by Leon, Judith
They showed IDs and passed through one of seven security check stands on the west side of the concert area. Once inside, they had a bit more room, at least this far back from the stage, located in the piazza center. Time to split up.
She took hold of Joe’s arm. “See that spot on that fountain? It’s up off the pavement, five feet or so. I’m going to perch there and scan from this west side. And let’s pray we find this kid and find him fast.”
“I’ll go east,” Joe said.
Cesare added, “I shall go around to the south side.”
The two men took off at fast clips. Nova realized she still could only think of their target—this deadly missile—as a kid, not a man. And her job was to help someone blow him away.
Her cell phone vibrated. Given the crowd and the music, she strained to hear Star’s voice. “Say that again,” she half yelled back.
“The trip to the north, to Portofino, got cancelled. Maggie and the Robertsons are south of Rome, in the countryside outside of a place called Amalfi. They say it’s just as nice, if not nicer.”
Nova clutched the phone. “Give me her phone number, Star.”
She punched the number into her phone’s address book. Then she said, “Now I do want to scare you. You call Maggie back. They won’t be able to fly out. It’s too late. You tell her that she and the Robertsons must immediately buy enough food and water to last ten days. Even better, fifteen. Then they’re to find a motel or hotel, someplace where they can shut themselves off from any contact with other people but have access to radio or TV, and go inside and not come out.”
“My God, Nova. Please tell me what’s happening. I don’t know if I can reach her. They were just on their way to dinner. She might not take her phone.”
“I can’t say. But it’s a nightmare like you don’t want to even imagine, and if you don’t reach her in time, she may meet someone who will harm her. Do as I say, Star. I’ll explain when I can. Or you may learn from the television, sometime tomorrow would be my guess. I have to go. Please do as I say.”
Nova hung up. She climbed onto the fountain, ignoring a number of disapproving looks. Using the binoculars, she scanned the crowd, starting with those closest to the band and working outward.
She wondered where the take-out teams were located but kept her glasses scanning the crowd. This is nuts! There are thousands of people here.
Then luck struck. Joe’s voice came through her communicator, “Team Leader, I’ve spotted Target. He’s with another man. Both wearing black dusters. They’re about 150 feet northeast of Ground One’s position on the fountain, heading toward Ground One. Ground Three, let’s form up on Ground One’s location.”
“Affirmative,” Cesare said.
“This is Team Beta. I have Target acquisition. Moving too fast for a good opportunity.”
Nova paused, scanning the crowd with the binoculars, feeling the beat of her pulse against her eyes.
Then she saw him. A bareheaded kid accompanied by a hefty six-footer with a military-style haircut. The kid was so short she realized the take-out team would have a hard time getting him in the crosshairs in such a tight crowd.
She imagined both men on Team Beta, the spotter and the shooter, with their scopes fixed on Ali, his moving head their target.
Ali moved left toward a stand selling some kind of food and Butch Cut followed.
“This is Team Beta. I’ve lost Target.”
Chapter 32
“I still have a clear view,” Nova said. “Target is buying something to eat. Wait a minute. The vendor has a small TV set. Target and his buddy are looking at it.”
She zeroed the binoculars onto the tiny TV screen. It framed a face, but too far away and at a bad angle for her to recognize whose it might be.
Ali and Butch Cut, however, remained bent forward, clearly transfixed by what they were seeing.
“Target and buddy—”
She barely got the words out of her mouth. Butch Cut grabbed Ali’s arm, spun the kid around, and the two of them took off toward the west entrance, shoving their way through the throng.
“Target is fleeing to west entrance,” she said. She jammed the binocs into a pocket, scrambled down from the fountain’s decorative rim and pursued, pushing her way past pissed off or bewildered people. Her ankle burned, but she’d bound it with sports tape on the helicopter. Though her ankle protested, it didn’t slow her.
“Team Beta, this Alpha Team Leader. Get a shot before he gets away.”
“No clear opportunity.”
“Take a shot, Beta!”
Off to her right, Joe was shoving his way against the traffic flow and toward the entry. She imagined Cesare somewhere off to her left doing the same.
A gunfire volley shattered the air ahead of her, splintering angrily over the already almost deafening volume of the warm-up band. Six, eight, maybe ten shots from automatics. People started screaming, running, shoving.
“Fuck off,” a girl swore at Nova in Italian, and hit her with a purse.
Nova barely noticed.
In maybe eight seconds she reached the perimeter where the security checkpoints had been set up. A wall of Roman police uniforms struggled to hold back a surging mass of people scattering in all directions, including away from the Coliseum. And on the ground lay what looked to be six or seven wounded or dead uniformed security guards and at least five civilians. She thought one of the dead, dressed all in black, might be a terrorist. If not, the terrorists had all gotten away.
She did not see Ali or Butch Cut. Joe reached her side, followed a second later by Cesare.
“What do you think?” Joe asked Cesare. “Would they have transport nearby?”
“If so, God help us,” Cesare answered. “But they came by train. More likely, given this enormous crowd, they are on foot.”
“The subway,” she said. “Let’s try it. I know exactly where the nearest entrance is. No more than two blocks.”
She took up the chase, praying Cesare’s guess was right and that Ali and Butch Cut were on foot.
The subway entrance, she knew, led to both A and B lines. She stopped at the kiosk selling newspapers, tobacco, subway tickets and the like, and whipped out her cell phone. She pressed the buttons that would bring up Ali’s photo.
The kid’s picture came up, just like on the videotape, only smaller. “Have you seen this man?” she asked the mustachioed Italian.
“Sure,” he replied in English. “He and some others just came through here. Into the subway. Crazy-looking bunch. But the crazies are all over the place tonight.”
Joe asked, “Are you sure they were all together?”
“At least six.”
She followed Joe and Cesare wasn’t far behind her as they clambered down the metal stairs. Joe headed for a turnstile. She yelled, “Wait, Joe!”
A university-age woman playing Mozart on her violin stood close to the wall. Breathing hard, Nova gasped out to her, “I’m following this kid. He came down here with others. Did you see them?”
“A bunch all dressed in black?” the woman said.
“Right. What line did they take?”
“Toward Termini Station. It just left.” The girl pointed.
Joe changed direction and the three of them leapt over the turnstile.
“Do you know how long before the next train, Nova?” Cesare asked. “You seem to know this area surprisingly well.”
“Not that well.”
They waited. She thought for an insane moment about going upside so she could use her cell phone to try to reach Maggie, but no way could they risk missing the next train.
Joe stared at the static on the screen of his mini-TV. “My guess is they saw Yassin’s picture and are on the run. Like Provenza said, they are still saying he’s dangerous and to report him, but not why.”
“Right. Right. And I bet that’s why they picked the line that runs to Termini Station. They’ll take a train out of Rome, and they’ll be spreading death with every breath the ca
rrier breathes out.”
“Dear Madonna,” Cesare said. “When will the damn subway come?”
She felt as though she counted on her fingers every second of the next five minutes. Early in the seemingly interminable wait, Joe said, “Let’s go to the street and call the SISMI van to come and get us.”
“No,” she and Cesare said at the same time. Cesare continued. “We are only two or three stops from Termini Station. The van could never get us there as fast as the train, even if we have to wait another five minutes for it. Street traffic and all that.
“When we get there,” Cesare went on, “follow me. I know where the main ticket office for the trains is.”
At the Termini stop, they rushed out together and raced through the tiled tunnel, up the stairs and into the enormous reception gallery. Again, she checked the time. Eight o’clock on the nose. Shops lined both sides of the gallery and ran down the center. Perfume from one of the duty-free shops scented the main area.
“Follow me,” Cesare commanded. The speed with which the interior decorator could change his colors to become an extremely competent agent reminded her of the near instantaneous speed of a squid changing the color patterns of its skin.
Cesare walked to the head of a line of eight people, showed the ticket seller his ID and then the picture of Ali on his cell phone. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes. Another man, big guy with short hair, just bought tickets for him and seven others on the Eurostar to Munich. Eight all together.”
“Excellent,” Cesare said. “When does it leave and on what track?”
“Leaves on Track 11,” the man said. “But you’re too late to catch him. It took off five minutes ago.”
“Shit,” Joe muttered.
“Other people were in line,” Nova said, leaning toward the ticket seller. “Did they all buy tickets to the same train. The Eurostar to Munich?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Try,” she said firmly.
“Well, certainly not. About that same time, I sold tickets to Geneva and Paris. I believe also to Marseille.”
They withdrew to reorganize. “At least we know where they are,” Cesare said.
“Assuming they did get on the train,” Joe countered.
“I think we’ve got no reason to doubt that,” Cesare said. “They can’t know we are following them.” He fell silent, chewing his lower lip.
“You know,” she said, “this is the nightmare the world has been fearing. This guy has physically contacted who knows how many at the Coliseum, in the subway, a number of people on four trains and probably as many people as he could here in the station. Maybe we can catch or hold the trains, prevent anyone in the area around the Coliseum from going home or running loose, but there is no way to quickly bottle up the people he contacted in the subway or just wandering around here in the terminal.”
Jose said, “Call Provenza, Cesare. Tell him that in our view he needs to do a global quarantine of Italy, ASAP.”
Cesare called and conveyed the news, then she said, “Track 11, right?”
“Right.”
“Let’s go see it.”
They walked quickly, three abreast, to the head of Track 11. It was, as the ticket seller had said it would be, empty.
“Look at those.” Nova pointed to four off-road dirt bikes lined up on a heavy-duty cart, obviously ready to be loaded soon onto the train on Track 10.
Chapter 33
Nova considered their orders. They were to stop the carrier, alive or, even better, dead. They had been fortunate to find him. They must not lose contact with him now if they could do anything to prevent it.
“Have you had any experience with off-road dirt biking?” she asked Joe.
“Plenty.”
“Okay.” She turned to Cesare. “I know you’ll tell Provenza to put wheels in motion to stop and surround the train. But right now, we need to keep the kid in our sights.”
She walked to a group of four light-haired, fair-skinned men standing next to the dirt bikes, Italian Ducatis. The men all looked to be in their late twenties. Joe and Cesare quickly flanked her. She flashed her ID. “English?” she asked.
She got one “Ja” and one “Yes.”
“We’re going to ruin your day. We need two bikes. It’s an order, not a request.” She glanced again at the bikes. “Give me the keys to the black and red ones.”
“Why?” said the guy who had answered “Yes.”
“Sorry, no questions. Just give me two sets of keys, unload the bikes quickly, please, and give your name and information to this man,” she nodded toward Cesare, “and he’ll see to it you get them back or are compensated.”
“Do please be quick,” Cesare added. He also flashed ID. The English speaker hesitated. “If necessary,” Cesare said, “I can have you arrested.” He pulled Nova back from the four, who had started to argue in German. “What are you thinking?” he asked. The English speaker apparently convinced his buddies they had no choice. The four men set to work unloading the two bikes.
“Joe and I are going to catch the damn train. Tell Provenza. Ask him to send us plenty of backup. And handle these guys.”
Joe added, “Tell Provenza to contact the conductor. He’s to tell the conductor to get someone to the back of the train to help us get on board. And he’s to tell the conductor that once we are on board, we have full control of the train until SISMI stops and surrounds it.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.”
The bikes were down. She turned to the man who spoke English. “They do have petrol, right?”
“Correct.”
Without speaking or questioning her, Joe mounted the black bike and she took the red. As the bikes roared to life, she suffered a quick pang of doubt. She hadn’t done any off-road riding for more than ten years. She hoped her body would remember all the secrets to not killing herself.
The luggage-toting travelers all around them stopped to see what was happening, to decide if they should flee. After all, in these post-9/11 days, a public place was a potentially dangerous place.
The platform stood four feet higher than the tracks. Following Joe, she sped toward the far end in pursuit of the departed train.
Standing on the foot pegs, knees bent, she did a damn good wheelie, lifting the front tire slightly. The bike soared off the platform. There was a four-foot drop to the ground, and the rear tire hit first. Classic form. Still, when she crashed onto the concrete between the tracks of Lines 10 and 11, she bit her tongue badly enough to draw blood. Swallowing the salty taste, she gave the bike more gas to keep up with Joe.
They raced out of the station just outside Track 11’s right rail. She stood, knees bent to absorb shocks. She was surprised when Joe swung right as far as he could, then back hard left, and did another wheelie and a jump that landed him between the rails.
She wondered why, but did likewise and discovered, to her surprise, that riding the ties wasn’t bad. It reminded her of being in a speedboat on the ocean. If you went too slow, you slammed into every wave, but if you went fast enough, you simply skimmed the wave tops. That’s what they were doing now, skimming the ties, her legs and the bike’s shocks cushioning the ride.
The fifteen lines of track rather quickly decreased to only three feeder lines and then finally there was only one set of rails rolling out in front of them. Up ahead, the tracks started to curve to the left. Outside the tracks, the concrete had changed to dirt.
Joe did another jump, a crazy jump at what seemed to be an impossible angle, that put him outside the tracks. She held her breath and prayed, aimed at the rail, and did a wheelie, clinging to the belief that if Joe could do it, she could, too.
Her rear tire smacked into the rail. She launched and landed in a skid. She used her balance, the accelerator and her leg to just barely keep from going down. When she regained control, her throat was so tight she couldn’t breathe. My God, he’s insane!
They had plenty of room to maneuver for a while on the flat hardpan ov
er which the rails lay, but then the space outside the track started narrowing. She focused tightly to keep on the narrow path between the ends of the ties on her left and a foot-high concrete strip on her right. Hitting the concrete would flip her for certain at this speed and, without a helmet, she’d probably be killed.
Soon, though, they were back on flat dirt. Her thighs were still hanging in there, not tiring yet from standing on the foot pegs to cushion the potholes and bumps.
They were still within the city and going no more than thirty miles per hour. They would have to catch up before the train left the suburbs and increased speed, or they’d lose it.
Twice they had to slow and leave the tracks to zoom around a station, leaving startled Italians in their wake. Her thighs started burning, but when she tried to sit, the jolting was unbearable.
Finally, she glimpsed the train’s shiny silver rear end. At this point, the train was passing behind rundown apartment buildings. The tracks were elevated a bit, and a few feet to her right the embankment sloped down four feet into a ditch. Eurostars were Europe’s high-speed marvels, especially in France. Italian tracks, however, still couldn’t accommodate the one-hundred-and-eighty-mile-per-hour-plus speeds that the trains were capable of reaching. Still, the sleekly streamlined “bullet” trains could move along at a fast clip. She guessed the train was still doing thirty to thirty-five miles-per-hour at the max, a speed they could match on their bikes.
They quickly caught up to the last car, the end trailer.
The last door, on the side and close to the car’s rear end, remained closed. No welcoming conductor.
Joe pulled up toward the middle of the last car, next to windows. One by one, people looked out and saw her and Joe. Some waved. Most just looked perplexed.
But no conductor.
Joe gestured, waving his arm and then putting his closed hand to his cheek as though he were talking to someone on a phone—or wanted to talk to someone. Maybe she and Joe couldn’t get on.
Then a thin man with a thin black mustache and a dark blue uniform appeared at a window. A passenger next to him pointed to Joe and to her. At the same moment Joe did, she pointed toward the end trailer’s rear door, on the side almost at the end of the car.