hand on his forehead and then ran it down the side of his cheek to press an icy fingertip against his right carotid artery.
“You were dreaming, Signor Dalton—you are okay. You are safe. The morphine drip has come loose here . . . you must be still.”
Dalton made the mistake of trying to sit up again. The pain in his gut snapped him backward and he hit the pillow hard. As he did so, the fragments of his memory came together: the blond runner by the Bridge of Sighs, the ghost of Porter Naumann with the green glass hilt of a broken dagger in his hand, the pigeons going up like blowing leaves in the Piazza San Marco as Cora begged him to be still . . . the opal sky burning above.
“Jesus Christ— how long have I been out?”
The sister’s face closed, her seamed lips puckering.
“Do not blaspheme, Signor Dalton. Jesus protects you here.”
“Does He?” said Dalton, mainly to himself. “Well, He’s doing a really crappy job of it, then, isn’t He? Am I still in the Arsenal?”
“Yes. Good. You remember. You are in the clinic of the Arsenal.”
“So, I’m still in Venice?”
“Yes. With the grace of God, the Arsenal remains in Venice, so of course you also remain in Venice,” she said in a soothing voice, “and you must try to lie still. You will open your . . . dei punti? Your stitches.”
Dalton, tensing, could feel them pulling in his lower right side, like fishhooks in the flesh. He arched reflexively, the pain spiking again.
“What day is it?”
“Today is Sabato. Saturday. You came here two weeks ago, on Mercoledi.”
“Chri— I mean, really? Two weeks? I’ve been out for two weeks?”
She straightened up and looked down at him. She was ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty. What life could you lead, thought Dalton, that would leave you so beatifically unmarked? If the sister’s body was a temple of peace and tranquility, apparently his was an arena.
“Cora? Is she here?”
The sister’s face cleared, sunlight coming out from behind the clouded aspect of her eyes . . . She nodded, her ageless smile spreading.
“Sí. La Signorina Vasari. She has been here many times.”
“Many times?”
“Yes. Many times. You have been sedated, put into a sleep, so you would not tear at the incision. This morning at dawn we begin to bring you back to life. Your lips are dry. Would you like some water?”
Dalton nodded. She moved away, a dry rustle of her habit and her rubber shoes squeaking on the stone floor, and then she was back with a tall glass filled with ice water, an angled straw; she put a hand under his back and lifted him—she was quite strong. Dalton pulled at the water and felt its cooling rush down his throat. She lowered him gently back.
“There . . . you should go to sleep again, now.”
Sleep.
Sleep and dreams, and Father Jacopo with his surgical fingers.
“No. I’ve slept enough. Too much. I need to sit up.”
“You are sure?”
“I am.”
She gave the request her professional consideration for a time while Dalton lay there and tried to pull himself fully into the here and now. He knew the Arsenal, the big military citadel next to the old naval basin in the eastern end of Venice. It belonged to the Carabinieri, the military police. It was off-limits to civilians. It was also sometimes used as a secret prison for high-security detainees. Was he now one of them?
If he was in the hands of the Carabinieri, then it was likely that they would have already notified the Agency in Langley. Keepers would be here now, out in the hall, waiting for him to come out of the sedation. He was as good as in shackles, on his way back to Langley. Or he might never reach it. The sister’s expression changed as she saw a series of strong emotions run across his face. Her words indicated that she was more than just a nurse and that she knew at least something about his situation.
“You are under the protection of Major Brancati, Signor Dalton. You must
“You were dreaming, Signor Dalton—you are okay. You are safe. The morphine drip has come loose here . . . you must be still.”
Dalton made the mistake of trying to sit up again. The pain in his gut snapped him backward and he hit the pillow hard. As he did so, the fragments of his memory came together: the blond runner by the Bridge of Sighs, the ghost of Porter Naumann with the green glass hilt of a broken dagger in his hand, the pigeons going up like blowing leaves in the Piazza San Marco as Cora begged him to be still . . . the opal sky burning above.
“Jesus Christ— how long have I been out?”
The sister’s face closed, her seamed lips puckering.
“Do not blaspheme, Signor Dalton. Jesus protects you here.”
“Does He?” said Dalton, mainly to himself. “Well, He’s doing a really crappy job of it, then, isn’t He? Am I still in the Arsenal?”
“Yes. Good. You remember. You are in the clinic of the Arsenal.”
“So, I’m still in Venice?”
“Yes. With the grace of God, the Arsenal remains in Venice, so of course you also remain in Venice,” she said in a soothing voice, “and you must try to lie still. You will open your . . . dei punti? Your stitches.”
Dalton, tensing, could feel them pulling in his lower right side, like fishhooks in the flesh. He arched reflexively, the pain spiking again.
“What day is it?”
“Today is Sabato. Saturday. You came here two weeks ago, on Mercoledi.”
“Chri— I mean, really? Two weeks? I’ve been out for two weeks?”
She straightened up and looked down at him. She was ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty. What life could you lead, thought Dalton, that would leave you so beatifically unmarked? If the sister’s body was a temple of peace and tranquility, apparently his was an arena.
“Cora? Is she here?”
The sister’s face cleared, sunlight coming out from behind the clouded aspect of her eyes . . . She nodded, her ageless smile spreading.
“Sí. La Signorina Vasari. She has been here many times.”
“Many times?”
“Yes. Many times. You have been sedated, put into a sleep, so you would not tear at the incision. This morning at dawn we begin to bring you back to life. Your lips are dry. Would you like some water?”
Dalton nodded. She moved away, a dry rustle of her habit and her rubber shoes squeaking on the stone floor, and then she was back with a tall glass filled with ice water, an angled straw; she put a hand under his back and lifted him—she was quite strong. Dalton pulled at the water and felt its cooling rush down his throat. She lowered him gently back.
“There . . . you should go to sleep again, now.”
Sleep.
Sleep and dreams, and Father Jacopo with his surgical fingers.
“No. I’ve slept enough. Too much. I need to sit up.”
“You are sure?”
“I am.”
She gave the request her professional consideration for a time while Dalton lay there and tried to pull himself fully into the here and now. He knew the Arsenal, the big military citadel next to the old naval basin in the eastern end of Venice. It belonged to the Carabinieri, the military police. It was off-limits to civilians. It was also sometimes used as a secret prison for high-security detainees. Was he now one of them?
If he was in the hands of the Carabinieri, then it was likely that they would have already notified the Agency in Langley. Keepers would be here now, out in the hall, waiting for him to come out of the sedation. He was as good as in shackles, on his way back to Langley. Or he might never reach it. The sister’s expression changed as she saw a series of strong emotions run across his face. Her words indicated that she was more than just a nurse and that she knew at least something about his situation.
“You are under the protection of Major Brancati, Signor Dalton. You must
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