All at once, Rule could see, like ghosts in the mist, the outlines of trees: the parkland of San Francesco del Deserto. Immediately, he furled the two sails and allowed the topo to drift forward on the current. No doubt the Franciscan order that inhabited most of the islet had no idea of Zorzi's presence-or perhaps Zorzi had paid off the right people. Rule had had enough dealings with him to know how adept he was at circumventing both laws and customs.

The one thing he didn't know-the crucial bit of intelligence that worried him-was how many Guardians Zorzi had with him on the islet. It had to be enough to keep him secure but not enough for them to become obvious to the Franciscans who lived here.

The islet was oddly more or less square in shape, and Rule had aimed for the side that was most heavily forested, the farthest away from the monastery itself. Here and there through the mist he could see the wall that ran around the edge of the islet, just beyond the narrow shingle of rock.

His thoughts returned to Bravo. How many times, in years past, had he and Dexter spoken of Bravo? Long ago he had lost count. But he was the one who had encouraged Dexter to train his son, over the protests of Stefana. The issue was volatile. Once, Dexter and Stefana had almost broken up over it, Dexter coming to stay with Rule for almost three weeks. Bravo had been seven, and Rule had visited him several times, bringing him gifts, taking him to the zoo and, once, to Radio City to see the Easter show. He had perpetrated the myth that Dexter was away on business, and Bravo had never questioned him. It was the first time that Rule had understood the true nature of his relationship with the child, and he was filled with profound emotion.

At home, Rule had said nothing to Dexter, content to allow him to come to his own conclusions. When it came to his family, Dexter was the last person to need advice, so Rule had provided something more meaningful than advice: companionship and comfort. The rest, he felt, would take care of itself. And it had: Dexter had 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-?"