CHAPTER FIVE

Kieron woke up next morning not knowing quite where he was. He lay there, in the middle of the softest and largest bed he’d ever known, staring at a ceiling covered in ornate plaster decorations, thinking, Am I dead? Is this heaven? It’s certainly not my bedroom.

There was a small chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling. An actual chandelier.

And then he heard Sam snoring, and he remembered. They were in Venice.

He got up and padded barefoot across the thick carpet to the window. The sun was already up, and he could see out onto the wide flagstoned expanse between the hotel and the waters of the lagoon. Vaporetti and gondolas bobbed up and down on the choppy water, which had been grey yesterday when they’d arrived but now seemed to glow softly green in the morning sunlight. Tourists passed by, and they all seemed to be smiling. Voices were raised in cheerful shouting, and somewhere he could hear someone singing an operatic aria. At least, he thought that’s what it was. He wasn’t an expert on anything pre-Marilyn Manson. For a few moments he was happy, knowing he was with friends, in an exciting foreign country, and that everything was OK with the world.

And then he remembered that his mother had lost her job, and he was only there to save his friends from death at the hands of an assassin, and his mood started to sour.

‘Wassup?’ Sam muttered from his bed.

‘Nothing. Just watching stuff.’

‘OK.’ Sam rolled over and started snoring again.

After showering and dressing, Kieron wandered down to breakfast. He spotted Bex over in a corner of the restaurant.

‘By a wall, near an exit,’ he said as he sat beside her. ‘Good choice.’

She smiled. ‘Well remembered. Sleep well?’

‘Perfectly … Where’s Bradley?’ Kieron asked.

‘I don’t know – I haven’t seen him yet.’ She frowned. ‘It’s odd, but we very rarely actually go on missions together. Usually I’m alone, sometimes undercover, usually uncomfortable, and he’s somewhere else, sipping on a coffee and munching on a croissant, supporting me over the ARCC system. I have no real idea of what his routine is.’

‘Maybe he’s gone for a jog,’ Kieron suggested. ‘He looks like he keeps pretty fit.’

‘Possibly. If so, I’m not looking forward to seeing him in Lycra.’

‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Kieron asked.

‘The plan,’ Bex said primly, ‘is that you and Sam go and see the sights while Bradley and I get to work.’

‘And by “work”, you mean, “try to identify” –’ he looked around cautiously – ‘“whoever might be in town for this demonstration thing”.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And how exactly do you intend doing that?’

Bex gestured to a passing waiter. ‘Could we get another orange juice here, please?’

‘Si, signorina,’ the waiter said, bowing.

‘I don’t like orange juice,’ Kieron protested. ‘I’d rather have a fizzy drink.’

‘Orange juice is good for you. It has vitamins. Fizzy drinks are bad. Trust me – not only am I the closest thing to a big sister you’ve got, on this trip I actually am your big sister.’ She glanced around. ‘The way we intend doing that is that I’ll wander around the city with the ARCC glasses on, looking as many people in the face as I can without it looking weird, and Bradley will use his end of the system to do facial recognition. He’ll run their faces through classified databases of known criminals and terrorists and see if any of them match.’

The waiter brought Kieron’s orange juice.

‘It would probably help,’ Kieron said, after sipping it, ‘if Sam and I went around with our mobiles and took lots of photographs of crowds, or groups of people sitting at outdoor restaurants, and emailed the photographs back every now and then. Bradley could check those against the databases as well. That way you get three times the coverage.’ The taste of the orange juice suddenly hit him, tart and sweet at the same time, and he pursed his lips. ‘Ooh, that’s nice. That’s really nice.’

‘Is it “bae”?’

He stared at her. ‘Just don’t. Adults shouldn’t use teenage slang. It’s embarrassing.’

He looked up to see Bex staring at him. ‘This whole thing would be so much simpler,’ she said quietly after a while, ‘if the two of you were stupid. That way we could just walk away with no regrets. The problem is, you’re not stupid, either of you. You’re very clever. And I know if we send you away, we’ll be losing something.’

‘But you’re still going to send us away,’ he said softly. ‘You have to, don’t you?’

‘If anything were to happen to you – either of you –’ She caught herself, and looked away. ‘I would never forgive myself. And neither would Bradley.’

‘Maybe,’ he ventured carefully, ‘I could apply for a job with MI6. Maybe that way we could keep working together.’

‘It’s not that simple. You’d have to be accepted first, and there’s a general rule that anyone who desperately wants to be in MI6 probably shouldn’t be allowed to be. And then, even if they do take you on, there’s the training courses. Endless training courses. And even then, there’s no guarantee you’d be an agent. You’d be more likely to be put in an analyst job, looking at intelligence reports, or just basic admin or computer stuff. And even if you did manage to get accepted as an agent, there’s more training courses. Weapons, self-defence, survival, undercover skills, defensive and offensive driving … By the time you got through it all, I’d have retired.’

‘And you went through all that?’ he said, impressed.

She shook her head. ‘No, Bradley and I created this ARCC system and MI6 headhunted us.’ She shrugged. ‘OK, we did some of the training – it was a condition of accepting these contracts we’re on. But essentially we’re freelance operatives. No sick pay, no pension scheme.’

He took another sip of juice. ‘In that case,’ he said brightly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, ‘you and Bradley could just hire me and Sam – take us on your books.’

‘Yeah, dream on.’

Bradley joined them shortly after that, and then so did Sam. They had the continental breakfast, which seemed to be mainly slices of cured meat and cheeses, with fifteen different types of bread, brioche or croissant you could put them on or in. Sam actually did stack up alternating layers of cheese and meat in a bagel and carried it back to the table proudly.

‘You’re not going to be able to get that in your mouth,’ Bradley said. He was eating muesli with yoghurt poured over it and blueberries sprinkled across the top.

Sam smiled. ‘You want to bet?’

‘He can unhinge his own jaw, like an anaconda, so he can open his mouth really wide,’ Kieron said. ‘I’ve seen him do it.’ He glanced suspiciously at the towering cheese and meat sandwich. ‘What’s that on the top?’

‘Pineapple,’ Sam replied, sitting down. ‘Fresh as well. They have slices.’

While they ate, Bex briefed Bradley on Kieron’s suggestion. Reluctantly he nodded. ‘Yeah, makes sense. It’s a pretty low-risk thing for the boys to do, and it does increase our chances of identifying faces.’ He looked over at Kieron. ‘Clever thinking.’

‘Are you going to stay here, at the hotel?’ Sam asked.

Bradley shook his head. ‘Actually I think I’m going to sit outside, in an open-air cafe. There’s an Italian tradition of having a shot of brandy with your espresso – I think I might join in, just so I don’t look out of place.’

‘Excuse me,’ Bex said, leaving the table. ‘Back in a minute.’

Kieron and Bradley watched as Sam squashed his loaded bagel down with his hands until it was half the size it had been. Grinning, he picked it up and took a huge bite.

‘You learn something every day,’ Bradley said.

Bex returned within ten minutes, carrying a bag.

‘What have you got?’ Sam asked.

‘Mobile phones – with a pay-as-you go SIM – no contract. We each get one. If we use our own mobile phones then we risk being tracked – especially if this Asrael realises we’re here. This minimises the risk.’ She handed them out. ‘I’ve got a list here of each number, so what I suggest we do is each programme everyone else’s number into your contacts. Obviously you can use the camera on the phone to take all the photographs you want.’ She tapped the bag. ‘I’ve also got memory cards in case you need more memory.’

Sam held his mobile up. His face was creased into a critical frown. ‘Generic Androids? Couldn’t we have gone for something a little more upmarket?’

‘You have much to learn about undercover work,’ Bex said.

Sam glanced at Kieron. ‘Shouldn’t she say that like Yoda?’ he asked. He went on in a grotesquely strangulated voice: ‘“About undercover work you have much to learn.”’

Kieron did his best to suppress a snort of laughter, and looked back at Bex. She was scowling at the two of them.

‘The point is,’ she went on, ‘to blend in, not to stand out. Right – everyone had enough to eat? You two have got the maps Bradley gave you? If not, the front desk can give you colour ones. I suggest we spend the next two hours looking around, then meet back here and recharge the phones while you two give Bradley all your images, and then we can head off and find somewhere for lunch.’

A thought struck Kieron and he put a hand up self-consciously. ‘Er … what about money?’

‘Money?’ Bex repeated blankly.

‘Well, there might be stuff we want to buy. A can of drink, maybe. Or chocolate. Could we, like, just have a little bit?’

Bex sighed and gazed sadly at Bradley. ‘I knew it would come to this – now they want to be paid for what they do. They’ll be wanting pension schemes next.’

Bradley opened his wallet and slipped out a couple of bank notes. ‘Ten euros each. Don’t spend it all at once, don’t buy postcards to send home and don’t buy tatty tourist gifts for your families. Remember – we’re not even supposed to be here.’

As he took the money, Kieron happened to glance up at an elderly couple at a nearby table. He was terrible with ages, but they looked as if they might be in their seventies. They were smiling at him.

‘It’s lovely to see a family together on holiday,’ the woman said. She was plump, with grey hair, glasses and a kind smile.

‘Especially these days,’ her husband said. At least Kieron assumed it was her husband. Maybe they were having an affair and had run off to Venice together – he had no way of knowing. ‘You boys are very lucky, being able to visit a place like this. Make the most of it!’

Kieron didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled an embarrassed half-smile and looked back to Bex. She was handing out the memory cards.

‘Ready to go?’ she asked, looking at him quizzically.

Leaving Bradley still sitting at the restaurant table mulling over his options, Kieron, Sam and Bex left the hotel together, emerging into bright but cold sunlight. Bex looked around.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘this is the Riva degli Schiavoni. Kieron: you turn right and head around the corner. Cross St Mark’s Square diagonally and find your way through the alleys and streets until you get to the Rialto Bridge. Follow signs saying “Ponte di Rialto”. Sam, you turn left and head along the edge of the lagoon until you get bored, then turn left again and head inwards. Just wander around. Make sure you know where you are on your maps: if you don’t, there will be signs. I’ll go this way –’ she pointed right – ‘and head across to the Guggenheim Museum. Don’t take photographs of individuals if you can help it – that’ll just raise suspicions. Take pictures of buildings if you can, or bridges, but try and angle yourselves so that you get a lot of people in the shot and you can see their faces rather than the backs of their heads. If you get lost, either call me or ask someone the way to St Mark’s Square. OK? Everyone happy? Go!’ She waved a hand. ‘Be free, my minions!’

Excitedly, Kieron set off as he was instructed, turning into the large open expanse of St Mark’s Square. Ornate buildings and pillared walkways lined the edges, and pigeons strutted or fluttered everywhere. There was something very familiar about the place – he guessed it was like Trafalgar Square in London or Central Park in New York: everyone had seen bits of it on TV or in films.

He stopped at a massive church, in front of which crowds of tourists milled, taking photographs or just admiring the architecture. He took several photographs himself on his new mobile but, remembering Bex’s instructions, he made it look as if he was photographing the other side of the square, where a large, red-brick tower stood, so he could capture their faces.

Would international criminals attending an assassin’s secret demonstration really be wandering around taking in the sights, he wondered, then caught himself. Of course they would! They also had to eat meals and go to the toilet – just because they were criminals it didn’t mean they weren’t human. Venice was a tourist attraction for people the world over – of course they’d use any free time they had to look around.

Maybe someone at the church was one of the super-criminals who was in town for Asrael’s demonstration. He glanced around, trying to make it look like he was staring at the buildings, but actually checking out the faces. What would an international criminal look like? He imagined someone like a character from a James Bond film: tall and thin, with a dark beard and wearing a black suit with a round collar. Nobody like that was visible: it was mainly young people in jeans or chinos or shorts, with T-shirts or polo shirts, and wearing trainers, or old people in comfortable clothes and leaning on sticks. Maybe the villains were all somewhere else. Maybe they had a tour group of their own, and they were all walking around the city together!

He laughed to himself and moved on.

Rather than go on across the square, as Bex had suggested, he decided to go into the church – partly because he guessed there would be lots of people in there, looking around, and partly because he was interested in seeing what it looked like on the inside anyway.

Outside, the façade of the church facing onto St Mark’s Square consisted of five arched portals flanked by multicoloured marble columns. He moved past them and through a huge pair of bronze doors into the cool and dark interior – the ‘narthex’, he remembered from a project at school. Every church had a narthex. This one was huge, with arches soaring hundreds of metres above his head and joining up to form massive domes, each one of which seemed to be a mosaic of tiles of gold and bright colours. Dizzy, he had to look down at his feet, where he saw that the floor consisted of many hundreds of large marble slabs.

How long had it taken to build this? he wondered. How long had it taken to carve all the statues, and paint the various artworks? Hundreds of years of focus and dedicated effort. How much would it cost to rebuild it these days? Probably more money than any country could afford to spend. And what better use could the money it originally cost to build have been put to – relieving poverty, perhaps?

He spent a while admiring the way the arches led into the domes in sweeping curves. The architectural knowledge it must have taken to be sure that the domes wouldn’t fall in amazed him. He was studying engineering at school, reluctantly, but now, suddenly, he could see what it was all for. He could imagine how the shapes of the arches and the domes could be represented by equations, and how the equations would show if it was safe. It wasn’t like he suddenly understood everything, but he could see how it could be understood.

After about half an hour he felt like he’d taken photographs of every person in the place, twice, so he walked out of the church into the open air and headed across the square to the entrance to an alleyway that led off from one corner. The colonnaded side of the square leading there was lined with shops, and Kieron stopped to browse the windows. These were expensive shops, and the prices on the tickets were enough to make him draw in his breath sharply. Even though they were in euros, the euro and the pound were more or less equivalent – at least that’s what Bex had told them – and there were pairs of shoes here that cost more than his mum made in a month, or that he could ever expect to get in pocket money in a year! And pens – old-style fountain pens – costing more than a week’s groceries. Masks as well: shops selling nothing but masks. Some of them were cheap, plain white plastic ones that simply covered the face anonymously, but others were extravagant affairs made out of varnished leather, with massive beak-like noses and exaggerated foreheads. Why would there be mask shops in Venice?

Heading down the alley, he found himself passing a strange, eclectic mixture of clothes shops, food shops and shops selling glass plates and glass-handled cutlery. The smell of roasting garlic and tomatoes drifted into his nostrils at every turn. And so many people! He kept having to move to one side to avoid them, or detour around groups of tourists who had stopped to look at something: a carving, a statue, a fountain or just a crumbling patch of old bricks.

Kieron had once heard Sam say, about some Shakespeare play they’d been reading in English class, ‘This thing is chock-full of quotes!’ He was beginning to feel the same way about Venice: it was full of history, all stuck together randomly.

He spent the next forty-five minutes or so just wandering, confident in the knowledge that he had a map and a mobile phone if he got into trouble. He passed through squares, past churches and houses and restaurants, across tiny arched bridges and along the footpaths beside canals. And he was almost never alone – there were people everywhere, staring around in wonder and taking incessant photographs. The only time he was alone was in a small square with an ancient fountain in the centre, but as he crossed it he realised that several cats, lounging on the steps around the fountain, were watching his progress.

Every now and then he even saw people wearing masks like the ones he had seen in the shop. They wore robes as well: long black or white robes reaching down to the ground. And strange hats with three peaks. There were usually two or three of them together, and they were always standing posing for tourists to take photographs. This was just like a pantomime.

The people wearing masks made him feel uneasy. He had a feeling they were just part of the whole Venice ‘experience’, some reference back to its ancient history, but given that he was supposed to be searching for potential criminals or terrorists, he found it disconcerting that some people were actually hiding their identities.

Just when he thought he was completely lost, he emerged from a narrow alleyway onto a wide canal. He thought it might be the one that the vaporetto from the airport had taken to get through the centre of Venice to St Mark’s Square. Ahead of him, a large and ornate stone bridge swept up and across the canal. Unlike any of the other bridges he’d seen, it was covered by a stone roof. And it looked old: so old that the stones seemed to have gradually been worn away by centuries of rain.

This was probably the Ponte di Rialto: it seemed like a good bet.

Still taking photographs as he went, he climbed the ramp up to the middle section, then descended to the other side. It was wide enough that there were shops on either side, and at both ends were stalls selling fruits and vegetables.

The bit of Venice on the other side of the bridge had a different ‘feel’ to it: more upmarket, more sophisticated. Kieron chose left-hand alleys whenever he could, trying to direct his path back towards the big canal. When he got to its side again he couldn’t see any other bridges across its width, so he walked back alongside the canal to the Rialto Bridge again, and from there he gradually retraced his steps, with several diversions, back to St Mark’s Square.

He headed towards the Hotel Danieli with a sense of accomplishment. He’d found his way around a strange city, by himself! At least, that’s what he thought, until he realised he was lost. He had a feeling he’d overshot somehow, and ended up in an area he wasn’t familiar with. He found himself on a bridge, staring along the flat, cliff-like walls of the buildings on either side of the water, looking at another bridge that crossed the canal further down. This bridge, however, was entirely encased in stone: a walkway from one side to the other with stone scrolls on top, stone masks carved into the arch underneath, and only two trellised windows through which whoever was on the bridge could see out.

‘It’s called the Bridge of Sighs,’ said a voice.

He turned his head. A woman stood beside him, probably only slightly older than Bex. She had a rucksack on her back, a bandana around her neck and khaki shirt and shorts. She seemed to be shortsighted: the glasses perched on her nose had very thick lenses, and she peered through them. She looked like a Girl Guide leader.

‘Why do they call it that?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘Because it connects the interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace to the cells in the prison on the other side of the canal. The view from those windows was the last view of the city that convicts saw before their imprisonment.’ She smiled. ‘It was supposed that prisoners would sigh at their final glimpse of the beauty outside before being taken down to their cells, and never seeing the light of day again.’

‘Wow,’ Kieron said. It was all he could come up with.

‘It’s just a pretty story invented by Lord Byron, the poet,’ the woman added. ‘The days of inquisitions, torture and summary executions were long over by the time the bridge was built, five hundred or so years ago.’

He glanced back at the bridge. ‘Five hundred years? And it’s still in one piece? It hasn’t fallen into the canal?’

‘They knew how to build things properly in those days.’

‘Can you point me back towards St Mark’s Square?’ he asked.

She gestured in the direction he’d been crossing. ‘It’s literally two minutes away, that way,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ He smiled his gratitude, and left.

When he arrived back at the hotel, he found Bradley sitting outside with a pastry, a large coffee and a small glass of transparent liquid on the table in front of him. He turned to face Kieron through the ARCC glasses, but Kieron had worn those glasses himself, for long periods of time, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether Bradley was seeing him, or was looking at something visible only in the glasses, or both – looking through something visible only in the glasses at Kieron.

‘Hi,’ Kieron said uncertainly. ‘Can I sit down?’

‘Go ahead,’ Bradley said. ‘Have you had fun?’

‘It’s an incredible place,’ Kieron said honestly. ‘It’s so busy, and so old. Do people actually live here as well, or is it just like a kind of historical theme park?’

Bradley laughed. ‘That’s actually a really good description, but no, people actually live here. I’ve sometimes dreamed that if I make enough money I’d buy a place here and retire in comfort, just sitting around drinking grappa and eating pastries.’

‘Even though it’s sinking?’

Bradley shrugged. ‘That could be a problem from an insurance point of view. Maybe I should try Miami instead.’

‘What about sinkholes? I saw a documentary about it. Holes just opening up in the ground and swallowing houses, cars, whatever.’

‘Fair point. How about Japan?’

‘Earthquakes and volcanoes.’

Bradley sighed. ‘Looks like I’m stuck in England then.’

Kieron put his new phone on the table. ‘Here’s the photos I’ve taken. Do you want me to take the memory card out?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Bradley waved his hands in the air for a few seconds. ‘Right – I’ve forced a Bluetooth connection, and I’m downloading the photographs now. And while I’m at it – yes, I’ve also linked your old mobile number to this one, so any phone calls to you just transfer across automatically, and any phone calls you make or texts you send will look like they came from it.’ He slid the phone back across the table. ‘Right – there you go.’

‘Where are the others?’ Kieron asked, looking around.

‘Not back yet.’

‘OK. Is it all right if I just go for a wander? I’d like to see a bit more of this place while I’ve got the chance.’

‘That’s fine.’ Bradley sounded like he was already half distracted, and his fingers were still moving. ‘Be back in half an hour?’

‘OK.’

Bradley pointed vaguely towards where the vaporetti were arriving and leaving. ‘If you go that way you’ll find Harry’s Bar. Ernest Hemingway used to drink there. So did Charlie Chaplin, Orson Welles and Alfred Hitchcock.’

‘I don’t know any of those names. Except for Charlie Chaplin. Isn’t he a comedian?’

Bradley sighed. ‘Kim Kardashian?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of her,’ Kieron said dismissively. ‘I don’t care where she drinks, though.’

He set off in the direction Bradley had indicated. A little way along the Riva degli Schiavoni he came across a large group of tourists gathered around four street musicians, three of whom had steel drums slung around their necks, while the fourth had a drum. They were playing something with a pounding rhythm and a strong melody – Kieron thought he recognised it as the theme from some American TV show he’d caught on cable. He stopped for a few minutes, listening with his eyes closed, feeling the pulse of the drum vibrating through the ground and up into his body through his feet.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ someone said beside him in an accented voice. He opened his eyes and turned his head. A girl stood by his side. She looked to be about the same age as him, but her hair was so blonde it was almost white.

‘It is,’ he said honestly. He smiled shyly.

‘It makes me want to dance.’

‘Not me. I don’t dance.’

She nodded, smiling. ‘That’s sensible. Boys shouldn’t dance. They have no sense of rhythm. They just look stupid, but they don’t know it.’

‘At least I know how stupid I look,’ Kieron said.

‘You don’t look stupid now,’ the girl said. ‘Just don’t dance and ruin it.’

Kieron felt slightly nervous. Excluding Bex, it had been a long time since he’d talked with a girl for this long. To a girl, yes, but that was just him blabbing. Real conversations didn’t happen very often. ‘So, are you from around here, or are you a visitor like me?’

She laughed. ‘Do I sound Italian?’

‘No,’ he replied. Without thinking, he went on: ‘Your accent sounds beautiful though.’

Internally he cringed at the stupidity of the comment, but the girl’s eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. ‘Thank you. I am from Norway. My name is Katrin.’

‘Are you with your family?’

‘With my sisters.’ She took a step back and waved a hand to two girls on her other side. They had very pale blonde hair too, but no freckles. ‘This is Eva, and Hekla.’

‘Hi.’ Kieron nodded and smiled. ‘I’m Kieron.’

‘Are you here with your family?’ one of the girls asked; Kieron wasn’t sure if it was Eva or Hekla.

‘No.’ He caught himself, remembering the cover story that Bex and Bradley had drilled into him. ‘Well, yes – my two brothers and my sister. We’re staying at the Hotel Danieli.’

‘Ah.’ Katrin nodded. ‘So are we!’

‘Perhaps we could look around Venice together?’ Kieron blurted nervously, before he could stop himself.

Instead of sneering and turning away, Katrin smiled. ‘That would be nice.’

The warm tingle of mixed triumph and happiness that ran like lightning through Kieron’s body suddenly got extinguished by the sound of his mobile. He knew it was his mobile because it vibrated as well. Unfortunately, the ring tone it had been set to was the theme from the kids’ TV series Thomas the Tank Engine. Bradley’s idea of a joke? He just hoped the girls took it to be ironic, rather than a declaration of his taste. ‘Sorry – I have to get this.’

‘Sure,’ Katrin said.

Keiron answered the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Bex. Can you come back now? We need to have a conference.’

‘OK.’ Shutting it off, he turned to Katrin. ‘Sorry – I need to go. Maybe I’ll see you in the hotel lobby later?’

Katrin smiled, and Kieron thought his heart might actually melt. ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

The warm glow inside him lasted all the way back to the hotel.