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
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
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