Listening to the man describe life in Venice, Jacob began to understand how difficult the mission would be, even as Carlos and Devon marveled at the tourist attractions. The city was nothing more than footpaths, cut across in a chaotic way with canals, and separated from the mainland by a healthy bit of water.

Murdering four people here will be damn near out of the question.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. It would be easy to kill someone in Venice. There wasn’t much police presence. Some outstations with cabrini, and some roving patrols, but all in all, if he wanted to take someone’s life, then stake the body to a cross for all to see, he could do it, and he stood a fair chance of getting away.

His problem was much, much greater. He had to kill without anyone knowing. In Syria, such a thing would have been easy, leaving the carcass to rot next to the others in the desert. Even in his old world, he could make a single man disappear by burying him in the Everglades, letting the alligators have some lunch. Here, the terrain itself was formidable. There was no desert or swamp to transport the victims to, letting the sun and carrion eaters destroy the carcass before it was found.

On top of that, they had to kill four men. The chaperone and his three charges. They had only four nights to do it, and they had to accomplish the mission here, before the group traveled to Rome. Which brought up the final obstacle.

They had to do the murders in such a manner that nobody knew the victims were gone, because they intended to assume their identities.

Following the church leader, Jacob had begun to believe the mission was impossible. Right up until he saw the chaperone kiss the woman.

46

Jacob followed the couple through the remainder of the palace museum, stalking them through the myriad of palatial rooms and ignoring the history dripping from every corner. If asked later, he couldn’t have described a single thing from the inside of the palace. Not one painting, one throne, or one sculpture. But he could have told you in minute detail what the man and woman did, because he photographed most of it, waiting on the money shot.

It didn’t come. They never kissed again inside the museum. Jacob snapped plenty of shots of them close together, some where they were even rubbing against each other, but none that were inherently incriminating. Which was something Jacob needed to make his nascent plan work.

From the beginning, Jacob knew his target set was split in two: the chaperone and the kids. He instinctively understood that he had to divide in order to conquer. He simply had no idea how to do that. Outside of pure chance, there was no way to predict when the chaperone would be separated from the boys, and reacting to those occurrences—as he had today—was not a recipe for success. There needed to be some control. Some method to predict when the man would leave his charges or, better still, predict when and where he would be.

And now Jacob had it. If he could get the money shot.

The couple exited the marble courtyard of the palace, walking through the revolving gate into the Piazza San Marco, an expansive square flooded with visitors from all over the globe. Jacob gave the couple a second, then followed, temporarily losing them in the crowds.

He skipped past children playing with pigeons in the square, the filthy birds perched on shoulders and heads, parents taking photos and patently ignoring the prohibitions against engaging in such behavior.

He walked rapidly past the clock tower, swiveling his head toward the ornate San Marco Basilica. All he saw were lines of people waiting to enter both places. He went deeper, scanning for the purple scarf the woman wore. He caught it on the edge of the square, disappearing into an alley.

He sprinted to catch up.

He entered the alley, a small hallway carved out of stone, leading away from the square. He saw the couple ahead of him exiting, going left in front of a bridge across one of the ubiquitous canals. He began jogging, jostling people out of the way to catch up. He slowed at the bridge and turned the corner, now moving with the rhythm of the tourists.

He saw the chaperone and his busty date talking to a gondola coxswain. Debating a price.

One of the many small ports threaded throughout the city, it held multiple gondolas waiting for passengers, similar to a taxi stand in New York, only much, much more expensive. If the target was hiring a gondola, he had no destination in mind other than peeling the clothes off of the person he was riding with.

Looking like oversize canoes, the boats plied the canals all over Venice, some gondoliers singing, and some offering other amenities. Jacob remained where he was, knowing he was about to lose the chase. He raised his point-and-shoot camera and zoomed to the fullest extent of its cheap capability.

And got the money shot.

The man leaned over to the woman, surreptitiously cupped her breast, and kissed her full on the mouth. In eight-megapixel color.

*   *   *

He returned to the Best Western, finding Devon and Carlos sitting in the room going through the television channels as if repeated clicking would make one change over to English.

They glanced up at him, earnest faces surrounded by chocolate wrappers and potato chip bags from the minibar, the room a mess.

“Jesus Christ. What the hell have you guys been doing? Do you know how much this shit costs?”

Carlos said, “It don’t cost nothing. It was all on top of the fridge. It came with the room.”

Jacob shook his head, muttering under his breath. He kicked towels out of the way, stepping over the makeshift sleeping pallet on the floor that the other two men used. He noticed a prayer rug next to the pallet, an Islamic State–sanctioned prayer schedule next to it. He picked it up and said, “What the hell is this?”

As if Omar were in the room, Carlos said, “We can act like the infidel, but we will not become the infidel. We have to maintain our strength.”

Livid, Jacob smacked him in the back of the head, shouting, “Are you fucking insane? You need to become Catholic. Catholic! What will happen if the maids see this? What the hell are you guys thinking?”

He stood, tearing the schedule in two. He turned in a circle, looking at the mess in the room, the two simpletons in it, and his own reflection in the mirror. He felt a clawing pressure. He saw the shock on Carlos’s face from his outburst, and Devon cowering in a chair. He instinctively knew he was failing. Knew that leadership was needed here. Leadership such as Omar would have provided. The religion was nothing. He needed to rise above that and provide the leadership these men craved. As he had in the white house.

He sat on the bed and said, “Okay, okay. Tell me you knuckleheads did something today.”

Like a light switch, Carlos turned from Islam and became the common criminal he had always been. He said, “I’ve walked all over the area here, and I’ve got four johnboats that I think I can steal. Two are on the Grand Canal, and two are on smaller feeder canals. If we need a boat, I’ll get one. They don’t pay a lot of attention to security. A rope and maybe a chain, and we’re in.”

Jacob didn’t bother to ask any questions about operating the vessels. Coming from Florida, all three could operate a skiff and motor. Instead, he focused on the specifics. “How long before someone knows it’s missing? Can we take it and get it back, or once we take it, the clock’s ticking?”

“During the day, we’re fucked. After about six, I think we’re good. They won’t notice the boat missing until the following morning.”