Assassin [antikvár]

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall Windows opening onto the Grand Canal. There were silken peacocks in the velvet draperies and they stirred in the salty Adriatic breeze. These warm evening zephyrs sent sunstruck motes of dust swirling indolently upward toward the vaulted and gilded ceiling. Naked, lying atop the brocade coverlet of the grand canopied bed, the Honorable Simon Clarkson Stanfield rolled over and impatiently stubbed out his cigarette in the heavy crystal ashtray beside his bed. He lifted his keen grey eyes to the windows and gazed intently at the scene beyond them. The timeless and ceaseless navigation of Venetians had never lost its fascination forhim. At this moment, however, the vaporetti, water taxis, and produce-laden gondolás plying their way past the Gritti Palace were not the focus of his attention. Nor were the fairy-tale Byzantine and Baroque pdlazzi lining the opposite side of the canal, shimmering in the waning golden light. His attention was directed toward a sleek mahogany motorboat that was just now working its way through the trajffic. The beautiful Riva seemed to be heading for the Grittis floating dock.