Express Pursuit Page 12

  Maybe it was reckless to pursue my planned itinerary while a bomber likely hung around Venice Santa Lucia Train Station, but since all the bombing had occurred involving only train stations I gathered that if something happened, I would be at a safe distance. Also, these terrorists wanted nothing better than to create a sense a general panic within the public opinion and I would not give them the satisfaction of locking myself in my hotel room until my departure.

  A glance at my watch made me jump out of bed: 7:30 AM. Agent Steinfield was still busy on the phone with his back turned away from me. He was speaking in Italian, and the only words I caught was “carabinieri” and “Si, Si, Si”.

  After stealing a bite of toast and gulping down the orange juice, I headed to the bathroom to shower and change.

  When I exited, he was still on the phone, but his tone of voice was showing he was at the end of the conversation.

  I interrupted him. “Excuse me, but you need to leave.” He uttered two more words before closing the device and putting it away.

  “Good timing. The head of the Venetian police is waiting for you at 9:00 AM, so we’ll be just in time. Don’t you want to eat anything else?” he asked with a hint of concern in his voice while sticking a folded strip of bacon in his mouth.

  “I am not going. I already told them what happened last night before they brought me back to the hotel. Besides, I have reservations for my visits, and I cannot be late. My tickets will expire if I get there fifteen minutes late. And I will not wait three hours in line to see the Basilica and the Doge’s Palace. So if you’ll excuse me, I need you to leave so I can close the door. I thank you again for rescuing me last night, but this is it.” I took a step toward the door, but he was quicker and leaned against it.

  “Did you actually think this whole situation would disappear overnight? They need a full deposition. Must I remind that you may carry a deadly piece of equipment and that until I or the local authorities find it, I expect you to follow police and securities official requests.

  I took a step back upon hearing his loaded statement.

  “What do you want me to do?” I almost yelled at him. “I don’t have your bloody piece of equipment. You searched all of my luggage already.” Taking a quick look around the room and at his face, I added, “And I’m sure you had another go at it last night while I slept.” His lips curved discreetly, but the cat was out of the bag. He didn’t deny it. During my quick survey of the room, I noticed a strange recess on the mattress beside where I slept. I must have been wrestling with my covers again. In haste, I put out of my head any other explanation.

  “Prefetto Baglioni is expecting you at 9:00 AM, and that’s final” he said, crossing his arms.

  “And where is the police headquarters?”

  “Calle San Zaccaria, near Hotel Danieli. If you hurry, you might make it in time for 9:00 AM. And I might as well tell you; you are not his favorite person this morning.” He opened the door to let us out.

  Grabbing my purse, I humored him because when he struck his hard-as-a-rock pose, there was no moving him.

  The weather was splendid, and the historical city swarmed with tourists creating congestion in the streets leading to the well-known sites. The clock tower, a short distance away, chimed nine times with its musical carillon. Although I consider myself in shape, I had to jog after Steinfield who, with his long strides, could distance me without rushing. I was still reeling with his statement about the head of police who had found, it seemed, an obscure reason to dislike me before even meeting me. What was that all about?

  We were almost there, and I noticed that the office was near the Piazza San Marco so I wouldn’t be far from the Basilica and should be there in time for my scheduled entrance tickets. But first things first.

  “Agent Steinfield, stop; I need to talk to you before we go in!” I called, almost shouting because he was a good three steps ahead of me. He halted and turned and waited for me to get to his level.

  “What is it?” His voice betrayed an edge of impatience.

  “Why did you say earlier that the head of police dislikes me?”

  He scanned the people milling around and pulled me to a less crowded side alley. After ensuring that no one was within earshot, he leaned his tall frame and hesitated before answering my question.

  My cheek flushed when he plunged his jungle eyes into mine as if he was searching whether he should tell me the truth or the sugar-coated version. He’d better not take my treacherous blush as a sign of nervousness about what he would say. It was not my bloody fault if the man raised my blood pressure whenever he stood too close for comfort.

  “The head of the police department received a report from the Italian Counter Terrorist Branch in Venice. They know that you are likely carrying a dangerous piece of equipment that could jeopardize the security of Santa Lucia Train Station.”

  “But that’s not true,” I objected. I was starting to think that the authorities might have an ulterior motive to let me continue this trip.

  “Well then, once they see that, they’ll let you go as soon as they finish interrogating you.”

  His eyes slanted at me, and he checked his watch once again.

  “There is still no word of any explosion here, right? I mean, you would have heard about that before it went public I would think.”

  He crossed his arm, and his mouth settled into a hard line.

  “What you don’t know, because it’s classified information”—he paused, looking at me with a pointed look to make sure I understood that he was parting with sensitive information—“is that last night, due to increased security measures in the airport and the train station, the explosive squad forces found a botched explosive job on the tracts of the causeway leading to Santa Lucia train station. Had the detonator worked, not only would there have been hundreds of casualties but it would have also destroyed the causeway, if we consider the quantity of bombing equipment the squad found along the tracts. Because of a small technical error in the set-up, the deadly chain reaction was prevented.”

  I felt a chill run in my back, and horrific images passed in my head as if I was watching a catastrophe movie. My emotions pulled in a tug of war between rage and despair. Would death and sorrow follow me wherever I went? Why had this one failed, and the other succeeded?

  “C’mon; we’ll be late,” he urged me by nudging my arm to get me moving again.

  The Carabinieri Commisario San Marco was a noisy place, rendered worse by the high plastered ceilings and hard wood floor echoing every sounds. Sharp police voices mingled with the loud and frequent aggressive voices of people on the wrong side of the law. An odor of stale expresso, beer breath and mildew lingered on the yellowed walls of the building. I was led by Steinfield into one of the back offices. Two police officers were waiting for us. One of them appeared to be in charge since he had more insignia on his uniform that his younger subordinate holding an iPad. After a brief exchange with Steinfield, the latter introduced me to Direttore Generale della Pubblica Sicurezza, Preffecto Baglioni, a portly man with undulating gray hair and bulging eyes. A young security agent, acting as translator, accompanied him. The Casanova must have bathed in aftershave.

  The interrogation covered topics from my presence in Campo di Gallo, my reasons for traveling on the Orient-Express, and my occupation at home. After forty minutes of incessant questions by the senior officer, the younger one turned on his iPad and swivelled the screen in my direction. He presented me with several hundred pictures of mugshots of Italian wrongdoers, active national and international terrorists.

  I recognized none. The Dirrectore pulled Steinfield outside of the office, leaving me with the younger one standing behind me. This did not look good.

  After I stewed for ten minutes with my hard wired nerves, Steinfield returned with the Dirrectore.

  The latter barked a clipped order in my direction.

  “They want your passport,” Steinfield translated.


  Horror struck me. Do they have the intention of confiscating it? Should I ask to speak to the US consulate before relenting? Would they take my hesitation as an admission that something was not right? But more important, did I have a choice?

  “What are you waiting for?” he hissed.

  “What if they don’t give it back?”

  The senior director of public security rose from his desk and was about to give further instructions to his assistant. A quick look at Steinfield informed me he was not someone I should rub on the wrong side, considering my current debased position; so with a trembling hand, I handed over my passport and sense of freedom.

  Grabbing it, he slid between glances at me and my ID picture a few times to establish if the match was correct, then he gave me a curt nod.

  His finger was now pointing at my purse. I didn’t need a translation for that one and braced myself for yet another examination of its content. A thought flashed my mind. I should buy myself a fool proof bag, full equipped with mouse traps to have the pleasure of watching everyone get pinched with it.

  After donning a pair of purple latex gloves, the senior officer emptied it and checked each item one by one, taking his time as if he had nothing else to do today. He even opened my lip gloss, make-up bottle, agenda, and looked at my Lifesaver roll. Next, he clicked on the pen and turned on my cell phone. Passing a hand on the leather finish of the purse, he then decided it was worth a sniff. He lifted his head and exchanged a few comments in hush voice with the younger officer.

  Had he found something odd? Steinfield stepped in their exchange.

  “La borsa cadde nel canale,” he interjected.

  Arching a brow, the senior officer turned the empty purse upside down and gave it a hefty shake. Nothing.

  The tone of his voice showed that he was making a serious statement about me. I couldn’t understand, but the look he gave Steinfield made me uneasy. The latter didn’t seem too comfortable either with what the senior officer said.

  After putting all the items back in my purse, Bagglioni handed it back. I took it with relief, and after hanging it on the back of my chair; I held out my hand.

  “What about my passport?” I asked, dreading the answer I suspected. I prayed to be wrong, but the stiff posture and closed face of the man told me he understood too well my gesture.

  “Il passaporto viene confiscato fino a nuovo avviso,” he said with a tone that won’t allow any argument.

  I can’t have my passport back? I did nothing wrong. This is so unfair and one sided. The man and his assistant had already left the room when I turned to Steinfield for help.

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot intervene into Italian police affairs. I guess this is a good time as any to inform you that the Interpol has placed several official notices over your head. They are international requests for cooperation or alerts to help the police of different countries share critical crime-related information.”

  “Well, I guess I have no choice but to call the US Consulate and my parents to let them know of this situation.”

  He lifted his index finger up and waved it. “No need for that. I’ll explain to you later.”

  “But what about those notices you mentioned?”

  “These notices are being diffused and forwarded to every level of intelligence and police force across the globe as we speak, but, as I said, they are requests of information only, not warrants for your arrest.”

  He had said it with the utmost calm as if it was business as usual for him. Well, what was I supposed to do in the meantime? Have him tail me everywhere I went?

  A shiver ran through me, and I struggled to control my erratic palpitation, but my flaring temper was another matter. They almost treated me as if I was the criminal here and not this Rachid.

  “So you mean to say I should consider myself lucky that they haven't decided to lock me up just yet, is that right?” I whispered with the petulant tone of a five-year-old child.

  He took a step closer to make sure he had all my attention.

  “I warn you, it wouldn’t take much to tempt them at this point,” he replied, sticking his hands in his slacks pockets.

  As a grand finale, I was brought into a small room by another officer who took mug shots and finger prints. I never felt so humiliated. When they finished, the possibility of my eventual tourist visit to an Italian prison was becoming more than tangible. Should I think about hiring a lawyer? When I came out after a few minutes, I was relieved to learn Steinfield had been standing right outside the door because I heard a faint jiggle and deducted he needed to calm his temper too. After a few steps toward the exit, he sighed.

  “Aren’t you late for something?” He placed a hand on the small of my back to escort me out of the building.

  “Oh!” I glanced at my watch. “I need to get to the Basilica before ten o’clock, and I only have five minutes.”

  I dashed out of the police building and headed at full speed to the Piazza San Marco. Although there wasn’t a long route to my destination, the crowded streets turned my sprint into an obstacle run.

  The triple domes of the Basilica San Marco looked like a tiara surmounted by three scoops of ice cream trimmed with delicate lace. The feminine daintiness of its proportions coupled with the golden mosaic adorning its three main entrances amazed me with its colors, despite its ripe age.

  I headed to the left entrance with the blue door as per instruction on my ticket. The queue of waiting visitors snaked the whole width and side of the building. I estimated that there must be about two hundred people waiting to go in.

  Another look at the time had me run faster. I posted myself before the security agent at the iron gate. Too short of breath to talk, I showed her my ticket with imploring eyes since I knew too well I was ten minutes past the limit time.

  “Spiacente, la tua troppo tardi per questo biglietto. Si prego di farsi da parte ,” She said, shaking her head left to right and waving me off with her hand.

  What a disappointment. This employee of the city was a real zealot to refuse me access because of a meager ten minutes. I wished I had the talent to charm my way with her like Drake would do. This was all Preffetto Baglionni’s fault with his incessant questions.

  I scanned the Piazza to check if I’d succeeded in losing my chivalrous black knight. Despite the crowd, I spotted him without difficulty. He was sitting on a terrace talking on the phone with a coffee, his hair sticking off in different directions. At least, he allowed me the illusion of freedom. He turned his head in my direction as if sensing my eyes on him. How could this be possible since he was halfway across the extensive Piazza, a good hundred-fifty feet away? It was like he was tuned into my frequency. I didn’t know if I should take this as a compliment or a curse.

  To kill time until my next visit, I browsed the windows of the boutiques of the arcade of shops surrounding the Piazza. Most of them offered assorted local fares such as handmade Murano glass jewelry, paper mâché carnival masks and art work picturing the local architecture and canals. It seemed a little presumptuous to buy souvenirs since I had yet to visit the city and “do” the sights, so I refrained.

  I got in line with ten minutes in advance for my guided tour of the Doges Palace.

  Its beige and white stone motif and clover eyelet decorative windows was another graceful piece of architecture. Even if I would not remember most of the names and dates mentioned about the 14th century landmark, the tour, escorted by an English-speaking guide, was very interesting. The interior rooms, decadent with luxurious and expansive works of art was made to impress. Some paintings depicting extensive battle scenes were larger than my New York condo. However, the austerity of the rooms created a strong sense of the authority of the leaders of the Serenissima, as the Venetians like to call her. Those doges didn’t suffer from humility, judging from the many commissioned paintings showing their glorious victories. Their audacity went as far as having themselves painted with divine halos to equal saints.
Talk about being conceited.

  Next on the itinerary, the guide took us to the Bridge of Sigh, wrongly associated with romance, although the oversexed Casanova had been incarcerated here. Then again, I felt an unexpected sympathy for those prisoners of the city who rotted here, and a sigh escaped my lips as the dark prison reminded me of my own uncertain freedom. It was rather strange to see the tourists on the street below taking a picture of the bridge from that vantage point. Did people in those days stand on the streets gawking at the dejected prisoner inside? Perhaps back then, the prisoner were being thrown putrid vegetables where we now instead pointed our camera.

  How long would the chef of the police hold on to my passport? For sure, I couldn’t go anywhere without it. I should let my parents know, but why worry them if this mishap would be resolved tomorrow? Perhaps the police just needed to validate the authenticity of my passport further. Once they realized that all is in order, they’ll give it back, right? I’ve heard it was not a good idea to antagonize foreign police forces, so, I had to bite my time on this one. God knows patience is not my forte.

  After the visit, I was welcomed by the midday sunbathed Piazza. Kids were chasing flocks of pigeons to watch the spectacles of their takeoff and their quick return to their previous positions. The unison of flapping wings reminded me of a deck of card being flipped before shuffling. Although it was almost noon, I didn’t feel like eating much. Regardless, the inviting cafes of the large square, each featuring their own live music band, attracted my tired feet as if on auto-pilot.

  Venice, Piazza San Marco, Cafe Florian, Midday

  The Cafe Florian, boasted my travel guide book, was renowned for its legendary celebrity patrons since its opening in 1720. A peak inside promised a memorable experience, judging by the elaborated decorated rooms. Josie would have enjoyed the gilded oversized mirrors, the museum quality frescos and the old world charm of this venerable establishment. However, the bright yellow chairs and parasols, along with the proximity of the orchestra playing “Summertime” was enough for me to choose an outside table.