round and hurled the seed at the Vespa just as it was about to flash past him. Tom watched—first in amazement, then with disappointment. If Alex had thought the great shower of seed would knock the two men off the bike, he’d been mistaken. They were continuing regardless.
But that hadn’t been his plan.
There must have been two or three hundred pigeons in the square and all of them had seen the seed spraying out of the bucket. The two riders were covered in it. Seed had lodged in the folds of their clothes, under their collars and in the sides of their shoes. There was a small pile of it caught in the driver’s crotch. Some had fallen into Miss Bedfordshire’s bag; some had become trapped in the driver’s hair.
For the pigeons, the bag thieves had suddenly become a meal on wheels. With a soft explosion of grey feathers, they came swooping down, diving on the two men from all directions. Suddenly the driver had a bird clinging to the side of his face, its beak hammering at his head, ripping the seed out of his hair. There was another pigeon at his throat, and a third between his legs, pecking at the most sensitive area of all. His passenger had two on his neck, another hanging off his shirt, and another half buried in the stolen bag. And more were joining in. There must have been at least twenty pigeons, flapping and batting around them, a swirling cloud of feathers, claws and —triggered by greed and excitement—flying splatters of white bird droppings.
The driver was blinded. One hand clutched the handlebars, the other tore at his face. As Alex watched, the bike performed a hundred and eighty degree turn so that now it was coming back, heading straight towards them, moving faster than ever. For a moment he stood poised, waiting to hurl himself aside. It looked as if he was going to be run over. But then the bike swerved a second time and now it was heading for the fountain, the two men barely visible in a cloud of beating wings. The front wheel hit the fountain’s edge and the bike crumpled.
Both men were thrown off. The birds scattered. In the brief pause before he hit the water, the man riding pillion yelled and let go of the handbag. Almost in slow motion, the bag arced through the air. Alex took two steps and caught it.
And then it was all over. The two thieves were a tangled heap, half submerged in cold water. The Vespa was lying, buckled and broken, on the ground. Two policemen, who had arrived when it was almost too late, were hurrying towards them. The stall owners were laughing and applauding. Tom was staring. Alex went over to Miss Bedfordshire and gave her the bag.
“I think this is yours,” he said.
“Alex…” Miss Bedfordshire was lost for words. “How…?”
“It was just something I picked up in therapy,” Alex said.
He turned and walked back to his friend.
THE WIDOW’S PALACE
« ^ »
Now, this building is called the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo,” Mr Grey announced. “Bovolo is the Venetian word for snail shell and, as you can see, this wonderful staircase is shaped a bit like a shell.” Tom Harris stifled a yawn. “If I see one more palace, one more museum or one more canal,” he muttered, “I’m going to throw myself under a bus.”
“There aren’t any buses in Venice,” Alex reminded him.
“A water bus, then. If it doesn’t hit me, maybe I’ll get lucky and drown.” Tom sighed. “You know the trouble with this place? It’s like a museum. A bloody great museum. I feel like I’ve been here half my life.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Not a day too soon, Alex.”
Alex couldn’t bring himself to agree. He had never been anywhere quite like Venice—but then there was nowhere in the world remotely like it, with its narrow streets and dark canals twisting around each other in an intricate, amazing knot. Every building seemed to compete with its neighbour to be more ornate and more spectacular. A short walk could take you across four centuries and every corner seemed to lead to another surprise. It might be a canalside market with great slabs of meat laid out on the tables and fish dripping blood onto the paving stones. Or a church, seemingly floating, surrounded by water on all four sides. A grand hotel or a tiny restaurant. Even the shops were works of art, their windows framing exotic masks, brilliantly coloured glass vases, dried pasta and antiques. It was a museum, maybe, yet one that was truly alive.
But Alex understood what Tom was feeling. After four days, even he was beginning to think he’d had enough.
Enough statues, enough churches, enough mosaics. And enough tourists all crammed together beneath a sweltering September sun. Like Tom, he was beginning to feel overcooked.
And what about Scorpia?
The trouble was, he had absolutely no idea what Yassen Gregorovich had meant by his last words. Scorpia could be a person. Alex had looked in the phone book and found no fewer than fourteen people with that name living in and around Venice. It could be a business. Or it could be a single building. Scuole were homes set up for poor people. La Scala was an opera house in Milan. But Scorpia didn’t seem to be anything. No signs pointed to it— no streets were named after it.
It was only now he was here, nearing the end of the trip, that Alex began to see it had been hopeless from the start. If Yassen had told him the truth, the two men—he and John Rider—had been hired killers. Had they worked for Scorpia? If so, Scorpia would be very carefully concealed … perhaps inside one of these old palaces. Alex looked again at the staircase that Mr Grey was describing. How was he to know that these steps didn’t lead to Scorpia? Scorpia could be anywhere. It could be everywhere. And after four days in Venice, Alex was nowhere.
“We’re going to walk back down the Frezzeria towards the main square,” Mr Grey announced. “We can eat our sandwiches there and after lunch we’ll visit St Mark’s Basilica.”
“Oh great!” Tom exclaimed. “Another church!”
They set off, a dozen English schoolchildren, with Mr Grey and Miss Bedfordshire in front, talking animatedly together. Alex and Tom trailed at the back, both of them gloomy. There was one day left, and, as Tom had made clear, that was one day too many. He was, as he put it, all cultured out. But he wasn’t returning to London with the rest of the group. He had an older brother living in Naples and he was going to spend the last few days of the summer holidays with him. For Alex the end of the visit would mean failure. He would go home, the autumn term would begin, and…
And that was when he saw it, a flash of silver as the sun reflected off something at the edge of his vision. He
