so hard and fast and level that the edge of the handle almost pushed into the wound.
The Scot quaked once, a groan dying out of his chest as he swayed, and then fell forward, heart pierced from behind.
Ignatio’s grateful smile annoyed Valentino, who snapped, “Quick! Close and lock the main door!”
Ignatio complied quickly. In the meantime, Valentino stripped off his Arsenal uniform and glanced at Tool Man. “You have the change of clothes for us?”
“Yes, right here.”
“Good. Lay them out on the floor. Quickly.”
“Yes, but what do we-?”
“There is no ‘we,’ here. I tell you what you do. First, break open the smallest of the fuel casks and spread the contents around. Stave in a few of the others.”
Ignatio had returned, a grin on his face. “Now what?”
“Strip. Wipe off any blood. Then get into those clothes.”
“Which are-?”
“Which are what porters wear here in the compound, as well as some of the technical assistants.”
“And then?”
“And then watch the door.” Valentino turned to Tool Man, saw that he was almost done spilling out the first container of gasoline into a wide puddle. “You.”
“Yes?”
“There is another way out of here, yes?”
“Yes, a side door. Over there. Only big enough for one person.”
“Does it lead to the alley I saw between this warehouse and the next?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. That is how we are leaving.”
Tool Man looked suddenly relieved. “Thank you.”
“Why?” asked Valentino, as he pulled a pre-cut fuse out of his discarded pants pocket and snatched up the Scotsman’s pistol.
“I–I thought you were going to kill me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I saw your faces. I did not think you would let me live.”
“Old wives’ tales,” scoffed Valentino. “If we went around doing that, we couldn’t very well successfully blackmail people to help us, could we?”
Tool Man looked even more relieved.
Valentino used the narrow end of the pistol’s ramrod to unseat and tear up the currently loaded charge. Once it was loose enough, he shook it out upon the floor. “Ignatio?”
“Yes?”
“Is our way still clear?”
“Yes.”
“We’re leaving by the side door. But we won’t start running until the chaos starts. Then, we’ll just be a few more workers rushing to get out the gates.”
“Hey, yeah. That’s smart!”
Valentino managed not to roll his eyes. He made sure there was ample powder in the pistol’s pan, closed the frizzen, cocked the hammer. “Here,” he said to Tool Man, “take the other end of this fuse. Now, walk away, toward the fuel, pulling it out straight.”
Tool Man complied.
“Now, lay the fuse down along the floor. Make sure the last two inches are in the puddle of fuel.”
Again, Tool Man did as he was told.
“No, no,” said Valentino with a shake of his head, “you’ve done it wrong.” He walked over, kneeled down, made sure an extra half inch was immersed in the gasoline. “There, that’s right. Do you see the difference?”
Tool Man nodded.
“And don’t forget,” Valentino added as he stood up, “we need to keep those false papers you brought.”
“Why?”
“Best you don’t know.” Valentino pointed. “You left them on the trolley, there.”
Tool Man turned around to look at the indicated spot. As he did, Valentino slid out his dagger again and jabbed it into the back of Tool Man’s neck, just below the base of the skull. As the first spasm went like a wave down the body, Valentino re-angled the last bit of his thrust higher, pushing the point so it went up under the skull’s occipital shelf.
Tool Man fell over, quaking.
Valentino wiped his knife on the body. “You know,” he observed sagely, “a lot of those old wives’ tales are true.” He rose, walked to the dry end of the slow-burning fuse and kneeled down, calling to Ignatio. “Are we still clear?”
“No one in sight.”
“Then get out the side door and stay in the shadows. Now.”
As Ignatio complied, Valentino scooped the powder from the pistol’s extracted charge into a small pile, mounded up over the dry end of the fuse. Then he leaned the pistol over toward it, so the frizzen was almost in contact with the loose powder.
He heard the side door open and Ignatio’s footfalls recede through it.
Valentino squeezed the trigger. Without a charge in the barrel, the weapon simply made a hoarse FARAFF! when the striker hit the powder in the pan, which flared out and down to touch of the powder atop the fuse.
Valentino stood there long enough to make sure the fuse had caught. Then he turned and sprinted for the side door.
Tom Stone handed another cup of coffee toward Miro, who only shook his head, eyes upon the disaster taking place across the lagoon.
The embassy’s veranda afforded them an excellent view of the black plume of burning petroleum. Of course, everyone in Venice could see that. But from the veranda, they were also able to discern the fierce, bright flickers at its base. Meaning that, since the flames were visible from this distance of almost three miles, it was, in actuality, nothing less than a full-blown conflagration. In leaden silence, they continued to sip coffee and contemplate the unfolding of the infernal spectacle before them.
As Tom put his cup back upon the table, a mushroom cloud of seething, yellow-orange flame roiled up, momentarily obscuring the dense black smoke. But even as it threw its defiance at the sky, the fiery fist curled over on itself and died.
“That would be last of the gas still in containers,” Tom observed calmly.
Miro nodded, waiting, counting the seconds. Just as he reached fifteen, a low roar reached them. It peaked as a kind of hoarse imitation of a siege gun volley, and then dwindled back down to nothing.
The gulls, attention focused on the scraps that might be available from the humans on the veranda, continued wheeling in their disinterested arcs.
“Well, I’d say we’re pretty much screwed,” Tom commented, sipping at his third cup of coffee.
“We haven’t seen the flare signaling ‘plane lost,’ though.”
“Not yet. But there’s no knowing if the fire will reach the plane itself. If they followed my instructions, they moved the fuel to the warehouses furthest away from the hangar. But a fire like that-” He put down his coffee and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Estuban, given the message Harry Lefferts sent yesterday, I have to admit: I’m getting pretty worried. I should never have let Frank go to Rome.”
Miro spoke softly. “Unless I am much mistaken, you could no more have compelled him to remain here than you could have brought yourself to issue such an ultimatum. You may have chosen to craft your family along atypical lines, Tom, but since you love and respect each other, they must have been good lines.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But right now, those lines are all pointing at the same destination: disaster.”
“No, I do not think so.”
Tom looked over, eyes controlled-probably trying hard not to indulge in false hopes, Miro guessed. “Really? You mean we have some good news, for a change?”
