Sam smiled at him by way of a defence mechanism. Buying some time as her brain started to boot up and race through all of the permutations of what was happening – and where she might be.
She glanced behind the man. Ahh. There was someone she recognised. Holly Mickelson. Things started to coalesce.
Ask her, she’ll know.
‘Hello, Holly.’ It was a rasp. She suppressed a cough. The pain was ebbing. She really didn’t want it flowing again.
Holly smiled. It was a glorious beam of a smile from a young woman who looked like she had just won the state lottery. Or had fallen head over heels with the nicest, most handsome man on earth. Or woman. Sam didn’t care.
‘I’m so sorry, but in the excitement, I’ve forgotten your name. Are you OK?’
The man was still looking at Sam in a quizzical way. Sam guessed he was a doctor. Or someone who had bought a stethoscope from a market, and was pretending to be one. Whatever, she thought that she was one helluva patient. A gunshot wound. A semi-dislocated shoulder. And, a set of lungs full of seawater!
Latent terror washed over her. She flinched inwardly. It was all pouring back in a tsunami of feelings, all of which hurt. The bit about the swimming, the going under, the fear of being in a place she couldn’t get out of, the drowning – it all spat at her with disdain.
Sam’s stomach couldn’t take the emotion and tried to retch. Her oesophagus closed just in time, but that didn’t prevent the old man from moving his legs so that any vomit would have missed his worn-at-the-knees green cords.
She forced aside the memories and tried to focus on the present. Her mind span like a roulette wheel, loaded with multiple balls. As one stopped, a thought came to her; then another.
And she still hadn’t answered Holly’s question.
What day is it? What’s the time? Where am I? How close is Rome? Does anyone have a telephone?
Sam stopped her cacophony of thoughts in their tracks, and focused on two: what time is it; I need a telephone.
‘My name is Sam. What time is it?’
The old man, who didn’t seem to understand a word, looked from Sam to Holly.
‘It’s about 5.30. In the morning.’ He looked back at Sam again. Centre court at Wimbledon.
‘How long have I been out?’ The man continued to follow the conversation.
‘About two and a half hours?’
Sam looked at what she was wearing. A pair of joggers and an, oversized for her, woollen jumper. Bless them.
‘I need a telephone. Do these people have one?’ Sam nodded at the old man/doctor, who smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘Yes. A landline.’
‘Take me to it.’
‘But. You’re badly injured. The doctor here has patched you up. He’s put a drip in to rehydrate you…’ Holly pointed at the plastic bag that hung from the wardrobe, and a tube that ran from it to Sam’s right forearm.
How did I miss that? Sam pushed herself up (Ouch!), and swung her feet off the bed. The doctor stood to give Sam some room, and reached for the drip which was in danger of being pulled from the wardrobe door.
As Sam positioned herself to get off the bed, she looked down at her right arm; she used her free hand to remove the medical tape that was holding the cannula in place and detached the drip. The doctor sighed, collected the line and turned off the butterfly switch to stop it from leaking.
‘Have you phoned the police?’ I should have asked that first.
‘No.’ Holly looked agitatedly at Sam. She had her hands out, preparing to accept Sam as she stood. ‘The doctor and his wife wouldn’t let me. I speak a little Italian, and they can’t speak any English. But it was clear to me that they don’t trust the police round here. At all.’
Bloody Mafia.
Sam was on her feet. And then she sat back down again. That was tougher than I expected.
Then she was up. This time using Holly’s arm for support.
‘I have phoned my daddy, though.’ Holly stopped there. Sam looked at her. She guessed Holly was waiting to see if she approved.
‘Congressman Mickelson? Good. What did he say?’ Sam was waddling now. Out through the bedroom door, half following, half leading Holly. She was looking down to see where she was placing her feet. But she could sense another one of those broad, beautiful smiles on Holly’s face.
‘He was over the moon. He was crying. I’ve never heard him cry before. Anyhow, I told him where I was, which is a fishing village called Scauri, and that I was being really well looked after by an elderly Italian family…’
Sam put up her good hand to stop them both. They were at the end of a short dark corridor. It looked like the lounge ahead. She needed a quick breather. This walking malarkey was tougher than she remembered.
Holly stopped and turned to her.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. How far from Rome are we?’ Sam asked.
‘I don’t know. All I know is that Daddy said to stay where I was, and that they would get someone from the Embassy in Rome to the village as soon as possible.’
They were walking again now. Sam spotted an old, red plastic telephone on a wooden sideboard a few metres away.
‘Did you mention me?’ She picked up the phone.
‘I was going to. But Daddy cut me off. He said he had to get hold of the Embassy as soon as possible.’
Sam was dialling now.
‘How long ago did you have this conversation?’
‘About an hour ago. I was just about to phone Daddy again to check how things were, when you started making noises in your sleep…’
Sam put up her hand. The phone rang twice and then it was picked up.
‘Jane Baker? Who is this?’
Sam knew that Jane would be looking at the Italian number and trying to compute.
She took a deep breath.
‘It’s Sam, Jane.’
Nothing.
‘No. No!! Sam, where are you? Oh my god! Are you OK?’ The emotion poured down the line.
And to think, last night I was wishing myself dead – when I have people who care about me as much as Jane.
‘Apparently, in a little fishing village called Scauri: S-C-A-U-R-I. I’m guessing close to Rome, but without Google Maps I have no idea. Listen. The bomb has been unloaded. Probably between midnight and two this morning. I’m pretty confident that it was on a tender which was being pulled by Cressida – it looked like a small fishing boat; wooden, just about seaworthy. I reckon they have a two-hour head-start on us.’
There was a pause. Holly was hopping from one foot to another, obviously excited about something. Sam looked crossly at her, and turned away.
‘So, that’s where you’ve been. We should have guessed. God, Sam, it’s so good to hear your voice. Look, it’s a long story, but I’m in Rome – at the Embassy. Everyone assumed the target was Marseilles. I guess I don’t need to explain why, but in short, it’s the French connection. Anyway, I was surplus to requirements, so came here.’
Holly had walked round Sam and was facing her. She had her hand up like a young kid in class, impatient to go to the loo.
Exasperated, Sam asked Jane to wait, and put her hand on the telephone’s mouthpiece.
‘What?’ We’ve got a terrorist bomb plot to prevent.
‘I saw the bomb, or whatever it is. It was being offloaded onto the dockside. I think it was being transferred to the back of a van.’
Sam dropped her hand from the mouthpiece and held the receiver out so that Holly would be speaking to both she and Jane.
‘So sorry, Holly.’ She really was. ‘Tell both of us. Jane,’ Sam bent her head to the phone, ‘this is Holly Mickelson. It’s another long story.’
Sam didn’t allow Jane to ask any questions. She mouthed at Holly, ‘Go on.’
Holly bent her head forward.
‘Hi. When we got ashore, I ended up at the harbour. There was a boat and a crane. And three men, I think. And a van.’
Sam interrupted.
‘Tell us about the van, Holly. We don’t have much time. This is really important.’
Sam could see Holly trying hard to piece together what she had seen.
‘Sorry, I’m not very good at this. It was small.’ She dithered. ‘Like a van you might see at a market stall. That’s all.’
‘Colour?’ The screech came from down the telephone line.
‘Light. Maybe, orange.’
‘Were there any street lights lit at the harbour?’ It was Sam’s turn.
Holly closed her eyes in thought.
‘Yes. The orangey type, overhead ones. Pink tinge possibly.’
‘The van is white, Jane,’ Sam corrected. ‘Not much help.’
‘How big?’ Sam pressed.
‘Not much bigger than a car.’
‘And the men?’
As best she could, Holly described the two white men who were on the dock and the man in the boat. She was able to give a much more accurate description of her abductor. But for the others, it was very outline stuff.
‘There was a fourth man. On the dock. He seemed to come from the van. He was taller than the others. Dark skinned and slim. I thought maybe he was Asian?’
‘Or North African?’ Sam added.
‘Exactly. Yes, I thought that as well.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Sorry Sam. Clothes is the best I can do. Although, possibly a leather jacket?’
‘He must be the driver,’ Sam added for Jane’s benefit; it was an obvious conclusion.
‘Anything else, Holly?’ Another screech from the telephone from Jane.
Holly scrunched her face up.
‘The van, Holly. Think. The van. It’s very important,’ Sam added.
Holly looked beyond Sam, who glanced over her shoulder (God, that hurt.) to follow her gaze. Holly was looking at a small oil painting of the Virgin Mary – it was above the fireplace. The room’s centrepiece.
A light seemed to go on in Holly’s head.
‘It had an awning. Like you’d need for a market stall. And a window in the sliding door.’
She thought some more. ‘That’s it. Sorry.’
‘No, that’s really good and very helpful, Holly,’ Sam said, bringing the receiver back to her ear.
Jane interrupted them.
‘One of the guys here has come back with a distance between you and Rome. Let’s round it up to 180 kilometres. They could be in Rome already, or close. Although, Roman traffic is notorious, even at this time of day. Whatever, we don’t have much time.’
Sam checked the clock on the mantelshelf. It was 5.50am. Jane was right. The market van could be in Rome already.
‘Sam. I need to get this to the SISMI liaison officer, who’s having a nap in the corner of the ops room. We have the LEWT on standby at St Peter’s – any mobile within a click’s radius would be disabled the moment the team switch their machine on. I think the Vatican is the most likely target.’ Sam wasn’t sure if Jane wanted her to comment – she certainly agreed with the choice. ‘As soon as I kick him, we’ll have it up and running. And, when they get this message, I’m sure the carabinieri will stop and search every white market or delivery van in Christendom. I’d better go.’
‘Do you have this number?’
There was silence. Sam assumed that Jane was checking the screen on her phone.
‘Yes. Got it. Great to hear you, Sam. Speak soon.’
The phone went dead.
Sam looked at the receiver. And then put it down in its cradle.
That was it. She had done everything she could. There was nothing else to do, other than wait.
Could she wait?
She wasn’t sure. Especially as there was something at the back of her mind that was bothering her. Some snippet of intelligence that she’d picked up on the way and discarded. Something that she now thought might be important, but couldn’t find it in her memory banks. She’d keep trying.
They were joined in the room by the doctor and an elderly woman (wife?), who was even shorter than her husband. In one hand, she was carrying a plateful of pizza slices. In the other, a hexagonal silver pot – that looked like it might be holding coffee.
‘Pizza al trancio? Caffè?’
Sam smiled and nodded.
The smile was for effect. She wasn’t happy.
She was restless.
They didn’t have enough intelligence.
She hadn’t seen the van. No one, other than Holly, had seen the van.
How many white vans would there be in metropolitan Rome?
Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.
And, if she were a terrorist, she would pick an obscure route; avoiding nosey policemen. They’d already dropped the device off some distance from Rome, at an unlikely harbour. ‘Tick’ against them for that. These people were working hard to get this right.
Worse still, if the van got stuck or compromised outside of the LEWT’s jamming zone, the terrorists could detonate it anyway. They may not get to the Vatican, but they could pick anywhere in central Rome and still have a devastating effect.
A white van, somewhere in the centre of Rome.
A white van…
…That only Holly has seen.
‘Holly!’
She had a mouthful of pizza.
‘Whacfts?’ Holly swallowed quickly. ‘What?’
Holly put the half-eaten slice of pizza back on the plate that the old-lady was holding. Sam sensed that Holly knew where this was going.
‘Would you recognise the van if you saw it again?’
‘I don’t know, but I could give it a try.’
‘How’s your Italian?’
‘Adequate, why?’
‘We need a car. And a mobile. Now!’
The expression on Holly’s face went from ‘confused’ to ‘excited’ in less than a second.
‘You and me? Looking for the van?’
‘Yes. You’re the only person on our side who will recognise it. And I know some people who can help.’ Sam pointed at the phone. ‘Between us, I think we make a good team.’
‘How big is the bomb?’
Sam didn’t see fear in Holly’s face – she saw determination.
‘It’s not its size you need to worry about.’
It took the pair of them about ten minutes to persuade the good doctor and his wife to lend them their only mobile phone (an old Nokia 3310, with a battery life of about a month – Holly had never seen one before), a map book (no GPS), and a car.
Holly was doing her best to translate the elderly couple’s concern about the car.
‘I think they’re saying it’s their grandson’s. He’s away at school. No, university. It’s very special. Please bring it back in one piece.’
Sam put on her most responsible face.
‘Si, si.’
If you added ‘Per favore’ and ‘Grazie’, Sam was at her limit of Italian.
‘Grazie. Grazie.’ She was almost done.
It was just about getting light as the doctor walked Sam and Holly to a small garage behind the house. Without ceremony, he unlocked the double doors and opened them.
And there it was.
Sam was impressed.
A flame-red, Lancia Montecarlo. Probably 1980 vintage. A two-litre, two-seater, mid-engined, Pininfarina-designed rust bucket. The latter certainly applying to any of the cars imported to the UK. A mirror image of the fabled DeLorean.
And her dad’s favourite Italian after Sophie Loren.
Thank you, God.
The doctor sheepishly handed over the keys. Sam, who, ten minutes ago, had taken all the four Valium that the doctor had given to her – was up for any challenge. Her shoulder ached, but she was very relaxed about it…
‘Get in the passenger side. I’m driving. You’re looking for the van; “spotting”. And map reading.’
Holly got in. Sam turned the car over. It failed to start. She turned it over again. Still nothing.
Come on!
&n
bsp; Third time lucky. She threw it into gear and they were off, a peppering of gravel the outcome of some serious wheel spin.
Sam glanced in her rear-view mirror. The doctor had his hands raised to shoulder height. He mouthed something. It might have been, ‘Mamma mia!’
In the excitement of starting the chase, Sam had forgotten to ask Holly about her dad and the CIA. Wouldn’t he be worried if she weren’t at the house? Above the noise of the engine, which was behind her right ear, Sam almost had to shout.
‘What about your dad and the CIA?’
Holly, who had her finger placed on the map and was following their route intently, replied, ‘They’ll be fine. I’m sure Daddy will understand when I tell him. He does worry. But, this is the sort of thing I want to do.’
‘What, join the CIA or FBI?’
Sam changed down to pass a slower car. That hurt. She’d forgotten that the car might be left-hand drive. Changing gear was giving her shoulder so much gip.
‘Actually, I want to become a war correspondent – Syria, Afghanistan, hot spots, you know.’
Sam nodded – If she can write, she’d be good at that. She looked down at the speedo. They were now on the main dual carriageway, the SR 148, heading northwest. And squeezing out 140 kilometres per hour.
‘Where in Rome should we be looking?’ Holly asked.
‘The Vatican. I think it’s the target. I visited there once. It’s on the left bank of the Tiber which flows north to south, bending its way through the city. Look close to the centre and you should find it. We need to try and come at it driving down an obscure road – not one of the main ones. The police may have roadblocks on the motorways and we don’t want to get caught. Can you do that?’
Holly looked across at Sam and grinned.
‘I have no idea! All our cars have GPS. Paper maps are news to me. But I’m keeping up so far.’
Sam reckoned they were halfway there. She checked the gauges; all was well with the Lancia. No panels had fallen off so far. Her dad would be pleased.
She reached into the pocket of her joggers and took out the Nokia.
‘Phone the following number.’ She gave Holly Jane’s mobile number.
It rang twice and Jane answered.
‘Hold it against my ear.’
Holly did as she was told. One finger on the map. One hand against Sam’s head. Eyes everywhere.
The Innocence of Trust Page 38