The question was, what he was willing to do? If needed, was he willing to kill to stop this? The ease with which he had killed at Notre Dame had surprised him. He had hesitated for only a fraction of a second after lining up the monk warrior in his iron sights. And after taking the shot, he had not lingered unnecessarily on his actions. He had simply rushed to Hoffman’s side, riveted by the Aramaic message Hoffman had written with his own blood.
He began to rationalize what his mind seemed to propose. Five German lives in exchange for thousands saved. Millions, perhaps. Put in those terms, it was really not so bad. He had no love for Bauer, Adler or Kalb. Wolf reckoned that their minds had been programmed so completely by their training that they had no sense of identity at all. As for the inspector, it was assumed that anyone in the Gestapo was automatically a murderer. In that case, he also did not deserve Wolf’s mercy.
Until now, Wolf had regarded Fleischer as just another good academic wasted by national socialism. Like his father, Fleischer’s prime years were being squandered by the misguided fantasies of Heinrich Himmler. He actually liked Fleischer, whose only real sin seemed to be pride. Of all the men in the mission briefing at Wewelsburg Castle, only Fleischer had seemed to have any humanity. But it was his pride that would deliver the ossuary into the arms of Heinrich Himmler. Besides, how well did Wolf really know him? For all Fleischer’s insolence at Wewelsburg, maybe he was just another sadistic Nazi on a quest for glory.
If Wolf did manage to kill them all, he had no idea how he would escape. He felt hopelessly lost by the labyrinth that was Venice. The further they went from the canal, the more desolate the streets became. A marine layer blocked out the stars. Navigation was hopeless.
Fleischer stopped and reexamined the map by the glow of his cigarette cherry. He pulled a flask from his pocket and sipped it, as if steeling himself for the darkened maze that lay ahead. “Are we lost?” Wolf asked, realizing only after he said it that he had sounded hopeful.
Fleischer frowned at him. He pointed down a dark passage with the cigarette. “That way. You first.”
And with Wolf leading, the group pressed on with only the occasional glow of a lit window to guide them over the narrow footbridges. The MP-40 was slung over his right shoulder. The submachine had been designed for close combat. He needed only the right opportunity.
He began to walk faster now, testing his ability to distance himself from Fleischer and occupy the shadows. He began to imagine the rhythm of the ambush. Five paces ahead of Fleischer, ten paces ahead of Bauer, with Lang and the inspector in the middle and the others farther back. He would step into the darkness. Swing the rifle off his shoulder. Send the first burst into Fleischer’s chest. Swing 30 degrees to his left, where Bauer would eat a burst of 9mm rounds. Perhaps Lang would protect himself by falling down? By that time the others would be falling to either side of the passageway. Spray a wide pattern on both sides, hoping to hit them before their own MP-40s were raised in firing position.
A nice fantasy, but too risky. He would chew through all 32 rounds in his magazine in only a few seconds. If he missed any of the men, there would be no time to reload before they returned fire. And then there was the inspector to consider. The Gestapo agent would surely use Lang as a human shield. Lang might or might not be ready to martyr himself to save the Holy Relic. Wolf wasn’t prepared to make that choice for him. He would be patient for a bit longer.
When at last they came to the Rialto Bridge, which spanned the Grand Canal, Wolf finally knew where he was. Their boat had passed under this very bridge several hours earlier. Fleischer got in front and slowed the pace as they crossed. Then on the other side, he paused halfway down the steps and motioned for the unit to gather around him.
“Down these steps and through that passageway,” he said pointing to a shadowy area beyond the bridge. “There should be a plaza. The market closed hours ago, so it is sure to be deserted now. On the southeastern corner is San Giacommo. Our contact tells us that the ossuary is there. It is said to be guarded by only a few priests.”
Lang’s smirk did not go unnoticed by Zimmer. He gripped Lang’s cuffs and pulled back until the smile was gone. “What’s so amusing, slave?” Lang said nothing, but Wolf knew what he was thinking. Notre Dame had also been guarded by but a few Black Order agents, but they had still managed to steal the ossuary and kill Hoffman and three others in the process.
“If I may,” the Gestapo agent interjected, drawing closer to Fleischer. He eyed the man’s coat. Seeing no bulges, he said, “Professor, I understand that on your Tibetan expedition, you singlehandedly rendered an entire species of yak extinct. And yet you are armed with nothing but a puny Luger.”
Fleischer shrugged and gestured toward the unit. “Fighting is their job.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “It would be foolish to assume that the ossuary is not well-protected.”
The inspector disarmed Wolf and handed the rifle to Fleischer. Then he pushed Lang toward Wolf. “Secure the prisoner. One word out of your friend, and I’ll cut out both your tongues.”
The inspector tightened his lips and refocused his attention on the others. “You three,” he pointed at Adler, Bauer and Kalb. “Make your way along the edge of the plaza until you have secured the far wall. We will cover the southeastern portion of the plaza. Only when we are confident that we are not walking into an ambush will we enter the church.”
The five would-be combatants, plus Lang and Wolf, made their way down the bridge and walked the narrow access path through the darkness. As Fleischer had predicted, a shadowy plaza opened up before them. A series of archways on the far side that had only hours earlier been populated with vendors was completely dark, revealing nothing about their present contents.
On the near side, they found themselves under the wooden portico of a church. Consecrated in 421, San Giacometto was the oldest in Venice. Compared to every other church they had passed during their walk, its exterior was decidedly understated. There were no grand gargoyles, sculptures or ironworks to behold. The church’s brickwork was heavily weathered, with no consistent color in any one piece of the facade. A tower with three modest bells opened over a clock that was only correct twice a day.
Several windows that had been added during the Victorian era were illuminated with a glint of candlelight. A shadow passed before the nearest window.
Zimmer drew his own Luger and guided Fleischer, Wolf and Lang deeper under the edge of the portico. The other three fanned out across the plaza. The black-uniformed soldiers virtually disappeared in the long shadows.
Wolf sensed that this was his moment. Yet without his rifle, how could he stop them? Should he cry out, alerting whatever rough priests may be inside the church? If he did so, Zimmer would make sure it was his last act on earth.
Sweat poured down his face. The palms of his hands itched. His eyes burned. Then something flickered underneath one of the black archways on the far side of the plaza. Zimmer tensed, having seen it as well. They all stopped breathing.
A sheet of white erupted from the far side of the plaza. The sound of rushing air was all around them. Someone screamed. A barrage of automatic gunfire broke out and sustained for several seconds. Zimmer retreated deeper into the shadows, dropping to a knee. Wolf steered his handcuffed friend behind a wooden beam as bullets ricocheted all over the plaza.
And suddenly there was laughter, every bit as alarming as the outbreak of white had been. Wolf recognized Fleischer’s deep bellow. He looked up and saw what the anthropologist had found so hilarious. A pair of wounded birds fluttered on the bricks before them. Then there were three. And then a half-dozen. White feathers fell around them like snow.