by Gregg Loomis
"Jesus!"
The sudden expletive made Jason forget his seat belt.
The edge of the headlights was reflecting from a truck pulled across both lanes of the narrow road.
The Eco men must have had a backup crew farther down the road, one that could commandeer the truck now effectively hemming the Volvo in. They also could not have picked a better spot: to the right was sheer wall, to the left the abyss.
Adrian slowed as though to surrender. Jason knew what was coming and hoped Clare and Maria had followed his suggestions to make themselves secure.
"We have enough room?" Jason asked, instantly wishing he had kept his concern to himself.
"Na' matter," Adrian said, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as the car behind closed the gap. "Goin' over th' edge's better 'n what those sods have in mind for us."
At a point no more than fifty feet from the truck, Adrian hit the gas, momentarily gaining on the surprised driver of the pursuing car. Just as the gap started to close again, Adrian stood violently on the brake, at the same time snatching the wheel toward the emptiness of the road's outer edge.
The snap of the steering mechanism broke any adhesion between rubber tire and paved road. At the same time, centrifugal force threw the automobile's rear end outward, causing a spin.
"Chicago! Al Capone!" Adrian chortled. "Elliot Ness!"
The maneuver had its origins in Prohibition bootleggers' moonshine-filled cars dodging pursuing revenue agents, one of a number of driving tactics taught in commando training worldwide, perhaps the only one with truly American roots. Although Jason suspected the trick was more at home on the winding dirt roads of Appalachia than the streets of Al Capone's Chicago, he had to admit Adrian executed it perfectly.
At the exact moment the car was facing the opposite direction, Adrian hit the accelerator, regaining traction, and the Volvo leaped like a springing cat in the direction from which it just come. Jason had only an instant to see astonished faces as they whizzed past the chasing vehicle.
Unable to stop or turn so unexpectedly, the car that had been behind—it looked like an older Mercedes as it flashed past—skidded into a sideways drift. For an instant the two left wheels pawed empty air, and Jason thought it might roll over.
But there was no time for a roll. Instead, Mercedes met truck with a crash of splintering glass and tearing sheet metal.
"Hold it; stop!" Jason yelled.
Before the Volvo was entirely still, Jason bolted from the rear, dashing toward the mass of metal that was hissing and steaming like the death throes of some mythical dragon.
Jason sprayed the carnage with nine-millimeter bullets until the Sten's firing pin clicked on an empty chamber and the barrel burned his hand through the canvas cover.
Slamming another clip into the weapon, he took two steps forward before he was restrained by Adrian's hand on his shoulder.
"No time to put a bullet in each of 'em, laddie. We canna ken if there's more about. Best we make our way while we can."
Jason reluctantly agreed with the wisdom of the observation, if not the sentiment. He would prefer not to chance facing any survivors later, survivors who would be less than appreciative of his bounty in letting them live.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Il Giardino de Mare Risorte
Sardinia
The next afternoon
After the highway was effectively blocked by the collision, Adrian had been forced to reverse course, taking an all- night alternate route to put a protesting Clare on a flight to Edinburgh via Rome and London. Like it or not, she would visit with her grandchildren for a few weeks.
Jason was as happy to have the Scot join him as Adrian was to see action once again. The pastoral life, though simpler and potentially longer, lacked excitement, the addictive narcotic from which Adrian had not entirely withdrawn since his retirement from SAS. Neither man knew what to do with Maria, a question largely mooted by her stubborn refusal to join Clare out of harm's way, and the fact that she would provide the introduction to Dr. Calligini as well as translate the questions Jason had.
The one thing the remaining three had agreed upon was that a couple drew far less attention than two men and a woman. Adrian had set out for Turin while Jason and Maria would follow in a day or so.
Jason and Maria spent a day on the Costa Smeralda, on Sardinia's northeastern coast. It was, Maria informed him, the ritziest part of the island. The scalloped coastline consisted of hundreds of small stretches of narrow beaches, each containing one or more resort hotels. Many were so close together that "ocean view" consisted of craning one's neck left or right even to glimpse the water between buildings. The beach, the water, and the decor of the Holiday Inn-knockoff hotel were interchangeable with south Florida, if slightly less tacky. The major difference was that even the Sunshine State's major hotels would have blanched at prices rivaling the French Riviera.
In a bikini from one of the hotel's several overpriced shops, Maria drew less than covert glances from male vacationers whose chubby wives and loud children were also reminiscent of Florida. Jason watched her tan on the beach while he stretched out on a lounge, where he could watch the single path from the hotel.
He was the only sunbather wearing a shirt. He was also probably the only one with a pistol tucked into the waist of his swimming trunks.
In the late afternoon, Maria produced another of her Hermes scarfs, this one in brown and gold depicting horses' heads, riding whips, bridles, and other stable gear Jason didn't recognize. He had no idea how it had survived the last few days, and even less where it had been.
Tying two corners around her neck, she turned for him to knot the remaining ends behind her back. "See, a backless blouse."
Just as he had done for Laurin a hundred times.
"How very clever," he said.
She turned before he had finished, startling him. "You don't sound surprised. Maybe you tied some other woman's scarf for her."
"Maybe."
She started to say something, thought better of it, and nestled against him like a puppy seeking warmth from its mother. "I'm getting chilly. Let's go in."
He would have preferred the touch of her body against his to any comfort inside. Strands of her hair tickled his nose pleasantly. Instead of the smell of salt water, her skin had a musky, pleasant odor that was not the residue of her tanning lotion.
He started to put an arm around her shoulder and stopped in midair. He wasn't here for romance and neither was she. Maria, after all, had voiced the request that had made the eyebrows of the hotel's otherwise circumspect desk clerk give a slight quiver of surprise: Mrs. William Rugger of Tampa, Florida, insisted on una camera con due letti, a double room, an accommodation usually requested by European families traveling on a budget.
Jason had pointed out that any variation on the norm was potentially dangerous. Maria had countered that the danger of sharing a bed was more than potential.
Jason was well aware of the futility of arguing with a woman: an apparent victory simply meant the fight wasn't over.
Besides, they would be staying only a single night, two at the most.
Jason struggled up from the lounge with a mixture of disappointment that a possible romantic moment had slipped away and relief at its escape. He led the way to the pink stucco building and down a hallway with wallpaper exhibiting blue and pink seashells. Uncharacteristically, Maria chatted aimlessly: the quality of the beach, the warmth of the water.
He stopped when he reached the door of their room. Squatting, he surveyed the doorknob.
"Looking for fingerprints?"
He shook his head as he stood. "Nope. When we left I used spit to stick a hair between the frame and door. It's still there."
It took her a moment before she nodded her head. "If anyone had gotten into our room ..."
"We'd know about it," he finished, pushing the door open.
She stood in the hall. "You think ...?"
"I think it pays to be careful."<
br />
She stepped across the threshold behind him, shoving the door shut. "Playing spies is fun for just so long. Yesterday when those people started shooting at us, I thought..."
Her lips quivered and a single tear tracked down her cheek, the trickle before the dam broke. She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. Between sobs, she blurted, "I hate acting like ... like such a weak person." She hiccupped. "But I cannot take it, the killing, the brutality of..."
Impulsively, Jason wrapped his arms around her. He tried to think of something comforting to say but couldn't come up with anything, only a very hollow, "It'll be okay, really. Everything will be fine...."
She pushed off against his chest, regarding him with red-rimmed eyes. "It will not be okay! You and those, those ... people!" She spit the word as though it were a curse. "You and they will keep it up until you are all dead, and God help anyone who gets between you! And for what? Some macho, male bullshit!"
He was tempted to point out that opposing the use of deadly force to impose environmental views was hardly a personal vendetta. He doubted the observation would do much good.
Her eyes were locked onto his. "Violence only makes for more violence. Do you not understand? Killing one another is not the way to resolve differences!"
Tell that to Laurin, he thought. But he said, "Think, Maria. Both the, er, incidents began by them attacking us."
She used a forearm to wipe her eyes, smearing mascara and leaving dark areas under her eyes like a raccoon. "Jason, one side has to stop, to try to reason with the other. Can you not understand?"
He understood perfectly. One didn't reason with rabid dogs, a life-form he held in a great deal more esteem than fanatics. A dog didn't choose to go mad.
She sniffed and gave voice to the perennial pacifist platitude: "War is not the answer."
Depends on the question.
"Oh, Jason," she said with an imploring look, "I am frightened. I've never been shot at before, never had people want to kill me. It is not a good feeling."
No shit.
It might have been her look of desolation, of utter helplessness, or it might been something more biological; Jason never knew nor cared. He took her back into his arms, squeezing her close. His lips brushed hers. For an instant she drew back and then pressed her mouth against his.
In seconds clothes were flying and the two were writhing on a bed amid moans, grunts, and sounds defying description.
Later, Jason lay on his back, watching the room's Venetian blinds paint zebra stripes on Maria's bare back as she snuggled into the hollow of his armpit. This was not the first time since Laurin's death he had found sexual release, but it was the first time he had felt no guilt, no sense of betrayal.
Suddenly, he realized he had no independent recollection of his wife's face. He could recall thousands of shared incidents, but every time she appeared in his memory, he saw a face from one of many photographs. Maybe he was finally letting go; maybe Laurin was finding peace.
Maybe...
A sharp rap on the door sprang him out of bed, his hand reaching for the SIG Sauer in its holster.
Weapon in hand and back against the wall next to the door, he nodded to Maria. "Ask who it is."
Maria rattled off a question in Italian. A woman's voice, muffled by the door, replied.
"The maid. She wants to know if we want the beds turned down."
Jason let out a deep breath he had not known he had taken. "Later."
As he returned to the rumpled bed, Maria began to weep again, silent tears leaving shiny trails on each cheek.
Jason sat beside her, reaching out.
She pushed him away. "No."
"But...?".
"Jason, I care for you—care for you a lot more than I ever wanted to."
"And I you," he admitted. "That's a reason to cry?"
She nodded wearily. "No matter how I feel about you, Jason, we are finished after I've helped you with Dr. Calligini as I said I would."
"But—"
She put a finger across his lips. "It will not be easy getting over you, Jason. I do not... what did we used to say in America? I do not fall for guys that often. I might even learn to accept what you do, even if it makes me sick. Even sicker because you enjoy it. Some Old Testament sense of vengeance, I suppose. I gave up on one man because he was a cheat, a liar. I might learn to accept what you do, but I cannot bear to be there for you when you do not outdraw the other fellow at the OK Corral, the time when you do not see it coming."
"Maria—"
She silenced him with a kiss as her hands reached for his groin.
The next day they rented a car and drove to Palau, a small port town a few kilometers north. Seated in front of a trattoria across the tree-lined street from the crescent- shaped harbor, they lunched on stewed baby octopus washed down by an astringent white wine that originated in the nearby hills. They watched ships come and go.
A table away, four young men in navy whites made no effort to disguise their admiration of the pretty woman seated with the American. Several made remarks, the tone of which Jason understood, if not the words. Just as Jason was wondering whether chivalry required him to flatten each of them, Maria turned. Radiating charm, she spoke in machine-gun Italian. The sailors' faces went from surprise to embarrassment. They quickly finished their beers and left.
"What the hell did you say?" Jason wanted to know.
Maria tossed her head, treating him to that Wife of Bath smile. "I told them their mothers would be ashamed of them for saying things about a woman closer to her age than theirs. Italian men always worry what Mama might think. Even long after she is dead."
"Even if they don't live with her anymore?"
As an Italian, Maria was fully aware that many Italian men never left, simply bringing a wife to their childhood home.
"They are from that ship." She pointed toward the harbor where a white, military-looking ship rode at anchor. "The new Italian navy."
Jason nodded. "No doubt equipped with a glass bottom so they can see the old Italian navy."
He ducked the half loaf of bread she threw at him.
After lunch, they took the ferry across the Golfo dell' Asinara to empty, wooded hills. A single road led to the crest that held the tomb of the unifier of Italy, Giuseppe Garibaldi. People stood in line at souvenir and refreshment stands to enter the small building. Instead, Maria led Jason up a slight rise and into a rare copse of dense foliage.
"Wha...?"
He never finished the question; her lips were pressed too tightly against his. Oblivious to the crowd screened by folage only fifty feet or so away, they made love even more passionately than the night before.
Afterward, as they returned to the parking lot, Jason was certain some of the people were staring at them. If so, Maria didn't notice.
They made the ferry from Cagliari to Naples with only minutes to spare. During the drive, she pointedly changed the subject whenever he mentioned any future beyond the next few days.
JOURNAL OF SEVERENUS TACTUS
I know not how many days I remained in the tiny painted room, my only companions my fears and such spirits as might visit. On two occasions, cowled priests entered my cell to inquire as to my father, the more easily to summon his shade.1
From the darkness, I knew it was early morning when two young boys brought me forth from the painted room to sacrifice a ewe. By the light of a torch, a priest examined the liver of the animal and pronounced the signs to be favorable. I was removed to another room, this one much larger, where I was bathed in herb-scented water2 and given peculiar- tasting drinks I did not recognize.
Once so purified, I was clad in a white toga and my hair bound with white ribbon. I was girded with a belt with a bronze sword and given a golden branch of mistletoe to carry in my hand.3 To my surprise, the ancient crone, the Sibyl herself, appeared, Tobed in scarlet, to guide me on my journey.
Behind us came the priests, dressed in black with pointed headdresses and
only slits through which to see. They
drove the livestock I had purchased to he sacrificed at various stages.
We had gone but a short way along a dark and descending pathway when we reached the Dividing of the Ways. To the left went a return to the world, should I choose it. To the right, the final descent into Hades. I had come this far to consult the spirit of my father, and chose to continue into dark and the increasing heat and stench of sulfur.4
We took a turn, and, to my amazement, the sheep and cattle that had been following us were now awaiting our arrival! We paused for another sacrifice and another study of the liver before proceeding down a sharp incline. As we progressed, the odor of sulfur grew stronger, along with other noxious smells. At least twice we passed a sparse type of bush that immediately burst into flame but did not burn.5
The deeper we went, the hazier my vision became and the more uncertain my step. At last we reached a point where the black-hooded priests stood aside, framing the place where the River Styx impeded further progress. Between them I could see Charon standing in his small coracle.6 Though I could not see the dog, I could hear the howling of Cerberus.
The boatman wore only a ragged cape that looked as though it had never been cleansed, a supposition consistent with his filthy, matted white beard. Without a word being spoken, the Sibyl climbed
into the fragile craft and I followed, leaving the priest on the shore.
Thus was I truly committed.
NOTES.
1. More likely to produce a credible likeness. By skillfully interrogating the pilgrim, the priests would learn something not only of the deceased's appearance, but his personality.
2. See note 8, previous chapter.
3.Mistletoe had spiritual connotations throughout the ancient world. Since it bore berries in winter, when other plants were awaiting spring, it symbolized life amid death.
4. The origins of the Christian concept of hell as fire and brimstone?
5. Dictamuus albus, also known as dictamus fraxinella, native to Asia Minor and parts of southern Europe. The plant exudes a flammable vapor that is subject to spontaneous combustion of the gas without its own leaves being consumed. Likely this is the burning bush from which God spoke to Moses. Other flashing or sparking plants include henbane, white hellebore, and belladonna, all of which had their uses in oracular mysticism. It is odd that no one seems to have undertaken a study of self-combustible plants in modern times.