| Subject: 'Carnival' - Part Three |
Author:
Daenar
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Date Posted: 14:34:47 07/24/02 Wed
In reply to:
Daenar
's message, "'Carnival' - Part Two" on 14:30:28 07/24/02 Wed
‘Carnival’ – Part Three
Author: Daenar
Disclaimer: See Part One
2243 ZULU
Inside the Arsenale
Castello, Venice
They had accompanied Claire back to Fred’s parents and then headed straight on to the Arsenale, anxious to learn more from Merriner and Quinn themselves. None of them could imagine they had killed the girl. They might be thoughtless and imprudent, but a murder as cruel as this one seemed to be... They found it highly improbable.
Harm and Mac entered the room where the prisoners were being kept. The young men at once sprung to their feet and came to attention.
“At ease,” Harm said immediately, “Sit down.”
They did as he told them. Both were very pale and seemed scared to death.
“Sir,” Merriner blurted out, “Excuse me, sir, but what exactly is going on here? Some Italian came in and said something incoherent about a murder and a knife and... I couldn’t make any sense of it, sir, his English was miserable.” The P.O. had beads of perspiration on his
forehead. Quinn was just staring in front of him as if in shock.
Harm felt compassion for the two young men. “Easy, Petty Officer,” he tried to calm him, careful to use a voice totally different from the one he had let them hear during their earlier encounter. His eyes searched the expressions of the two frightened youngsters but he couldn’t detect anything else than cold fear and desperation for not knowing what was going on.
Mac spoke up now, her voice and attitude totally the opposite, too, of what they had been earlier. “We received a call from our CO, Admiral Chegwidden, the JAG, who told us that the police have found the body of a young girl in a canal near the spot where you stole the navy’s gondola. She has been stabbed to death in what seems an incredibly cruel way. The murder weapon was identified as your knife, Seaman,” she addressed Quinn, whose eyes threatened to pop out of his horror-stricken face.
“No,” he whispered, “That’s not true...”
“I fear it is, Seaman,” Mac continued gently, compassion shining in her eyes. Then she swallowed and looked at Merriner. “But the fingerprints on the knife were yours, Petty Officer.”
Merriner sprung to his feet, panting agitatedly, confusedly running his hand through his very short hair, not knowing where to look. “No, ma’am,”, he shouted, “That... that’s impossible! I mean, my fingerprints may be on it but... I would never.. I... I didn’t...”
Harm put a gentle but firm hand on the P.O.’s upper arm and pulled him down again.
“Try to calm yourself, Petty Officer...,” he tried to reach the young man’s sense through the fear that was clouding his judgement.
“No, sir, you have to believe me, sir, I didn’t kill her! We’d never do a thing like that, sir!” Merriner kept shouting.
“Shut up, Merriner!” Harm thundered. The petty officer immediately held his breath, paling even more, seeming to think that the very last hope he’d had of getting help had been shattered by his uncontrolled behavior. He bit his trembling lower lip.
Harm forced his voice down to normal again. “No one in here is saying you did kill her, Merriner. Or you Quinn.” He let his words sink in and waited. This time it was the seaman who first found his voice.
“Help us, ma’am, sir,” he pleaded, barely audible, the fear in his eyes underlining every syllable.
Harm and Mac looked at each other. They knew if they asked him to, AJ would allow them to defend Merriner and Quinn, although in the first place they had come to perform some kind of a showing-off prosecution. But the facts had changed. Here were two seemingly innocent young men, imploring them for help in a case that offered more than enough evidence against them. Mac read Harm’s unspoken question and gave him a barely visible nod. Harm then turned back to face the accused, his gaze intense and open, thoroughly searching their expressions.
“Petty Officer, Seaman,” he began slowly, his voice urging them to be honest, “For the moment I have nothing to consider in your favor, not the slightest thing that could tell me you are innocent. But I am willing to take your holy word of honor to be convinced that you are. I’m offering you my trust and my word of honor as an officer to do anything in my power to clear you of the accusations if you tell me now that you didn’t kill the girl. But I warn you. If I find that you betrayed my trust and honor – as well as Col. Mackenzie’s for she, too, will stand up for you – I will personally see to it that you will face the full consequences of your deeds. Do you understand me?” He let his gaze wander from one to the other and back. The young men nodded.
“Yes, sir,” they said in a low voice, seeming deeply impressed by Harm’s speech.
Harm took a deep breath and asked the decisive question: “Petty Officer Merriner and Seaman Quinn, can you, with a clean conscience, give me your holy word of honor that you didn’t kill the young woman that was found in the canal?”
“I give you my word of honor, sir, that I didn’t kill her,” Merriner answered solemnly.
“And I, too, give you my word of honor that I didn’t do it, sir,” Quinn added, equally solemn.
Mac and Harm stood as did the two young men. “So it’s settled,” Mac said. “Given the admiral’s permission, we will defend you against any charges that might be brought up against you. Any charges except stealing the gondola, of course.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Merriner quickly acknowledged. “Thank you, ma’am, sir,” he added in a voice that was suddenly loaded with emotion. It conveyed the overwhelming relief that not only wouldn’t he and Quinn have to face the U.S. Navy’s top lawyers’ prosecution, but instead they knew them on their side, doing everything in their power to bring about justice.
Quinn came to attention, looked openly at Mac and saluted. “Semper fidelis,” he said, pure gratefulness shining in his eyes.
The following day
(Sunday, one week and a half before Ash Wednesday)
1146 ZULU
The Venice Questura (police-headquarters)
Near Campo S.Maurizio
San Marco, Venice
A really, really p.o.’d Marine lieutenant colonel was pacing up and down in the office of Commissario Amedeo De Carlo who was sitting behind his desk in quiet amusement, watching the scene. ‘I wouldn’t want to be that partner of hers for anything right now,’ he thought.
Mac was beside herself with rage. Forty-six minutes and thirty-seven seconds, still counting. Where the devil was that arrogant pilot-wannabe-lawyer partner of hers??? Harm had been off to the Arsenale in the morning. After having gotten AJ’s permission to defend, he had wanted to clear some details of the procedure with their clients. He had promised, p-r-o-m-i-s-e-d, to meet her at 1200 sharp at the Questura, where they were to encounter the police officer that handled the murder investigation from the civilian side. Commissario De Carlo had been on time, rather un-Italian, as he had explained to her with a wink. Well, if he could, why, why on earth for one time couldn’t Harm be on time as well?
Just then Mac and De Carlo heard someone run up the stairs that led to the office, and a moment later Harm stumbled into the room, panting, sweating, covered over and over with something Mac wasn’t able to identify yet and, just like her, in a very bad mood. He saw Mac’s killing glare and blurted out before she could even draw her breath: “Save it for once, Mac, I can explain as you may be able to see for yourself.”
“I only see that you are forty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds late,” Mac shouted back. She didn’t care right now if the commissario heard her or not. She was long past worrying. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, leaving us waiting like this, Mr. I’m-a-pilot-don’t-bother-me-with-earthly-regulations?”
At this Harm lost it. “Oh, I see, you already know why I didn’t show up on time! So, Ms. over-correct-know-it-all-don’t-need-to-listen Marine, would you maybe care then to explain to me what the mess I got myself into at St. Mark’s is all about? I, personally, don’t understand it, so, please, enlighten me! I’m listening!” Fuming, he turned and stopped dead in his tracks when he suddenly remembered that they weren’t alone. Embarrassed and cursing himself, he gathered his composure, extending his hand to the smirking police officer.
“Cmdr. Harmon Rabb, Jr. I’m so sorry for being late, Commissario... De Carlo, isn’t it? But I got stuck in an incredible... something right on St. Mark’s square and I literally wasn’t able to move a yard for a full twenty minutes. Can you imagine, people were so close I wasn’t even able to get my cell-phone out of my pocket to call you. And then suddenly the bells were tolling, people were cheering and all this stuff came down right on the spot where I was cramped between one of those pestilence doctors and an enormous baroque courtier. Please, tell me, what on earth is this all about?” Harm asked, thoroughly confused, brushing the many pieces of confetti he was covered with off his uniform and out of his hair.
Commissario De Carlo could no longer refrain from laughing. He had watched their heated exchange first with wonder, then with delight and found it too hard not to laugh at the effect a simple carnival tradition could have on two highly decorated U.S. military officers, both with combat experience. “Excuse me, Commander, Colonel, for speaking up ‘dus freely, but I ‘tink all your quarrels aren’t wort’ the energy wasted in ‘dem,” he told them, fighting fits of laughter. Mac and Harm just stared at him, totally at a loss, their differences forgotten for the present.
The tall, gray-haired man with the well cared-for one-week beard finally managed to calm himself, great amounts of humor and good-natured disposition showing in his brown eyes.
“What you’ve come across, Commander, is a century-old Venetian carnival tradition. Nowadays ‘dere are too many tourists wanting to watch it, so practically every Venetian absolutely avoids St. Mark’s on ‘de Sunday ‘de carnival is officially opened. You got stuck in ‘de so-called ‘Volo della Colombina’, ‘de ‘Flight of ‘de Dove’. You didn’t happen to look into ‘de sky, did you, Commander?” he asked.
Harm shook his head, curiosity showing on his features. “No, I didn’t. Only when the confetti came down but then I couldn’t see anything.”
“At noon on ‘de opening Sunday,” De Carlo explained, “ A huge pasteboard dove is drawn on a rope right from ‘de bell tower of St. Mark’s, ‘de Campanile, over to ‘de balcony of ‘de Palazzo Ducale. And right above ‘de square its belly opens and ‘de Dove... well... disposes of ‘de contents of its tummy, ‘dat would be ‘de confetti.”
Harm stared at him, half amused, half bewildered. “So what came down on me was the paper imitation of something myriads of birds drop every day when they feel nature calling?” He heard Mac snort at his remark. ‘ Thank God,’ he thought, ‘She’s on her way back to normal.’
“If you like to put it ‘dat way, Commander,” De Carlo said, again laughing heartily at the JAG-officers’ expense. But neither of them felt insulted – De Carlo was one of those personalities you couldn’t possibly be angry with as long as they were not angry themselves. “Before we immerge into ‘dat sad business we’re here to investigate,” De Carlo’s face sobered for a moment, but then lit up again, “Being much likely ‘de eldest of us, I suggest we drop ‘de formalities if ‘dat’s o.k. wit’ you. My name’s Amedeo.”
“Harm,” Harm introduced himself, fully agreeing with De Carlo that formalities would only render the investigation more complicated than it already was.
“Mac,” Mac held out straight her hand in her unique way.
De Carlo took it and looked at Mac in friendly wonder. “You have such a beautiful name, Colonel. Would you mind if I called you Sarah?”
Mac couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough, so she just said: “Sure, go ahead.”
Harm felt a slight blow of jealousy. He could count the few times he himself had called her Sarah on one hand. Her given name was very special to him. It felt like a little sacrilege to him to hear her being addressed as Sarah by someone else. It was in this same moment that De Carlo gave a hint at how good an investigator he was. He saw the expression of vexation that for the fraction of a second shadowed the commander’s face and he immediately came to the right conclusions.
“No need for bad feelings, Harm,” he said in his frank and straightforward way. “I have been very happily married ‘dese last fifteen years. No offence.”
“None taken,” Harm answered sheepishly, wondering just how obvious he must have been.
Mac only smiled to herself.
De Carlo sobered. “Let’s get to business. ‘De report has arrived from ‘de coroner.” He opened a drawer and motioned Harm and Mac to approach. He put a file on his desk and opened it, spreading the contents. There were at least half a dozen photos of the victim. Mac caught her breath as she looked at them, Harm felt his stomach tighten. It was a horrible sight. The girl had deep cuts all over the front of her torso and on each side of her neck. The blood had been washed away, but there were still crusts and remnants wherever they looked. But most horrifying of all was a photo of the girl’s face. From a passport photo that lay beside it Mac and Harm could see that Paola Rossi - her name according to police records - must have been a beauty. But on the picture that had been taken where she had been found, practically every inch of her face had been cut, and in such a symmetrical and ritual-like way that the police was sure this had happened while the girl had still been conscious. Mac closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and swallowed. What could possibly kindle such hatred in a human being that he or she was capable of torturing a young girl to such an incredible extent?
“We assume ‘dat, at least, she didn’t slowly bleed to deat’, but ‘dat she died from a direct stab into ‘de heart,” De Carlo stated quietly, his voice guarded but still letting show traces of the burden his job brought with it in situations like these. “At ‘de moment ‘de body is more ‘toroughly examined but ‘de coroner is convinced ‘dat ‘dis knife,”,he showed them a photo of a Swiss pocket knife, over and over covered with dried blood, “Was ‘de weapon used in ‘de killing. Here is ‘de report from ‘de laboratory confirming ‘dat it bore fingerprints of Seaman Quinn, but many more and more recent ones of Petty Officer Merriner. An engraving on ‘de knife’s handle shows ‘de letters of ‘P.Q.’, and a phone call to ‘de USS Cole confirmed ‘dat Quinn owned a Swiss knife wit’ an engraving of ‘de kind. The murderer obviously tried to wipe ‘de handle of ‘de knife but he didn’t do it very ‘toroughly. ‘De body didn’t give us any hints to other persons, no hair, no traces of skin under ‘de victim’s fingernails. So,“ he finished with a sigh, “’Dese are ‘de facts. You have to admit ‘dat it will be a hard job for you to prove ‘dat your clients are innocent.”
Harm took the police officer’s report and tried to figure out some ulterior information from the testimonies of the victim’s relatives and friends with the help of his Spanish. “So... Paola Rossi was last seen by one of her friends at 0100. Did I get that correct?”
De Carlo cast a glance on the report and confirmed by a nod and a grunt. A thought crossed Harm’s mind. If he was right it could turn out a perfect alibi for their clients, but he had to make sure some other things first. So he kept his musings to himself and instead said: “Mac, I think I need to see Merriner and Quinn again. I have some additional questions to ask. Amedeo,” he then turned to De Carlo, “Could I have photocopies of the reports and photos in your file?”
“Of course. I’ll see to it personally. If you wait right here, I will have ‘dem for you in a minute.” De Carlo immediately rose, grabbed the folder and exited the office.
“Wow. Full service,” Mac murmured. Then she turned to Harm, smiling a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I should have listened.”
Harm flashed her a genuine grin. “And I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Besides,” he admitted, grinning, “I probably would have been late anyway. Armistice?” He held out his hand and cocked an eyebrow.
“Yep.” Mac took his hand and gave it a relieved squeeze, smiling.
De Carlo returned with a new folder in his hand which he handed to them. “I copied every’ting out of my file. If you need any’ting else or if you or I find out some’ting, we’ll ring up each o’der, okay? My cell-phone number is on top. I still have yours, Harm.”
“Sure, thanks for your help, Amedeo,” Harm replied.
“Di niente, Comandante.” De Carlo showed them to the door, giving them a little street map on which he had marked a way to the Arsenale that was much longer, but at least didn’t come close to St. Mark’s.
1314 ZULU
Inside the Arsenale
Castello, Venice
“Ma’am, sir,” Merriner and Quinn echoed as they came to attention, seeing Harm and Mac enter.
“At ease.” Harm motioned them to sit. “Just a few questions. Did anyone see you while you were rowing, someone who could confirm you were alone?”
Merriner and Quinn shook their heads. “No, sir.”
But then Quinn’s face suddenly lit up. “On our way someone called out to us, sir. I think we must have been rather noisy, drunk as we were, fighting with the unfamiliar vehicle and... Alan,” he turned to the petty officer, “Where was that where this guy kept shouting until we had passed his house?”
Merriner seemed to try hard to remember. Suddenly, he, too, sat up straight. “It was more or less where this big exhibition place is, you know, the... Palazzo yadada. I can’t remember the name, sir. Anyway that guy shouted out to us in English, at least he tried very hard to do so, sir, it was utter gibberish, but we got the meaning anyway, that we should stop making such noise...Grassi, sir. The palace is called Palazzo Grassi.”
Mac looked at Harm, puzzled. She had no idea where his thoughts were headed. She resolved to ask him on the way home.
“Okay, noted,” her partner went on. “So we now have to find the witness. I’ll arrange that you can point out the window to us tomorrow. Another thing. Seaman, do you know how your knife got into the murderer’s hands?”
“I can only assume, sir,” Quinn said quietly. “When we decided to take the challenge of rowing, Alan, uhm, P.O. Merriner suggested we rid our pockets of all things that could fall into the canal if we went overboard. We told the guys to keep an eye on them until we’d return the gondola. I was so drunk that I had difficulties with my trousers’ pockets, so P.O. Merriner lunged into the one on my right side and took out the knife and put it on the pavement along with the other stuff. I guess that’s how his fingerprints got on it. After that I don’t know what happened to it.”
Mac frowned. “So maybe those guys would be able to tell us. You don’t remember anything about them?”
Merriner shook his head. “Not very much, ma’am,” he said, “They were in disguise and had masks in front of their faces. One was a harlequin and two were in those all-black cloaks with triangular hats and black veils, you see them quite often. The only thing I noted was that one of the masks was really particular. It was made as if you could wear it upside down and your face would change from happy to angry, and it was in some strange deep purple color. But apart from that I don’t remember anything.”
“That doesn’t take us very far,” Mac said, exasperated.
Harm rose. “Well, thank you for the moment. We’ll let you know for our trip to where you think our witness can be found.”
They exchanged greetings and Mac and Harm left the room.
Outside she turned to Harm, curiosity written in bald letters all across her face. “What are you up to now, squid? Care to share?”
Harm gave her a rather thoughtful smile. “Not yet, Mac. I don’t have it all straight in my own mind yet. I first have to ask Fred something I think he can tell us. We’ll see him anyway at 2100 at the mayor’s reception.”
Mac bit back a comment. If Harm chose not to tell her, it wouldn’t be because he didn’t trust her. Maybe he was really still working this out for himself yet. He would tell her when he had.
2023 ZULU
Municipio (town hall)
Near Rialto Bridge
San Marco, Venice
Harm was getting bored. He and Mac were standing in a corner of a very crowded room, clinging to their glasses of San Pellegrino and waiting for Fred and Claire to show up. AJ was talking to some friends of Admiral Della Rosa’s. That left them to themselves and to the pastime of watching. Watching everything.
First the room. Harm had to admit it was an impressing one. Like many representative Venetian palaces it had a very high ceiling, about 20 feet, he estimated. It was made of century-old, dark wooden beams with paintings in-between them. Huge, gold-framed paintings also hung on most of the walls that were covered with satin tapestries. The floor was made of polished stone. Chinese rugs were positioned on the most favorable spots. The furniture seemed to be baroque, sort of. He somehow had the impression it was more recent than it was meant to make believe.
Then there were the people. Dressed formal but not letting it affect their attitudes. The Italian seemed to wear Armani or Gucci as if they had been born in them. Had they? Harm wondered. People were talking animatedly, using ample gesturing not only with hands and arms but with their whole bodies to stress the meaning of their statements. Harm thought he might need a little training on that kind of talk – maybe it would make an impression on an Italian judge they might be confronting.
And then there was Mac. Harm admitted to himself that he was watching her far more than anything else. She was stunning. For tonight’s reception and the formal dinner that would follow she had chosen a simple dark green silk dress that fitted her body tightly down to her hips and then fell a little loose down to the floor. The décolleté left her shoulders bare and was cut very deep in front. Broad straps held the dress in place just below the curve of her shoulders on her upper arms. A broad dark green shawl was hanging loose from one elbow across her back to the other elbow. She had combed her hair off her face and tucked it loosely behind her ears. When Harm had first seen her, he thought his heart must have skipped a beat.
Mac was getting quite a few admiring glances, and she enjoyed them, mostly for the fact that they seemed to make Harm uneasy. He was getting protective and she loved being taken care of by him. He was in his mess dress, not dress whites, as this was an evening invitation. But next to his dress whites she found mess dress did very well for his looks, too. And she noticed the envious glances she got from some of the women... Well, she didn’t mind if they believed she and Harm were an item.
Suddenly she felt Harm tug at her shawl. “Look there are Fred and Claire,” he said, obviously happy to see someone they knew. Prumetti and his fiancée had seen them, too, and came over to greet them.
“Good evening, ma’am, sir,” Fred said with a wink, knowing they had to be formal as they were in uniform.
“Good evening,” Claire echoed, smiling. She was wearing a light blue dress with spaghetti straps and a light blue shawl similar to Mac’s. Had to be a fashion of some sort, Harm decided.
Mac and Harm greeted their friends and finally began to really enjoy the evening, now that they had someone agreeable to converse with. Shortly after, they were asked to sit at the stunningly set dinner table. Someone had seen to it that Harm and Mac were sitting next to the liaisons officer – Fred. Not that they complained.
Dinner was delicious and abundant. It opened with a ‘peperonata’, cold steam-cooked and marinated peppers and zucchini, the soup was a ‘minestrone’, a fine broth with vegetables in it, (Harm was very pleased with the mayor’s choice of food so far whereas Mac was beginning to miss the meat), the ‘primo’ – the first main course – was Milanese risotto. All yellow, it was made of rice, parmigiano and saffron. Then, finally, Mac got her meat, as the ‘secondo’ – the second main course – revealed itself as veal medaillons with broccoli and potato gratin. Harm, in a quick movement, shoved his meat onto her plate and, equally quickly, got her broccoli in return. Fred and Claire tried to refrain from laughing. Then, over their little plates of assorted cheese – “to close the stomach” as Fred would put it – Harm seized the opportunity of asking the lieutenant the question that had been on his mind ever since they had talked to De Carlo.
“Lieutenant,” he began, “How long does it take to row a gondola from San Zaccaria, you know, where the navy’s gondola has been stolen, to Rialto, or to be exact, to the canal it has been found in?”
“About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, sir, for an experienced gondoliere. Why?”
“Well, the victim in our case was last seen alive at 0100. Merriner, Quinn and the gondola were found near Rialto at 0130. We think we have a witness who can testify that nobody went with them. Would the timing fit?” Harm felt Mac give him a pat on his thigh. He looked at her and found her eyes beaming him an ‘I’m-impressed-flyboy’ smile.
Fred thought only for a second. “No way, sir. If it was their first time on a gondola and if they were drunk, they’d never make it in 30 minutes. An hour and a half at the very least.”
“How can you be so sure?” Mac asked, her eyebrows up.
“The ‘Voga Veneta’, ma’am, Venetian style rowing, let alone in a gondola, the most sophisticated of Venetian boats, takes very long to master,” Fred explained. “I practiced for years to become as quick as I am now. If Merriner and Quinn really went alone it’s quite a surprise to me that they got this far.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant, that’s exactly what I hoped you’d tell me”, Harm said with a grin. “Now we would need you to testify that.”
“Of course, sir.”
“How come De Carlo didn’t think of it?” Mac wondered.
“I know the commissario, ma’am,” Fred answered. “He is a very good investigator, but he is from Milan and started working in Venice only about a year ago. So it’s natural for him to not think of such a Venetian particularity.”
“Uh, Mac...” Harm said slowly, unsure how to proceed. What he was about to suggest was weird at the least. A bit like firing a bullet into a courtroom ceiling, quite his kind of style. Mac looked at him suspiciously as if she suspected him ready to pull another stunt of the sort.
“I would like to have a practical proof at hand in court,” Harm went on, “You know, a piece of convincing evidence, adding to the lieutenant’s testimony.”
Pieces were suddenly falling into place inside Mac’s mind. She turned to Harm with a warning glare. “No, Harm, don’t even think of it!”
“Why not?” he asked innocently. “We don’t know any more of Venetian rowing than Merriner and Quinn did. And if the lieutenant could provide us with a gondola and capture our trip on videotape, we’d have a much stronger point.”
“I won’t let you ridicule us again in court,” Mac snapped, but half-heartedly. She knew he was right. And somehow she was up for a challenge. “Okay, count me on,” she eventually sighed.
“I knew you’d say that, jarhead,” Harm smirked. “Lieutenant, you don’t happen to have a gondola you could lend to us? And a camcorder?”
Prumetti had instantly understood Harm’s idea. Smiling he answered: “I do, sir, both of them, at my parents’. I’ll be expecting you at the Zattere at 0200, sir. You know how to get there?”
“Accademia Bridge,” Harm answered. He remembered it from having taken Claire home the day before. “We’ll be there.”
0105 ZULU
Prumetti’s house
Zattere embankment
Dorsoduro, Venice
‘Why did I let him talk me into this crap?’ Mac kept asking herself as she and Harm, in training suits, were approaching Fred’s house. She wasn’t pleased at the prospect of making a fool of herself on a videotape in a courtroom. But her thoughts were interrupted by Fred calling out to them.
“Harm, Mac, over here,” they heard him shout in a guarded voice. As the approached, they saw him standing on the edge of the embankment, a gondola tied to a pole at his side. He was holding a huge row in each hand. Claire was standing beside him, preparing the camcorder.
“Here we are,” Harm stated gleefully. He was actually looking forward to their little trip.
“Well... Claire start filming... for the record,” Fred neared his watch to the camera’s lens, “It’s February 26th, 0214 ALPHA, I’m Sottotenente di Vascello Federico Prumetti, over there we have Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. and Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie. Neither of them has ever rowed a gondola. What we are trying to prove is that it is impossible for beginners to reach Rialto, starting from San Marco, in half an hour. Responsible for filming is Ms. Claire Farnham. We won’t stop the tape, so there can be no accusations we omitted or added anything. As military officers Col. Mackenzie, Cmdr. Rabb an me pledge our honor to the truth and originality of this recording.” Claire let the camera wander to Harm and Mac who confirmed Fred’s words with a nod.
“I’ll explain the technique to you, ma’am, sir,” Fred began. He put one row down and brought the other into the right position, still standing on the pavement. “You have to push with your wrists flexed in a negative angle, then pull back with your wrists flexed in a positive angle.” He demonstrated it, the row resting on one point on the pavement. “To steer, the man at the row in the back must push it to the right to go left and pull it more to himself to go right. That’s it – theoretically. Try to anticipate the boat’s movements so you probably won’t fall into the canal.”
With that he handed a row to each of them, and Harm and Mac carefully stepped onto the wildly rocking gondola. ‘This is going to be fun’, Mac swore silently. Fred and Claire got onto a little motorboat in order to follow them.
“Ma’am, you should go to the front and you to the back, sir,” Fred advised them. They balanced to their positions and put the rows into place, Mac failing to go overboard as a wave caused by a passing motorboat hit the gondola. “F...antastic!” she hissed.
Harm meanwhile was beginning to regret his plan. He was fighting hard to take a firm stand, several feet high above the water. But he was determined to conquer this. Eventually they had got accustomed a little to the rocking of the gondola and where ready to depart. Fred began to count a rowing rhythm for them and Mac and Harm tried desperately to take it up without falling into the canal. While Mac’s position in the front was merely that of a motor, Harm had to cope with the maneuvering, too, and he soon found the gondola going anywhere but where he wanted it to. At least for the present they were still on the over-large Canale della Giudecca that ran alongside the Zattere embankment, but they had to get to St. Mark’s and from there along the Grand Canal right up to Rialto. Heaven knew how they would do that, and how long it would take them!
Mac was beginning to sweat heavily despite the low February temperature and the sea mist that was wetting everything. With every movement she cursed her partner. They had been so nicely dressed, sociable and good-humored earlier. And now this!
Finally, after 20 minutes of hard work, they had managed to reach St. Mark’s. Harm steered them in a big circle and they headed in their final direction, into the Grand Canal. Fred let the camera once again see his watch. He was taking care not to come too close to Mac and Harm as his boat was causing waves.
Luckily traffic on the Grand Canal at this time of the night was almost non-existent. They stopped to let pass a lonely ‘vaporetto’, a swimming public ‘bus’, and took up rowing again when its malevolent influence on the gondola’s stability had passed. By now they had somehow worked out a mode in which they succeeded to gain yard after yard. But Harm still didn’t have a clue how on earth he was to steer this thing. They would drift farther and farther to one side of the canal until Fred would tell him exactly what to do to return to their original route. Then the whole thing would start all over again. At the end they had at least doubled the length of their trip by happily zigzagging across the canal.
Time had long expired. Try as they might, they had – partly against their own pride – proven that for beginners it would be impossible to reach Rialto in the given amount of time. When they finally arrived, panting, dripping with sweat and really upset, Fred’s watch showed 0355.
“We will stop the recording now as shortly our tape will expire,” Fred said into the camcorder’s microphone. “It is 0355 ALPHA and the colonel and the commander have barely reached Rialto. We consider this the practical proof of our theory.” With that, he told a freezing Claire to switch off the camera.
“Okay, Harm, Mac, you’ve done a great job, really. You can get on the motorboat now and I’ll take the gondola back home,” Fred told them.
Mac laid her row down inside the gondola and sat down, rubbing her aching back. This sailor of hers owed her big time, she decided. Harm put his row down, too, and sighed, closing his eyes with relief. That was a mistake. He missed an incoming wave, failed to flex his knees, lost his balance and, with an “aaah” and a loud splash, ended up in the canal.
He was swearing loudly when Fred brought the motorboat over to rescue him. Suddenly Mac was beginning to feel that this trip had been fun after all. Especially when Claire, with a wink, showed her the red “recording” light on her camera.
To be continued...
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