The Good Thief's Guide to Venice by Chris Ewan Page B

hop and a skip away from the bustling Strada Nova, with its tacky restaurants and English-language bars and souvenir outlets. This was a private Venice, unknown to all but the wealthiest residents, the odd disorientated soul and the occasional reluctant thief.
    Reaching upwards, I grasped the edge of my woollen hat and rolled the material down over my face until the eye holes were in place. As a general rule, I don’t like to wear a balaclava. Too many terrorists and career criminals have given the garment a bad name, and I’ve never relished the idea of being spotted wearing a ski mask and having someone assume that I’m an armed robber. Tonight, I was willing to change my approach. There were the security cameras for one thing, but since this wasn’t a job I’d gone looking for, or cased by myself, it made sense to be as cautious as possible. And besides, the balaclava would keep my face warm and dry.
    I hefted the weighty briefcase and made directly for the gate, triggering the security light and embarking upon my patented Step Programme for Recovering Law-Abiding Citizens.
    Step one: I planted the briefcase down, jumped onto it and scrambled up the slippery fretwork of the gate until I was level with the security camera. The lens was pointed directly at me, but it didn’t see me for long. Removing my mittens, I stuck one of them on the end as a makeshift lens cap. According to my instructions, this wasn’t the type of situation where a watchful security guard would be glued to a bank of security monitors at all hours of the day. Instead, the camera footage was simply recorded. That suited me, and it also suited my Italian pen friend. Her plan involved me returning the case without being caught, all while leaving enough evidence to pinpoint the exact time at which the dastardly deed was done – thus keeping her in the clear, if it ever became relevant, by virtue of the fact that she was currently enjoying the company of Count Borelli at the oldest, and some would say, finest casino in all of Europe.
    Step two: I jumped down from the gate and inspected the magnetic sensor alarm. Jeez . I was starting to think that maybe I should set up a company selling modern security systems in the city, because at this rate I’d make an absolute killing. The alarm was about as basic as it gets – short of tying a string of tin cans to your door – and after pulling the necessary tools from my spectacles case, I had the thing neutralised in less time than it takes to tell it.
    Step three: I armed myself with the heftiest pick I carried and tinkered with the lock. It was trickier than it had any right to be. The temperature didn’t help. Yes, it was getting to my fingers through my plastic gloves, but it seemed like the mechanism had frozen up just a touch. I dug around in my pocket for my cigarette packet and fished out my lighter. I worked the flame and held it to the keyhole and counted to ten. I stopped at eight when I realised the tip of my glove was melting, then I poked at the lock a second time round. Lucky for me, the thing yielded and clunked open, and I was finally able to grab for the briefcase and scurry away from the glare of the lamp.
    The garden was carpeted in sodden lawn, with no discernible path. I took my time crossing it, wary of any sudden dips or concealed fish ponds. The footprints I was leaving in the muddy grass didn’t make me spectacularly happy, but they didn’t bother me all that much, either. It was too dark for them to be seen from the house, and even if they were still visible in the morning and some wily detective decided to record my tread imprints, I didn’t see what harm it could cause. After all, there had to be more than one or two people residing in Venice with size-ten feet.
    Halfway through the garden, I caught sight of a gap in the wall and made my way to a courtyard area, where the cobblestones were greasy with rain. A nude male statue was coated in water droplets over to my left,