Andrea hoped he could keep his minions at bay long enough to give the poor capon a chance.
Yes, the plan seemed God-ordained, just like the .Arsenal plot. Or perhaps, it was merely too good to be true.
The grasping Turkish moon hazily lit the enclosing walls in solid blades and wedges. A low whistle rose from these stacked shadows. Andrea turned his concentration to the task at hand.
A second replied. This whistle was almost lost in the openness where the walls gave way to the huge space of the ruined Hippodrome. The third fellow was closest to the action. His whistle came from down this tortured intestine of an alley, near where it crumbled away altogether. The solid ground under Sokolli Pasha ‘s palace and the entire neighborhood was here revealed to be a sham. Anciently, huge arched supports had leveled the natural sharp incline from the Hippodrome down to the sea. Horses for the Byzantine circus had stabled in these caverns. When the horses had gone, the homeless.
And now...Sofia Baffo.
Andrea worked up spit and pursed his lips to give the final whistle. Coming from the minaret’s foot, it would seem a belated echo of the muezzin.
The instant before Andrea actually sent air through his throat, the signal to fall upon their prey, the mosque doors opened to emit one final worshipper .Andrea hissed his accomplices back again, or hoped he did. The blood pounding in his ears was so loud he doubted he could have heard his own whistle if he gave it. With growing dismay he watched the soldier smoke the moonlit air with ashen breath, then claim the last pair of boots on the sacred threshold.
The footwear seemed black at first. Then it caught a gleam and was betrayed as red. This matched better with the cascade of exotic bird-of-paradise feathers that swung from the janissary’s turban almost to his knees. These features pronounced the man a veteran, a battalion officer, a Chief Soup Maker, that homey title which nonetheless terrorized Christians.
Andrea flattened himself behind the minaret’s curve. Rather than coming up the alley, back towards the Hippodrome, as Andrea had been certain any soldier must, the Chief Soup-Maker turned left when he passed the mosque’s fountain and courtyard.
Walking down towards the ruined stables, the janissary stopped and scowled a moment at the extinguished street lamp. Then, as if he thought. Well, so much the better for me, he went on. He sauntered right past the parked sedan and—did Andrea see aright?—nodded a greeting to Ghazanfer and pattered his fingers familiarly on the shutters. Then he disappeared down into the crumbled arches. Andrea could only hope the man he’d stationed down there had more presence of mind and skills of stealth than he’d credited him with.
One more breath and we go, Andrea told himself. But before he’d drawn that breath, the plan misfired again. Ghazanfer opened the sedan door.
Jasmine burdened the cold air like a warm blanket, lingering in layers. The veil-wrapped woman slipped out of her eunuch’s hands and down the alleyway in the very footsteps of the vanished janissary.
All was silent for a very long moment. Even Andrea’s dithery brain stopped sending him messages.
And then, she screamed.
VIII
Andrea was down the alley like a shot, barely stopping to fling the stunned Ghazanfer into the arms of the two uphill accomplices.
At the lip of the subterranean caves, Andrea skidded to a halt. Before him sprawled the body of the janissary, the bird-of-paradise plume pitched heavenward.
And struggling in the arms of the third bravo was Sofia Baffo. The bravo, having left grimy proof of several false attempts on the gauze of her veil, had finally found purchase over her mouth.
“Jesu,” Andrea burst out, crossing himself involuntarily and rather foolishly for the sake of a Muslim soul. “What have you done?”
“You said somebody might get killed,” the bravo answered, his walleye roving in spasms. “Rather him than me.”
“But he has—had—nothing to do with this.”
“Hadn’t he?” Perhaps it was just the defect, but Andrea was certain the bravo was taunting him.
“Let her go,” the scion of the house of Barbarigo ordered, trying to sound in charge. After all, Sofia was listening. More than that, she’d fixed him with the keen edge of her wonderful eyes. Recognition honed there and, was it possible? Hatred? He must cure this at once.
“What? She’s not the one you want? Feels fine to me. Right fine. You don’t want her, I’ll take her myself.”
“Let her go. Let her walk back to the sedan.”
“I don’t know, captain. Doesn’t feel to me like she’ll come without assistance.” Struggles jarred his words.
“Let her go, I say.”
The bravo complied, at least with the hand on the mouth. But the flailing he did with it in the air suggested his release was not so much of his own will but because his captive had bitten him.
Sofia screamed again, and the curses and scuffling coming from behind Andrea, from where Ghazanfer was being held, were not encouraging.
“Sofia, Sofia, it’s me, Andrea,” he said as soon as the bravo’s hand had quietened the scream once more. “I’ve come to rescue you. To take you back to Venice. I’ve got a boat waiting and everything. Just come on back to the sedan and we’ll carry you there.”
In the same moment Andrea realized first that he was going to have to help get the captive into the sedan. Indeed, that he ought to have been lending a hand sooner. And second, that the reason he hadn’t helped out was because he was hesitant to approach that belligerent bundle of silk and brocade.
Andrea approached with caution. At first touch, the jasmine fra-
grance filled his brain. But the fragrance was missing the undercurrent of toothsome almond; gone from her physical being
