The Innocence of Trust

by Roland Ladley

  ‘Jane, this is Sam. Have you got this number?’

  A pause.

  ‘Yes. Got it.’

  ‘I’m with Holly. We’re about 50 klicks short of Rome centre. We’re coming in, driving a Red Lancia Montecarlo; early 80s. Let the carabinieri know to let us through. We’re not taking the main roads, trying to avoid any road blocks. I reckon we could be at the Vatican in 25, maybe 30 minutes. Any news?’

  ‘No. Nothing And why are you bringing an unqualified civilian into a city where it’s likely there’s going to be a major terrorist blast?’

  ‘Because she’s the only one who has seen the van.’

  There was silence, apart from a strange knocking sound that was now coming from the engine compartment. Sam didn’t think it was good news.

  ‘You… look, I’m sorry Sam, but I can’t sanction this. You really ought to turn back. Or at least drop this Holly woman off on the side of the road.’

  ‘No, sorry Jane. We need her.’

  More silence.

  ‘I’m prepared to order you to do it, Sam.’

  Sam grimaced as she changed gear again.

  ‘Like you ordered me to stay off the Sokolov case?’ She was now gritting her teeth. ‘He told me, you know.’

  The pause that followed allowed Sam to overtake two more cars and push the Lancia up to 150 kilometres per hour as the road gently dropped into a dip.

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘Everything. Just before he tried to get his brother to rape me. And then throw me overboard. You could have told me, Jane. I would have got it.’ Actually, Sam wasn’t sure she would have got it. Maybe that’s why Jane hadn’t shared her secret?

  ‘There are only four government positions who have access to Sokolov’s full file. Me, the chief, the permanent secretary and the prime minister. It was never within my gift to tell you Sam. And, I wouldn’t change that position even now. Sorry.’

  Sam blew out, her cheeks extending like a trombone player’s.

  ‘OK, Jane, I get it. I think.’ She didn’t. It was a matter of trust. But maybe that was a naive, innocent way of looking at it. ‘But I’m not letting Holly go. We’re going to do our best to find the van.’

  ‘OK, Sam. Have it your way. We’ll chat when this is all over.’

  And that was that.

  Angry with herself and Jane, Sam pressed the car even harder. As she did the knocking got louder and louder. She caught a road sign that displayed ‘Rome, 35km’. She hoped the old girl held out for that long.

  Tiredness gripped her, and her shoulder was knocking as loudly as the noise in the engine compartment. The Lancia had an awful ride. It was harsh – good for cornering, but not good for her joints. Changing gear was becoming more and more of an effort, every movement was accompanied by a scream of pain that sapped what little energy she had left.

  ‘Change gear for me, Holly. Can you do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My shoulder is not happy and needs a break. I’ll shout “up” or “down” and you change gear accordingly.’

  Holly looked at Sam nervously.

  ‘Let’s give it a go,’ she said reticently.

  ‘Down!’

  The gearbox crashed as Holly moved the stick from 5th into 2nd.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They had a couple more goes and then she had it.

  ‘After a while I won’t need to shout. It’ll come naturally.’

  Holly didn’t look overly convinced of that.

  However, after a while she was seamlessly changing gear and barking instructions that Sam then followed religiously. It was properly light now, and, as the SR 148 turned north toward the centre of Rome, Holly started preparing Sam for some new directions.

  ‘We need to come off before the ring road, the E80. Look for a slip road to “Spinaceto”. S-P-I-N-A-C-E-T-O. And then we need to follow signs for “Mostacciano”’

  ‘No need to spell it. I’ve got it.’

  The traffic was building up and their speed reduced. Sam spotted the first roadblock ahead and took some lefts and rights that Holly hadn’t prescribed. They worked their way past the constriction and somehow kept heading in the right sort of direction. Sam had a sixth sense with navigation – it followed the same pattern as her photographic memory and her visual perception. It was all perfectly natural to her. She’d also visited the Vatican seven years ago and could picture it, set back on a sweeping bend in the Tiber. When they got close, she’d know where it was.

  ‘Keep an eye out for the van.’

  ‘I am. I am.’

  She’s good, this girl. Navigating, changing gear, and spotting, all at the same time. A neat trick.

  To their left, between two large buildings, Sam spotted the Tiber flash past.

  ‘We need to be on the other side of the river. It’s just there.’ Sam threw her head to her left, indicating where she’d seen the river. ‘I don’t need any further instructions. I’m going to cross the river at the first bridge… hang on!’

  Sam slammed on the brakes as the traffic lights turned red ahead of them. The Lancia stopped a couple of inches short of the car in front. A pair of businessmen waltzed across the zebra crossing.

  ‘No vans?’ Sam had craned her head forward to look out of the sports car’s low-raked front windscreen. They’d probably seen no more than 20 vans in the past ten minutes. Only one was white and Holly had said, ‘No, that’s not it.’

  They took off again, the knocking in the engine, now reverberating violently around the cab. The car was on its last legs. It didn’t seem to help that they were stopping and starting. She noticed that the temperature gauge was climbing dangerously high.

  Sam spotted a bridge ahead, the ‘Porta Portsee’. She turned the car left, got halfway across the bridge, and then it died.

  She turned it over. Nothing.

  Everything smelt hot.

  She tried again.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  ‘Sam! Sam!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There!’ Holly was pointing at a white blob that was in traffic on the far side of the river, moving along the Tiber heading north. Toward the Vatican.

  Except it wasn’t a white delivery van; or a market trader.

  It was a white campervan. A Ford Transit – third generation, short-wheelbase, high-top. Probably self-converted, but competently so. And it had an awning on the side – the connection she’d missed from Holly’s description.

  Of course! An awning. Campervan! How could she have been so stupid?

  The carabinieri weren’t looking for holiday makers – they were looking for workmen. Delivery drivers. A campervan was the perfect disguise. Genius! And it was getting away from them. The river bent left just ahead; and the camper would soon be out of sight.

  Sam turned the car over again. Nothing.

  The traffic behind them was tooting away. Sam ignored them.

  Shit! She smashed her good hand against the steering wheel.

  ‘Give me the phone.’

  Holly obliged.

  Sam got out of the car, her shoulder reminding her that she was making a big mistake by treating it so poorly.

  ‘Stay here! Please. You’ve done everything you can. The bomb is radioactive. If it goes off, you really don’t need to be in the thick of it.’

  Holly nodded. Reluctance spread across her face. Sam thought, this time, she’d do as she was instructed.

  Sam was out, on her feet. There was probably a quicker way to get to the Vatican than follow a river that was never straight, but she really couldn’t afford to get lost. And she needed to get visual on the camper.

  She ran. Not a sprint, but a fast jog. She had no idea how far it was to the Vatican and needed to pace herself. And, in any case, her body was a reluctant competitor in this race. Every step was an effort, and every placement of her feet sent a jolt to her shoulder.

  The pavement was littered
with pedestrians. Men in suits. Men and women in smart, designer clothes (Why do they always look so much better than we do?). Young kids on the way to school, many of them smoking – How typically Italian. And, even at this hour, as many tourists as there were commuters. Sam weaved in and out. She hadn’t the energy to say ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’, as people got out of her way.

  As she jogged, the thumb of her good hand, pressed buttons on the Nokia. She scrolled to their latest call, Jane’s number, and pressed the green button.

  She had to tell her about the camper.

  It had only been a few minutes and she was already breathing hard. Having a conversation was going to be difficult.

  It rang twice.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Hi, Jane…’

  It disconnected.

  Shit.

  She looked down at the screen. The phone had no signal. She jogged past a Far Eastern tourist who was taking a photo of an island in the middle of the Tiber with her iPad. Sam shimmied left, then avoided a tree that was growing up from a prepared hole in the pavement, before getting back on track.

  She checked the phone again.

  No signal.

  She kept jogging.

  And looked down.

  No signal!

  Was the LEWT doing its stuff?

  She slowed her jog – slightly, taking in the myriad of pedestrians. A man across the road was looking frustratingly at his phone. She picked out another – a young woman, who held hers in front of her face and was screaming at it. Then another… it was the same story.

  14 Signal Regiment were earning their pay.

  Great. There was no way the bomb could be detonated by mobile phone.

  But why didn’t she feel the sense of relief?

  Why? What was it that was nagging at her?

  Come on!

  She jogged some more. The traffic had slowed. She spotted the camper. It was 300 metres ahead. Beyond it, the river bore right.

  Tourist taking photo of an island on right – a minute ago. Right bend in the river at 300 metres.

  She tried to piece together what she remembered from her trip. She had done the whole of Rome in two days. It was only seven years ago. She never forgot.

  But… that was when everything was working. Things weren’t operating as they should in Sam Green’s world. Not now. Her shoulder yelling at her. Telling her to stop. It had had enough, thank you very much. Doing stuff to her head. Her breathing was laboured. And she was so tired. She needed to call it a day.

  Extreme pain does something to a body. The brain can shut the pain out; pretend the trauma isn’t happening. And that works. Or, and there’s no guessing which one will come first, the body shuts down organs that aren’t helpful to recovery. And, sometimes that’s the consciousness bit of the mind. It sends you to sleep, so the vital stuff, like the lungs and the heart can get on with the job of keeping you alive.

  Sam knew that’s what was happening to her.

  Her brain was shutting down. Bit by bit.

  She gritted her teeth and soldiered on.

  And then a light came on.

  Got it!

  The Vatican is set back from the corner of the river. Opposite the Ponte Principe Amadeo Savoia Aosta. An unremarkable bridge, but she remembered crossing it from the city centre. You can see the dome of St Mark’s behind some buildings. Which is up ahead. Where…

  She looked up, her eyes losing focus… Where the van was now turning left.

  Keep going.

  She jogged and weaved.

  Get out of my way!

  The number of pedestrians were increasing; her passageway was becoming more and more constricted.

  ‘Idiota!’ The retort from a man who she hit, thankfully, with her good shoulder. His corrugated cup of Starbucks coffee spilt on the floor.

  Sorry.

  Dizziness now. Pain and fuzziness.

  One hundred metres. The bridge was ahead. The flashing lights of police cars on the junction.

  But the camper has already turned left? It’s ahead of them.

  Apart from the pain, and the wooziness, what was at the back of her mind? Something key. Something important – pushing her on.

  She jogged some more. Another hapless businessman was looking at their mobile with complete disdain.

  How did they used to cope?

  Sam could see the end of the bridge. When she got there, if she got there, she’d need to follow the van left, then jink right after about ten metres, followed by an 80 metre stretch, and then left again – and the Vatican would be dead ahead? She hoped.

  Smack!

  She hit a man – actually she couldn’t determine the sex. It was a big person, more likely to be a man than a woman. She went down with a thud, right shoulder first.

  The shock of her arm popping out of its socket and then back in again jolted her into consciousness, when passing out would have been a much more preferable outcome. It was as if the whole of her body were having one big joke at her expense. ‘Look at her! Let’s make Sam’s life as miserable as we can!’

  Searing pain. Tears. Short breaths. Dizziness.

  Her face pressed against the cold, stone pavement. People were already starting to mill around. Forming a circle, a mass of concerned and just a little bit voyeuristic, people.

  Give up, girl. Like Holly. You’ve done your bit. Why do you have to find the van?

  Because.

  Because of something that was nagging her.

  Because…

  Then she had clarity. It all came into focus.

  Log cabin. Her and Vlad. Looking over the jumble of stuff in the room. Radioactive jars. Countless waxy wrappers from sticks of PE4. The empty sacks of sand and gravel. Vlad finding the discarded containers for the mobile phones and laptop batteries.

  And the small piece of packaging that she found at the end. She’d almost missed it.

  The box for the escalator ‘Stop’ button. A big, red button. You can’t miss them. Press to activate. Thump it in panic. Everything stops. If all else fails…

  Press to activate. Everything stops. Or everything goes.

  The terrorists had been clever thus far. They had covered every eventuality. What if the mobiles didn’t work? One of them ran out of batteries? Or the network was down?

  Press to activate.

  The tall North-African looking man who Holly had described – he was due martyrdom. He knew he was going to die. He longed for it? But the terrorists wanted to be completely sure. Could they really trust him with something so crucial? Yes? Maybe? There was always enough doubt. So, they’d detonate it remotely. Take the man out of the loop. That’s what she would do. Plan A.

  But if Plan A failed. They’d need a Plan B. Back to the man in the van.

  Plan B. A big red button. Press to activate. And fingers crossed that he was still up for martyrdom.

  Lying with her face pressed flat against the cold stone, her body racked with pain, surrounded by voices asking her if she was OK in languages she didn’t begin to understand, Sam now knew why she had to keep going. The man in the van was going to press the big red button. He had been told that if, after a certain time the bomb didn’t go off, he was to self-detonate. His guaranteed ticket to heaven.

  Press the big red button.

  Her mind was back in the game. Her shoulder was relegated to a nuisance. Nothing was going to stop her from finding that van.

  As she got up, a man helped her.

  ‘Stai bene?’

  Sam turned to him. She thought she understood.

  ‘Si. Per favore.’

  She had to be OK. She had no choice.

  As she staggered forward, people moved out of her way. It was almost Biblical. Like the parting of the Red Sea. Soon she was out of the crowd. And back in the game.

  She reached the bridge and held onto a lamp post for support.

  Cross the road here. Then turn immediately right. 80 metres. Then left…

  She crossed, trying d
esperately to keep up a jog. She knew she wasn’t travelling in a straight line and several pedestrians avoided her as though she had some infectious disease.

  She turned right.

  About 80 metres, then left…

  A group of tourists were gathered on the pavement in front of her. In the middle was the tour leader, a bright blue umbrella stuck up in the air, shouting, ‘Follow me.’

  By now she was dragging her right leg – and she thought she was probably dribbling. But couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ she screamed when she was a couple of metres out.

  A few of the group (they looked German – the men had beer bellies, the women efficiently dressed in tweed and wool), spotted the crazed woman and parted to allow her through. One man, wearing a green jacket and a trilby hat with a feather in it, didn’t see Sam until it was too late. He was pushed aside, and had to grab a fellow tourist to stop himself from falling over.

  ‘Entschuldigen sie.’ Sam’s German (she hoped she had chosen the right country – they could have been Americans?) was adequate. ‘Sorry’ was the best she could manage at the moment.

  And then she was at the corner. 80 metres – tick! Turn left. Then the Vatican. She staggered out into the road; her first attempt to cross. She stopped and put her hand on the bonnet of a stationary Ford Focus to catch her breath; the driver looked at her with amazement. But stopping would almost certainly mean that she would pass out.

  She couldn’t have that.

  She crossed the road. Now restricted to a walk, she dragged her right leg up a slight incline toward the Vatican. Fifty metres in front of her, she could see the beautiful, curved, covered walkway that surrounds St Peter’s Square. Tall, multiple Romanesque pillars, holding up a red, lightly-angled tiled roof. The low morning sun catching the tops of the pillars. On any other day it would have been breathtaking.

  Now, it meant she was almost there.

  But where was the van?

  Sam half jogged, half walked, half dragged herself on. She hadn’t thought this through. The camper could be anywhere. The Vatican was huge. And its surrounding environs, doubly so. It was hopeless.

  Hopeless! Getting here without a plan.

  She had to think. Where would they park the campervan?

  She reached the corner of the street, just shy of the Vatican. The number of people had increased. One or two pushed past her.