“Can we find out how long this has been going on in Venice?” Geraint said. “The book was sent a week ago or therabouts. If you’re right, the Priory knew our man was Venice then, if this detox work started at least that far back that would be worth knowing.”

“We must be able to check. What about the consulate?”

“Nice idea,” Geraint grinned. “I think I may just have a call from His Majesty’s Department of the Environment that I must relay to the consulate officials with all due speed. Consider it done.” He walked off briskly to his bedroom to make the call.

Michael returned with everything packed and they filled him in on the details.

“I’m not sure about this,” he said. “The chain of logic isn’t too compelling.”

“It isn’t compelling, but it’s plausible,” Serrin said, and since Venice is so close we’ve got nothing to lose by a short detour. At least we can start checking something out there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Streak said, fondling an Ingram with his usual meaningful expression. “There’s another reason why I like the idea of moving on.”

“And what’s that?” Michael asked.

“While you guys have been reinventing the Bible and up to your ears in clocks, I’ve been doing some peeking through windows. Our old muckers, the gentlemen in suits, are out there now, if you know where to look. The NOJ has, of course, tracked us here. Which I expected. Sometimes, Serrin mate, people do expect the Inquisition.”

“Very droll.”

“However,” Streak said with a slight grimace, “unless I am much mistaken, I also saw a certain Mr. Raoul Huetzlipochtli taking the air briefly on the street corner. Always did hate that moniker, the pretentious git. His real name is probably Poxface or something-it would suit him, you could land an Apollo mission on old craterface. But it’s something of a coincidence.”

“And who, pray, is Raoul Hootzlipockle?” Michael made a brave, if rather unsuccessful, stab at pronunciation.

“Top-drawer Azzie killer. Ice-cold snuff merchant. Top twenty, maybe top ten. Not surprising that other corps have their eyes on our clock-fancier. Bit alarming that Aztechnology’s leading psychopath is eyeing up our villa, though. Made me wonder a bit. Of course, I may have been mistaken.”

“You think you might have been?” Geraint asked, more casually than he was feeling.

“Nope.” Streak finished packing the gun. “Might not be a bad idea to import one or two of Streak’s little helpers into Venice. Your Lordship.”

“Like who?”

“Like two Spanish amigos who helped us before.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Geraint said. “God, this is all getting out of control.”

“Of course it is. I would be worrying if it wasn’t,” Michael observed. He seemed remarkably calm. “With so little time left, Aztechnology, Fuchi, MCT, and the rest must all be needing terrifically frequent changes of underwear. It’s not surprising that they’ve got people out there. And hardly earth-shattering that some of them have found their way somewhere close to the right place.”

Disturbing the flow of speech, Michael’s portafax began chattering a message. He checked the screen ID, grinned, and read the short communique.

“Ah, Renraku has re-routed this through Mozambique. Cheeky buggers, that’s been one of my tricks of late. They’ve upped the stakes, lady and gentlemen. We’re now talking five million on the nose for saving their butts.”

“Shee-it, that’s a million each,” Streak whistled.

“Not quite,” Michael replied, wagging a finger at him. “Two million for me, since it’s primarily my gig, and you guttersnipes can slug it out for the rest.”

“It’s a convincing reason for not just escaping and getting the hell out of here. Not that I was planning to,” Serrin said hastily.

“Indeed not. Time, I think,” Michael said as he flung a bag over his shoulder and then grimaced a little at the resultant pain in his back, “to live on the edge a little. Hell, why the frag not? Did you know, there were people dumb enough to pass up on the dessert trolley on the Titanic. Never forget that, friends. Venice it is.”

23

They left later than they would have liked. Everything seemed to take longer to pack than they thought, and errands kept demanding completion. Geraint had to phone to order a parting gift for their hostess. Michael felt the need to call Renraku and let them know that, yes, he was aware that time was short and yes, they were closing in on their target and no, he definitely couldn’t say more than that and also, to be quite honest, shouldn’t they already know all that anyway? Streak had to leave several telecom messages, increasingly urgent, before Juan’s resonant ork voice finally called back. The evening was turning remorselessly into night by the time they piled into the limo for the airport.

The small plane descended from the blue-black, starry night into Marco Polo Airport. With the low angle of decent, they could see the magnificence of the city lit along its canals and squares, the small moving points of light being not just the cars common to most cities but also gondolas ferrying people along the Grand Canal and its myriad tributaries. They seemed almost to skim the very waves of the lagoon as they glided into the runway.

“This brings back memories,” Michael said as the light went out and he could unbuckle his seatbelt.

Geraint’s reply was only a slightly curt, “Yes.”

“It does?” Streak said with a raised eyebrow. He could see Geraint’s response was not one of comfort.

“We spent a week here as students,” Michael said gleefully. “I studied the art in the basilica, the Doge’s palace, the Rialto. Young Geraint took more of an interest in other aesthetic forms.”

The nobleman coughed. “I don’t think we have time for trivia like this,” he said, slightly pompously.

“Oh, but surely we do,” Streak shot back.

“I don’t pay you to take satisfaction in my discomfort,” Geraint pointed out. “Come on, let’s find a cab.”

“Not a gondola?” Serrin queried.

“They do have bridges,” Michael said gently.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Serrin mumbled.

The usual backhander was required to get them through the formalities of customs, even on a Sunday night. Though resplendent in the Doge’s livery, the opulence of the officials couldn’t have contrasted more sharply with their manner. Then the five of them had to squeeze into a small cab, which demonstrated its supreme lack of any suspension as it coughed and wheezed its way southwest.

“Frag me, my arse feels like I just got a housebrick suppository. I’ve had more comfortable rides on the back roads of Pakistan,” Streak grumbled. Hearing him, the driver pointed out in colorful language that the elf was more than welcome to get out and go there right now preferably in a hearse.

“Yes, yes, we’re sorry,” Michael said soothingly.

“No, we’re bloody not,” Streak yelled. “We don’t have to be so sodding English all the rakking time and put up with such crap. Listen, matey, this is a genuine English lord in the back seat here and he deserves better. So button your lip or I’ll put some lead in the back of your head. Prat!”

Stunned by this rejoinder, the driver said nothing and even appeared to drive a little more slowly so that the vehicle didn’t rattle quite so badly. Michael glowered at the elf, who, in a moment of reckless abandon, simply stuck his tongue out at him and raised a single expressive digit.

The journey took mercifully less time than they’d feared. Entering the city Itself, they drove over the tiny bridges of the Castello and west into San Marco, the heart of the city, and into the Piazza San Marco itself, drawing up opposite the forbidding height of the Campanile with the mighty basilica just behind them. They got out of the car and Michael muttered some words of apology to the driver and gave him a thoroughly undeserved tip, much to Streak’s disgust.