Chapter 43
T HE BUTCHER HAD always felt that Venice, Italy, was kind of overrated, to be honest.
But nowadays, with the unending onslaught of tourists, especially the rush of arrogant, hopelessly naive Americans, anyone with a quarter of a brain would have to agree with him. Or maybe not, since most people he knew were complete imbeciles when you came right down to it. He’d learned that by the time he was fifteen and out on the streets of Brooklyn, after he’d run away from home for the third or fourth time as an adolescent, a troubled youth, a victim of circumstances, or maybe just a born psychopath.
He had arrived outside Venice by car and parked in the Piazzale Roma. Then, as he hurried to catch a water taxi to his destination, he could see the excitement, or maybe even reverence for Venice, on nearly every face he passed. Dumbasses and sheep. Not one of them had ever entertained an original idea or come to a conclusion without the aid of a stupid guidebook. Still, even he had to admit that the cluster of ancient villas slowly sinking into the swamp could be visually arresting in the right light, especially at a distance.
Once he was on board the water taxi, though, he thought of nothing but the job ahead ? Martin and Marcia Harris.
Or so their unsuspecting neighbors and friends in Madison, Wisconsin, believed. It didn’t matter who the couple really was ? though Sullivan knew their identity. More important, they represented a hundred thousand dollars already deposited in his Swiss account, plus expenses, for just a couple days’ work. He was considered one of the most successful assassins in the world, and you got what you paid for, except maybe in L.A. restaurants. He’d been a little surprised when he was hired by John Maggione, but it was good to be working.
The water taxi docked at Rio di San Moise, off the Grand Canal, and Sullivan made his way past narrow shops and museums to sprawling St. Mark’s Square. He was in radio contact with a spotter, and he’d learned that the Harrises were walking around the square, taking in the sights in a leisurely fashion. It was nearly eleven at night, and he wondered what would be next for them. A little clubbing? A late-night dinner at Cipriani? Drinks at Harry’s Bar?
Then he saw the couple ? him, in a Burberry trench; her, in a cashmere wrap and carrying John Berendt’s City of Falling Angels .
He followed them, hidden in the midst of the festive, noisy crowd. Sullivan had thought it best to dress like an average Joe ? khaki Dockers, sweatshirt, floppy rain hat. The pants, shirt, and hat could be discarded in a matter of seconds. Underneath, he wore a brown tweed suit, shirt and tie, and he had a beret. Thus, he would become the Professor. One of his favored disguises when he traveled in Europe to do a job.
The Harrises didn’t walk far from St. Mark’s, eventually turning onto Calle 13 Martiri. Sullivan already knew they were staying at the Bauer Hotel, so they were heading home now. “You’re almost making this too easy,” he muttered to himself.
Then he thought, Mistake.