Paula smiled in the shade of the parasol as a light breeze washed off the canal. “Radical art, I expect.”
“You reckon he’s going to ship it out all at once?”
“Most likely. The risk was in putting the items together. Now he’s exporting, it’ll be a couple of big crates to a legitimate destination.”
“Right out the back door, huh?”
“Yes.” From behind her big sunglasses, Paula gazed at the solid gray-painted wood of the gallery’s loading door, visualizing the cargo boat tying up beside it, the containers being lowered onto the deck. They’d do it in the middle of the day, of course. A simple honest shipment, nothing to hide. Wherever it went—out to the docks that fronted the Acri district where the big seagoing ships put in, or the cargo yard at the Prato monorail station—she’d follow it. Somewhere down the line, Bradley Johansson would be waiting.
Adam Elvin leaned back against the purple cord cushions in the back of the gondola as it slid gracefully along the narrow canal. It was one of the little waterways that zigzagged around large blocks, connecting and crossing the larger canals. The side walls were high here, slimed with weed and dirt. Water slapped against the cracked brickwork, slowly eroding the mortar—there were entire sections that had been repaired with new bricks and hard cement, looking totally out of place. Bridges curved overhead like miniature tunnels. Each block had a row of near-identical blank wooden doors a meter above the tide line, fastened by heavy iron bolts. They passed several that were open, with little cargo boats tied up outside, their crew manhandling crates and boxes into the dark interiors.
Every delivery in Venice Coast was by boat, adding to the cost of living here. Adam hadn’t appreciated that before he came, that the only transport in each district was either walking or boat. The monorail took you between districts, but that was all.
They turned out onto the famous Rovigo canal, one of the major channels through the Cesena district. The venturi trees lined both sides; planted a century ago their trunks resembled gnarled copper pillars reaching over twenty-five meters high, with arched boughs that trailed long strands of yellow-gold leaves as thin as tissue. Each one had its own sieve well that had been drilled under the pavement into the boggy subsoil, allowing the roots to suck up fresh water. Adam was lucky enough to be visiting during the fortnight they were in bloom. Each branch ended in a triune of brilliant amethyst ruff flowers as big as footballs. Already, though, petals were beginning to fade and fall, snowing onto the heads of delighted gondola tourists like scented confetti.
Adam smiled appreciatively as the gondolier slowed down, allowing him to soak up the sight and smell of the wonderful native trees. The boutiques and galleries on either side of the Rovigo were among the more exclusive in Venice Coast, with dark glass windows illustrating single examples of their expensive prestige products. Not far away, the strange and wonderful twisted neo-Gothic spire of StPeter’s Cathedral towered above the city’s red tile roofs like a pre-Commonwealth silver space rocket.
The Rovigo ended at a junction with the Clade canal. They waited between the last of the venturi trees for a big glass-topped, air-conditioned tourist bus boat to chug past. The wash slapped at the gondola, much to the gondolier’s disgust; half of his conversation during the trip had been a diatribe against any boat that had an engine. Adam looked along the Clade, seeing the broad waterway slowly curving away from him, with the back of the Nystol Gallery just visible. There were only about ten other boats on this section, a couple of gondolas, some cargo boats, a taxi; the pavement along the side was equally empty, with a few tourists wandering along. Even the cafés were almost deserted—
“Stop!” Adam hissed at the gondolier.
The man looked back at him in surprise, the pole poised ready to push them out into the Clade now the water bus had passed. “Is clear now,” he complained.
“Go back. Do not go out onto the Clade. Understand? Do not take me out there. Take me back to the monorail station.” He produced a thick roll of notes from his pocket, and peeled off over a hundred Anacona dollars.
