and Bravo now understood. The gesture of indifference masked what was important to Zorzi.
'I'm not prying, you understand.' Zorzi licked his lips. 'I simply ask because I don't trust this man. In fact, I believe he's the traitor in our midst.'
'What makes you say that?'
'I hear the sharpness in your tone. I understand, of course-he's your 'Uncle Tony.' Perhaps it was a mistake to bring this up with you, but it was for your own good, and after all I had assumed you were sufficiently mature to be able to separate your personal feelings from the objective truth.'
'The cipher,' Bravo said shortly. 'I'd like the work on it now.' It was becoming more of an effort to keep his anger under control. He was finding Zorzi tedious and sinister. 'I'd like to see those books.'
'Of course.' Zorzi could not keep the excitement out of his voice. He rose. 'I'll only be a moment.'
Was this the time to make his escape? Bravo wondered. He turned in his chair. But no, a Guardian stood in the open doorway, regarding him as if he were a sea bream newly drawn from the lagoon and set out for feasting. His fingertips touched the butt of the SIG Sauer. Of course, he could draw the gun, but then everything would change. He would be instantly pitted against all the Guardians. Worst of all, it would bring him and Paolo Zorzi into direct conflict, on Zorzi's own ground with his people all around him. Bravo did not care for those odds. No, the SIG Sauer was an instrument of last resort.
'What's your name?' Bravo asked at length.
'Anzolo,' the Guardian said laconically. His eyes were hard as Istrian stone.
'Do you know where Signore Zorzi has gone?' He rose. 'I'd like to ask him a question.'
'You are to wait here until Signore Zorzi returns.'
The Guardian stood against the door, blocking his way. There was no question: despite Paolo Zorzi's protestations to the contrary, Bravo was a prisoner.
Chapter 18
Through a stand of willowy trees, Rule spotted the two Guardians flanking the monastery door like a pair of sphinxes. One had a white scar under his chin, the other, taller, had eyes as gray as the Venetian mist. They looked implacable-also a little restless. Well, that would soon change, thought Rule, as he broke through the trees and strode purposefully toward them.
The moment they saw him, he knew something was wrong. Though they smiled and offered him a silent hail, he could see their feet spread out slightly, their legs flexed, their shoulders rounded as the muscles tensed. They had heard something-from one of the Guardians who'd boarded the boat? That seemed the only possibility. Rule imagined one of them reaching his cell phone before he died.
The element of surprise ruined, he sprinted straight at them. The thing was to get them moving. They came at him, challenging him, as he knew they would. Turning his back on them, he darted back toward the stand of trees. They might have guns, but like the Guardians on the boat, they wouldn't use them, for fear of alerting the Franciscan monks on the other side of the island.
In the trees, he engaged them, using the blade of the sword-cane as an offensive weapon, darting in and out, using the trees for defense against their short, slightly curved Byzantine fighting knives. He knew these weapons well-they could be thrown as well as thrust. The curved blade had a purpose-it would open up a wide swath of flesh even on a partially deflected slash. He had no room for error, which was just the way he liked it. Living on the edge was Rule's reason for being in the Voire Dei in the first place. It was better than tightrope walking, more intoxicating than mountain climbing, more addictive than skydiving.
Lunging forward on one flexed leg, he deliberately exposed himself to the Guardian with the scar. Grinning fiercely, the Guardian swung his fighter with an evil whistling sound. Rule ducked, felt the blade whir past the crown of his head and embed itself in the trunk of the tree. He came up, leading with his left shoulder, his elbow cocked. But the Scar had anticipated him, had let go of the Byzantine fighter and slammed his fists into the side of Rule's head.
Rule staggered back, felt rather than saw the approach of the Guardian with the gray eyes. He grabbed a handful of Gray Eyes's garment and swung him around. White Scar had by this time wrenched his fighter free and now was swinging it in a swift, shallow arc toward Rule. The crescent blade buried itself in Gray Eyes's chest, and immediately Rule shoved him away, came after White Scar in a direct attack.
White Scar's eyes opened wide with the shock of wounding his own compatriot. That was all the time Rule needed. He stabbed outward, driving the blade of his sword-cane in from an extreme low angle. Scar coughed once, and blood bubbled out of his mouth. He looked down in astonishment and fell to his knees, his hands cupping his abdomen. He had forgotten all about Rule, who took the opportunity to kick him hard in the side of the head. The Guardian toppled over, unconscious.
Without a backward glance, Rule left them, entering the darkness of the monastery, unseen and unheard, like a wraith.
'He's coming,' Alvise said.
'Well, now,' Paolo Zorzi said, 'events have taken on an entirely new shape, haven't they?'
'Three dead, two wounded.'
'He'll pay for each outrage,' Zorzi growled, 'as well as for the rest.'
The two men were striding down the hall from the refectory. Alvise, a Guardian with a firm hand and short legs, was hard-pressed to keep up with the long strides of his master.
'It is essential that we keep Braverman Shaw isolated in the refectory,' Zorzi said, 'now more than ever.'
Alvise nodded and spoke briefly into his cell phone. 'Done,' he said.
'Now we must prepare for Signore Rule's unscheduled arrival.'
'This will be a pleasure,' Alvise said, but he fell abruptly silent as Zorzi took his arm and swung him around.
'If you underestimate this man, even for an instant, he will kill you.'
Alvise, his face drawn and serious, said, 'I will kill him before he has the chance.'
Paolo Zorzi's mouth opened in a silent laugh.
Something had happened in the last thirty seconds, of this Bravo was certain. Anzolo had received a call on his cell phone, and his eyes had betrayed him. They had cut to Bravo and then had moved quickly, almost furtively away as he turned his back on the refectory. Bravo knew the call concerned him, that Anzolo was getting instructions-probably from Zorzi himself. It seemed clear that Zorzi had no intention of returning with the cipher texts-or possibly returning at all. During the meal he had made his last pitch to Bravo, trying the soft route of insinuating himself into the deciphering process, in order to discover where Dexter Shaw meant to send his son next. This ploy having failed, he had obviously decided to move on to the hard route. Bravo could only imagine what horrors that might entail. He had told Camille that this wasn't a game, that the Knights were out for blood-his blood.
The moment he stood up, Anzolo whirled around, a stiff smile stitched to his face. 'Please sit down.'
'I'd like to talk to Signore Zorzi.'
'I'm sorry, Signore Zorzi is otherwise engaged.'
When Bravo made no move, Anzolo took a step into the room. 'Please sit down.' His face hardened. 'Your espresso is getting cold.'
'I've had my fill of espresso.'
Bravo was careful to keep an edge out of his voice. Nevertheless, Anzolo took another step into the refectory.
'I really must insist.'
