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Late that afternoon Shirley and Dalton roared into Venice and screeched into the Garage San Marco Venizia, a large public parking structure near the bus and train stations at the edge of the city. Venice has no roads beyond that point. One can only get around by foot, or by water: water bus (inexpensive), water taxi (very expensive), or gondola (an extortionate, once-in-a-lifetime, luxurious canoe trip to bankruptcy, but fun).
As they parked and took off their helmets to put grease on his face, a young kid ran by and took their pictures, and immediately shouted to his friends that he had found Dalton. He screamed and jumped up and down exactly like he had just found ten million dollars.
Dalton slapped his helmet back on and they jumped back on the motorcycle and roared around the parking lot at random, up and down helical ramps, chased by a rapidly growing number of shouting kids, plus a few shouting adults.
“If we stay in here, the police will corner us,” said Dalton. “We have to get out. Head for the exit!”
“You have a plan?”
“Gimme a second ... I need to call Sal. Stand by ... ” Dalton reached under his helmet and pressed his earphone to activate it, then voice-dialed Sal. “Sal? Dalton. We’re in Venice and we’re in trouble. I’ve been spotted.”
“Yes, I know,” said Sal. “I’m tracking your GPS location on your phone. And the police are en route.”
“Swell. Look, if we’re on foot, can you guide us to your place?”
“Sure, but only if the police aren’t following. I don’t particularly want to guide the police to my home. And, unfortunately, you’re on the wrong side of the Grand Canal. There are only four bridges across it. Two are near you, but you can bet they will be heavily guarded. That leaves the Academia bridge and the Rialto bridge. There’s a Carabinieri office only half a block from you. And there’s always lots of police at the train station. So, whatever you do, don’t stay where you are.”
“Okay, we’re going to have to split up. I’m going to go on foot and, if I’m clear of police, you can guide me in. Shirley is going to be a diversion. Then she’ll park her bike and, if she’s clear of police, you can guide her in. How’s that sound?”
“Like a mutual suicide pact. But I’ve got nothing better. Look, this is important: if it looks like you’re going to be captured, for God’s sake throw your phones in a canal. If they take your phones they can track your past calls and they’ll find me.”
Dalton said, “Okay, will do. Here’s a plan. Shirley, please set your GPS destination as Academia bridge. Let’s get going as soon as your GPS is ready.”
Sal cut in, “Careful. GPS is spotty in Venice. The narrow alleys block the signal. But you’ll find lots of little yellow signs on buildings pointing to the Academia bridge and the Rialto bridge. You won’t need GPS except as backup.”
They roared out of the parking garage, through the wide bus parking area outside, and into the city, quickly leaving their running pursuers in their dust. The pursuers stopped running and dropped their jaws in unison. Driving a motorcycle on the city walkways was a brand new concept to them, like driving a tank through a crowded church.
Dalton hung on for dear life as Shirley weaved between buses, some parked, some moving, then through narrow walkways. He relayed Sal’s message to her and continued to rattle off his plan.
“Okay, Shirley, head for the Academia bridge. When you get there, do NOT cross the bridge. This is the diversion. I need you to draw everyone off the bridge. As soon as you get there, head for the Rialto bridge and go across it. Then head for Biennial Park. It’s at the far end of Venice. Remember, you’re the diversion, so make as much noise as you can. When you reach the Biennial Park area, park your motorcycle in an alley without being seen. Leave your jacket, chaps, and helmet there. Walk away with both your and my suitcase. Remember, it’s crucial that you bring my suitcase. From that point on you’re a typical tourist. Don’t worry about your motorcycle. The police will take good care of it once they find it. We’ll get it back. When you’re safely away from the motorcycle, call Sal, and she’ll guide you from there. Shirley, do you have Sal’s number? Sal, you got Shirley’s? Good.”
“As for me, as soon as we hit a dense residential area, in some small alley where we won’t be seen, I’ll get off and continue on foot. I’ll head for the Academia bridge as fast as I can behind you. Your job is to make so much commotion that you draw any guard, and as many people as possible, off the Academia bridge.
“Sal, did you copy all that?”
“Yes. Sounds just crazy enough to ... get us all killed. Let’s do it. Just so you know, I’ve got a husband and three kids. I really don’t want to go to jail. Remember about the cell phones.”
“We’ll remember,” said Dalton. “Shirley, that alley ahead looks like a good place to stop.”
She stopped. He got off, took off his helmet and jacket, and threw them in a nearby dumpster. “Now there’s no proof there were two of us. I’ll pay you for them later.”
Dalton stood for a second and looked at Shirley.
“Shirley, I’ve never seen your face. I don’t know what you look like.”
“Oh. That’s right. You don’t.” She gunned the bike and squealed off on one wheel.
That’s funny, thought Dalton. In a movie or a game that could have been a romantic moment. I wonder why it wasn’t?
He reached down in the gutter and found some muck to smear above one eye and below the other. Then he started running in her direction while programming his GPS for the Academia bridge.
Sal was right about the signs. Dalton didn’t need GPS. He could easily follow the signs as he ran. But as he ran, he saw several other people walking or jogging with their cell phones in front of their faces. He realized those were people with the app, trying to identify him. So his problem became also his solution: he continued running with his phone right in front of his face, as if he, too, were using the app. That way people couldn’t photograph his face.
“Sal, you still there?”
“Still here, Dalton. And following your progress on Google Maps. You’re doing fine.”
“How do I say ‘Police, get down’ in Italian?”
“Good idea. You say, Polizia! Giù, giù, sdraiate ora!” And try to sound arrogant when you say it. The Italian police can be pretty arrogant when they’re giving orders to civilians.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
“One other little detail, Dalton. In all the rush I didn’t want to waste time telling you. But Benny came through with all the FBI hacks that he had hoped for. And it turns out the FBI already has very thorough hacks into the Italian police systems. I have access to them here. Every Italian policeman is located via their cell phones. So I’m following their locations as well as yours. I’ll warn you if they get close. But you’ll have to watch out for civilians on your own.”
“Will do. Right now I’m running with my face obscured. They’ll have trouble getting a clear photo.”
Shirley kept the bike in first gear for almost the entire diversion. Her rpm gauge hovered near the red line. Her motor sang, it seemed to her, with pure, unrestrained joy. To everyone else the motor shrieked basso profundo, like a bull elephant with his balls on fire.
She screamed into the square at the western end of the Academia bridge and did a couple of three-sixties to get everyone’s attention. The three-sixties were superfluous. Everyone was already staring at her, pointing, photographing, or running in her direction.
She headed north, then east, toward the Rialto bridge.
She made a couple of wrong turns. Thinking it was a gate, she drove through large arched double doors into a small museum. The museum docent clapped her hands over her ears and shrieked back at the motorcycle. A redlined motorcycle with minimal muffler, inside a living-room-sized stone room, inside a stone building, has all the sonic qualities of the inside of a jet engine on afterburner. The sound echoed and re-echoed off the stone walls, growing and growing in intensity until it was no longer sound. It was a continuous explosion. Not even Shirley’s noise cancelling helmet could block it all out. Fortunately, the doors on the opposite side of the room were open. She continued straight through, into a park beyond. Her ears were ringing. Nice museum. Looks interesting, she thought. I must come back later for a better look.
There’s a rhythm to Venice’s layout. A few narrow alleys. Then a piazza with a few dozen people sitting at tables in front of cafes or trattorias or gelato shops. Then more alleys. Then another piazza. Not quite tritely picturesque, but close. It might almost get monotonous. But not for a screaming banshee, the fastest thing ever to traverse Venice. For Shirley it was like being the ball in a pinball game, while trying desperately not to score any points by hitting anything. She was constantly dodging things: some stationary, some running and screaming.
She overshot the Rialto bridge at first, a few alleys too far north. She plowed through an open-air fish market. Looks like Italians eat lots of squid and octopus. That’s too adventurous for me. But the salmon looks excellent.
The only time she went to second gear was as she raced down the long, straight approach from the fish market to the north end of the Rialto bridge. With her rpms still redlining, everyone in Venice could hear her. The people on the walkways had plenty of time to recover from shock and move out of her way. She had a clear shot up the bridge’s stroller ramp. It would be bumpy but manageable for an off-road bike.
There are some things, she thought as she accelerated toward the bridge, that you simply won’t get a second chance at. If I miss this opportunity, Daddy will never forgive me. The Rialto bridge is a long, gently curved arch. Long and gentle, that is, if you’re walking. If you’re riding a redlined, screaming demon, it’s short and steep on the near side.
The far side didn’t matter.
Shirley went airborne from the top of the bridge, looked level at shocked faces in fourth floor windows as she flew past, and made it halfway to plaza Campo Bortolomio before landing. Her tires squealed on the flagstones as she braked nearly to a stop in the plaza, and raced the motor for two three-sixties, while looking around at the hundreds of people taking video of her. For you Daddy. Then she roared out of the square en route to Biennial Park.
The motor plus the thunderous cheers and applause echoed through every alley and piazza of the entire city.
Dalton heard it as he ran through an alley a half mile away. It sounded like a goal at the World Cup while the Blue Angels flew overhead. Damn, lady, you’re good!
For Shirley the plan worked perfectly, surprising everybody, including the strung-out mob of sprinting, panting police, who hadn’t a prayer of keeping up.
She jumped off her cycle next to a dumpster in a deserted alley near Biennial Park, and tore off her black riding outfit. Underneath she wore white slacks, a light blue blouse, plus a flashy but tasteful necklace with matching bracelet and earrings.
For the next few minutes, as she retraced her path while pulling the two suitcases, several policemen ran past her in random directions. Tourists pull suitcases everywhere in Venice. Shirley was the same, only classier. The idea that this stylish vision of white and pastel blue might be the Mad Racer of Venice simply could not fit in anyone’s mind.
With Sal’s occasional guidance, Shirley had a long, leisurely walk, sightseeing from the far southeast corner of Venice all the way to Cannaregio, the ancient Jewish district furthest north. Two miles as the crow flies. Over three miles as the tourist meanders, pulling two suitcases along random walkways, up and down stairways, and over bridges. She arrived safe and unfollowed at Sal’s house.
Dalton’s path was a little trickier.
Sal said, “Dalton, the police are still getting organized, so you’ve got a couple of minutes. For what it’s worth, my specialty is Assassins Creed tours of Italy. How physically fit are you? I need to know if you can climb ladders and such. It might help.”
“I work out regularly. Not a gymnast, but in good shape.”
“Okay. I’ll give you directions as we go. But better you don’t know my location until you get here, just in case you get caught. Walk five meters, then turn left into the alley. Good. Now ten more meters. Look up to your right. Grab the fire escape ladder and climb to the roof. The police aren’t watching the rooftops yet. Hopefully no one else is, either.”
Only three floors to the top. Dalton looked around. “Oh, crap. There’s three other people up here. Two are pointing their cell phone cameras at me, and the third is offering me a beer.”
“Okay, this is going to get really interesting really fast. First, take the beer. You’ll need it. Go as far as you can to your front left. There’s another fire escape there. Go down to the street. You’ve just covered one block. Let me know when you’re there.”
Fifteen seconds. “I’m there.”
“Good. Turn left. Run thirty meters and turn into the alley. Good. There’s a dumpster on your left. Get in it.”
“I’m in it. Holy mother of cat litter, this stinks!”
“Quiet! Now the police are on the move. Those people on the rooftop called them. We have to wait for them to go past you. So drink the beer.”
Glug, glug. “Oh, man, that’s the good stuff.”
“What brand is it?”
“Baladin.”
“You are one lucky son of a bitch. About the beer, anyway. Unfortunately, the police have not moved past your alley. They’re still nearby. It’s time to push our luck.”
Dalton stopped in mid-glug. “Huh? What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to try to start a war between the local police and the Carabinieri. If I can get them to fight over you someplace else, maybe I can pull them away from you. Stay put.”
“I’ll never leave. This is my favorite dumpster. Smells and all.”
“Good man. Stand by, I’m going offline for a bit.”
Two minutes passed. Then four. Dalton was catching his breath, which is difficult when you’re saturated in the stench of dead fish.
“Dalton?”
“Here.”
“Quietly get out of the dumpster and walk quickly to your left. The alley curves to the right.”
Ethan Hunt, help me out here. “I’m out and walking.” And mentally humming theme music.
“When you reach the end of the alley, you’ll see a bridge. The police are off the bridge but nearby to your right, and looking away from you, I hope. Get down on all fours. Glance out of the alley for the police.”
“They’re looking away.”
“Good. Now stay on all fours. Go across the walkway to the bridge. Stay below the stone railing so the guards on the next bridge can’t see you ... Okay, I see you’re over the bridge. Continue straight ahead into that alley. Three more meters. You can stand up now. Walk quickly ... Turn right. Follow that alley. Go straight across the next major walkway. There are two more police to your right. Keep your head down and facing left, but make it look natural, like you’re reading your phone ... They’re moving the other way. You’re clear. Now I’ll take you along a back alley route to my place. It’s a mile or so, I live in the northern part of town.”
“Can I faint now?”
“You can in twenty minutes. Hang on.”
“Sal, you have got to turn this into a live action game. Even terrified, I’m having the most fun I’ve ever had.”
“Not a bad idea. Now go straight for fifty meters then turn right ... ”
“Sal, one of the guys from the roof is following me and is talking on his phone. I’m screwed.”
Sal replied, “Not necessarily. I’ve got an idea. There’s a crowded plaza two blocks to your left. Head for it.”
“Walk INTO a crowd? Are you nuts?”
“Not walk. Run. And when you get there, scream and shout and dance and wave your arms and get everyone to identify you.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard!”
“In America, yes. But this is Italy. Do as I say if you want to escape. Trust me, I’m a sociologist.”
“I thought you were a computer hacker.”
“I majored in Sociology because I love it. I minored in Computer Science because I occasionally need to eat.”
Shortly Dalton said, “Okay, I’m in the piazza, jogging around, waving my arms. Everyone’s starting to run after me. Jesus H Murgatroyd Christ, there must be thirty of them! Now what?”
“See the statue in the corner of the piazza and the alley behind it? Run into that alley. Full speed. In one block turn left ... Good, two blocks ... now right, one block ... left again. You’re doing great. You can slow to a fast walk now. I doubt anyone’s following you.”
“You’re right. There’s no one there. How did you do that?”
“Simple Italian psychology. Plus elementary hydrodynamics. Italians share the ancient Greek heritage of democracy. It’s deep in our culture. Well, democracy is just one big, eternal argument. That’s why we argue so much. When argument stops, democracy stops. So, one of the hallmarks of democracy is compromise. That means no big winners. That means that in a crowd of people running, Italians care less about who they’re chasing, and more about making sure that no one in their mob gets ahead of the others. (Turn right here.) So they grab onto anyone who gets out in front and hold them back. Call it jealousy. Call it envy. But it’s actually deeply rooted democracy. The upshot is that the mob chasing you spontaneously formed a wall of people, with no one out in front.”
“Interesting,” said Dalton. “And the hydrodynamics?”
“An Italian crowd can be modeled as a non-Newtonian fluid with very high surface tension. When a massed wall of people hits a narrow alley, no one gets through.”
“Damn, that’s impressive. That wasn’t in the articles I read about Italian culture.”
“Just thank God you weren’t being chased by Americans. At least one of them would have pulled a gun and shot you in the back to keep you from getting away, even though they would have forfeited the ten million dollar bounty.”
“I think you might be right. It’s not very flattering. But it sounds right. But ... why?”
“(Turn left here.) You Americans think you have a heritage of democracy. But nothing could be further from the truth. America was colonized by religious zealots. Absolutist fanatics who evaded the Renaissance or were kicked out. That heritage is embedded deep in American culture. You call it exceptionalism and patriotism. That’s nationalistic fanaticism. But it originated in religious fanaticism. And it can’t tolerate dissent because dissent is heresy.”
“Heresy?!”
“Heresy. You think you are God’s chosen people. When someone defies you, they defy God, and you want to kill them in righteous rage. (Turn right here.) That’s why when someone runs away, you take it as defiance of all that’s holy. Your first instinct isn’t to chase them. Your first instinct is to get enraged and shoot them. Oh, you might feel sorry afterwards. Intellectually you know it’s wrong. But you also feel satisfied. You just executed a heretic. And in doing so you validated your own fanaticism.”
“That’s nuts!”
“The rest of the world completely agrees. Not even Islam is that bloodthirsty, except for a tiny percentage of fanatics. But in America it’s mainstream. That utter certainty, that arrogance, that total lack of humility, and contempt for humility in others, comes only from religion. Even religions that espouse humility.”
“We need to talk more about this.”
“Maybe. But you’re American. Maybe not. Go over the bridge ahead and turn left into the alley. You’re almost home.”