The Nosferatu Scroll

53

The trick with shadowing a car was for the driver of the pursuing vehicle to remain far enough away that the man under surveillance didn’t realize anyone was following him, while at the same time keeping so close to him that he couldn’t – deliberately or accidentally – get lost in traffic. This was why surveillance operations normally used a minimum of four vehicles, including at least one powerful motorcycle able to keep up with any car, and whose rider could cut through even the heaviest traffic. And all these vehicles would swap positions at frequent and irregular intervals so that the target would never be able to see one particular vehicle in his mirrors for long enough to register it.

Bronson, of course, was by himself, but the good news was that all he now had to do was keep his target in sight and avoid being spotted himself, a comparatively easy task in the open waters of the Laguna Veneta. There wasn’t enough boat traffic for him to lose sight of the vessel, and Bronson knew that if it vanished behind an island and didn’t reappear, it would have reached its destination. And that was what he was interested in, nothing else. Following the boat was simply a means to an end.

Once they’d cleared the quite heavy water traffic to the south of the island of Giudecca, the two men in the blue powerboat appeared to focus on the water ahead of them. But still Bronson was cautious and, once he’d established the direction the other boat seemed to be heading, he changed his own course slightly so that he was following a parallel course and heading more towards the centre of the Venetian lagoon.

Under other circumstances it would have been very pleasant, sitting in the powerboat in the bright sunshine, steering the vessel across the blue waters of the lagoon, the area dotted by picturesque islands, some of which had tall and elegant houses standing on them, others with low buildings, some quite dilapidated, while still other islands appeared deserted. Behind him, the bulk of the city dominated the northern end of the lagoon. In the clear afternoon light, over to the north-west, due to one of those freak atmospheric conditions that occasionally occur, he could quite clearly see the impressive snow-capped Dolomite mountains, looking as if they were only about ten miles away, though in fact they were actually about a hundred miles distant.

But Bronson was in no mood to appreciate the aesthetics of the situation. All his attention was focused on the blue powerboat that was still heading south-west, towards the islands that lay near the Italian mainland. The number of other boats heading in the same direction had diminished considerably the further away they’d travelled from Venice, and now there were perhaps only a dozen or so craft within about half a mile of Bronson’s boat.

As the other vessels moved away, he began to worry that the men he was following would become suspicious of him. He couldn’t afford to let this happen, so when another three boats swung west and out of his sight, he realized he was going have to do something.

Easing back the throttle slightly, he picked up the chart of the Laguna Veneta and studied it for a few moments. He was getting close to the southern end of the lagoon, and he knew that the men he was pursuing couldn’t go very much further. He looked ahead at the blue boat, which now seemed to be heading towards a loose group of small islands, quite well separated from each other.

Over to his right was a very small island, only about fifty yards across, which appeared to be uninhabited – or at least, he could see no sign of any buildings or other structures on it – but which looked as if it could provide a reasonable view of the island group towards which the other boat was heading. Making a decision, he eased back still further on the throttle and turned the wheel to the right. The boat heeled over as it changed direction, and Bronson aimed it towards a gently sloping muddy mound, fringed with bushes and a handful of trees, where it looked as if he could beach the boat safely.

A few moments later, he felt the fibreglass hull make contact with the seabed in the shallow water. Immediately, he switched off the outboard motor and pulled his leather jacket back on. He wanted to avoid the white of his shirt being seen on the island, which might alert his quarry that they were being observed.

He clambered forward to the bow of the powerboat, seized the line and vaulted over the side of the vessel, to land with a splash, up to his calves in water. He jogged a few feet up the muddy beach, took a firm hold on the bow line and heaved the boat a few feet further up the beach, then threw the rope around the stem of a large bush and tied it securely: the one thing he couldn’t afford to do was lose the boat.

He checked that the binoculars were still around his neck, then ran a few dozen yards until he reached the southern side of the tiny island, found a vantage point where he could see across the water that lay beyond, and dropped flat on his stomach. In seconds he had located his target.

The two men were looking around, apparently checking out the handful of boats nearby, and Bronson congratulated himself on having hidden his boat from view. As he watched, the boat altered course slightly and headed directly towards one of the islands. Adjusting the focus of his binoculars, he switched his attention to their destination. Another small island, though probably at least ten times bigger than the islet he was lying on, it was dominated by a large, grey stone house.

As he watched, the boat decreased speed slightly and moved around the back of the island and out of sight. Bronson remained motionless for a few minutes and continued studying the scene. But the boat didn’t reappear, although several other powerboats passed to and fro. Finally, he stood upright again and jogged through the undergrowth back to his own boat. There, he picked up the chart of the lagoon, identified the islet he was standing on, and the island behind which the boat had vanished, and marked them both on it.

Now he had something he could take to the Italian police, because he knew there was no way he could tackle the people on the island by himself. Even armed with the pistol, which was still a heavy and comforting weight in the pocket of his leather jacket, he would be outnumbered and outgunned if he tried any kind of a solo attack. What he needed to do was to get a bunch of heavily armed carabinieri out to the island as quickly as possible.

Bronson released the rope, gave the bow of the boat a hefty shove to refloat it, then splashed through the shallows and climbed aboard. As the boat drifted backwards, he started the engine, and swung the wheel to aim the vessel back towards the city of Venice. If this was the island where Angela was being held, he needed to get help. Fast.