by Jack Barnao
She was interested. "I wondered, watching you fight like you did, where does a man like you come from?"
"From the army, most recently. I spent seven years as an officer in Britain."
She nodded. "That would make sense. Were you a paratrooper, a commando or something? You fight brilliantly."
I guess I wanted to impress her so I said, "I was in the SAS."
She sat up straight. "Were you?"
"Yeah. It was something I had to prove to myself, whether I could do it or not, some men can't take the training. I did."
"What was it like?" She was genuinely interested so I shelved my weariness and said, "Pretty strenuous. They make you cover forty miles of rough country, carrying a pack full of bricks. And when you get to the other end, you have to go through a battle simulation. You have to go for days sometimes with no sleep. Stuff like that." I didn't want to give her the details. Old soldiers can be a bore.
"And did you see any action?"
I was surprised by the word. Most North Americans would have used the word "combat." I turned it into a question. "You said 'action,' does that mean your father or somebody was in the War?"
"Right. Dad was with the Princess Patricia's Light Infantry in Europe, Italy mostly, that's why he encouraged us all to learn Italian. He didn't talk about the war much, sometimes to my brothers but that's where I picked up the word."
"It changes you," I said and closed the subject.
She pulled her feet up under herself on the couch, the move a wife would make while talking to her husband. "Do you think Herb needs that kind of training?"
"Probably not. His grandmother says he used to paint. I'd suggest we get him some paints. It would be better if you did it, then when he gets back home he can sign up with an art college, the Ontario College of Art, if his marks are good enough. What he needs is something to love. Painting might be it."
She smiled at me, for the first time since we had met it was a truly feminine smile, testing me. "And what do you love, John?"
"That's a hard one. I guess I'd say freedom, the freedom to live the way I want, preferably with some travel and adventure and good living. That's why I left the army. You get the adventure but you don't get much good living."
"And freedom means no wife, I suppose." She wasn't teasing me, it was like being observed by an anthropologist. I felt like a Borneo headhunter, naked except for a bone through my nose and a bamboo jock strap.
"It has so far," I said carefully.
She looked at me for a long moment, then got up. I stood up at once and she came over to me and held out her hand. I took it. "I want to thank you for what you did. You saved me from—" she left it at that and turned away.
I said, "Good night, Kate." She paused at the door to turn and smile without speaking.
I checked the door. The lock and chain were secure, the inside catch pressed in the lock. I'd already checked all the windows. They were six stories up from the street, no ledge, no fire escape, overhung by a wide cornice that would prevent anybody but an Alpine climber from swinging in from the roof. I frowned at that thought, remembering the Iranian embassy in London. We'd gone through those windows in seconds. But they wouldn't try those kinds of tactics. Any attempt on Herbie would be a covert operation. We were as secure as we could be.
I waited until Kate Ridley had used the bathroom then went in and did the same then came out and stripped, turned off the light and got into bed.
It was narrow, like an army bed, and the traffic noises under the window reminded me of London in the days when I had been in the Guards, before I volunteered for the SAS. In a minute or so I was asleep.
The click of the door, opening softly, woke me like a bomb blast. I sat up, grabbing the Beretta, but it wasn't the outer door, it was the door that led to the bedrooms. I relaxed and let the gun sink.
It was Kate Ridley and in the faint light from the street, reflected down from the ceiling she seemed to be floating towards me in her wispy nightgown. She came to the bed and took my arm. "I'm cold," she said harshly.
I stood up, still holding the gun and she clung to me, her body like soft fire against my bare skin. I kissed her and she returned the pressure urgently. "Come," she commanded and took my hand. I followed silently into her room and she closed the door. Her bed was warm but she trembled when she got into it with me. I slipped the gun under the pillow and held her, pressing her firm little breasts against me. She gasped and we kissed again, deep soft kisses that melted her. I reached down and caressed her, stroking the inside of her thighs and then her moistness and she came almost at once.
"I want you now," she hissed and I raised her legs and entered her from the side, still stroking her and she gasped again.
It was a long time before she slept, her hair damp against her forehead, her body soft and relaxed at last, her horrors forgotten. I kissed her gently on the cheek and fell asleep.
Chapter 9
I woke early and went back to my own bed without waking her. Then, at around six, I put on my running gear and went in to Herb who was stirring already, still operating on Canadian time, awake hours earlier than usual.
"I'm going for a run," I told him. "Come and put the chain on the door when I'm gone and don't open it until I answer—" I tried to think of a code word that would make sense to him. "'Jays,' when you say 'Blue.' Got that?"
"Sure. Hey, cool," he said.
I gave him the gun. "Don't use it but point it if you get suspicious, point it at the door and call the desk, ask them to send a man up to see if there's a prowler. Okay?"
"Okay," he said. Like most men he was happy to have his hands on a gun. I expected he would spend the next half hour standing in front of a mirror, making stern faces at himself. Until his mother woke up anyway.
It was cool on the street and only the locals were about, trucks driving down to the market place and storekeepers headed in for an early start. It was noisy and cheerful and exciting. I was slow after my hard night but I took off along the Lungarno, down past the Ponte Vecchio and the next couple of bridges before crossing to the quieter side and putting in a solid twenty minutes before turning back. Even in that short time the crowds had thickened and the restaurants were open. Workmen were snatching a quick espresso before starting the day and everywhere there was the happy bustle of a people who have been doing essentially the same things in the same place and pretty much the same way for generations. I was glad to be here.
Herb was on cue. He called, "Blue," through the door and I said, "Jays," and he let me in.
His mother was up and dressed. She smiled at me and Herb caught it and looked at me suspiciously. I wondered if we would get away with another night like the one before, now he was rested and would sleep normally. And I wondered if it was in the cards anyway. Maybe it was just what the bellboy had been thinking, the warrior's reward. Ah me. All this and a thousand a week as well. Life was being generous to John Locke.
"Good morning, John," she said. "You're energetic this morning."
"Every morning. It's a habit," I said, ducking the opportunity to ask her coyly whether she had slept well.
"I think we should go down for breakfast," she said. "There's lots of time. You can dress in my room."
"After a long shower," I said and went on through. Maybe it was being in Italy, maybe it was euphoria but I sang in the shower, all that I could remember of "Thy Tiny Hand Is Frozen." When I turned the tap off I could hear Kate laughing in the other room and I grinned at my faux pas while I shaved.
I dressed and slipped on my light jacket. Herb had set the gun on the coffee table in the sitting room and I dropped it into my pocket. Kate was working at a file folder and she looked up and smiled at me. "You're in fine voice this morning."
"I'm no Pavarotti but Italy inspires me," I said and we both laughed. Herb didn't. I wondered how much he suspected. Right now I was a hero. If he found out I was sleeping with his mother he might get all righteous on me and life could be difficult again. I'd ha
ve to play it very carefully.
We chatted for a few minutes, while we waited for the breakfast hour to begin in the coffee shop. I was wondering whether we should notify Herb's father about the attempted kidnapping but Kate disagreed. "No, it will worry Elspeth."
Now Herbie chimed in. "No, don't. They'll only want me to go home again."
Kate and I exchanged a quick glance. Waddya know? The kid was enjoying himself here.
We went down to the restaurant at eight and had caffelatte and rolls. Herbie even went so far as to try "Buon giorno" on the waitress, a motherly little woman in the traditional black. She beamed at us, probably thinking we were one big happy family, which was right in one way but nothing the Pope would have approved of.
After breakfast, Kate picked up her Florentine leather briefcase and said, "Well, I'm a working girl for the morning. See you at one o'clock, in the bar here."
"Right. Have a good morning." I stood up and Herbie waved and said goodbye and we were back to where we'd been the day before.
"Let's head out and get a paper while we're waiting to see if Carla shows up," I suggested.
"They have Canadian papers here?" Herb wondered.
"No, but the Herald Tribune will have the ball scores in it. The Jays were playing the Brewers yesterday, I want to see what happened."
"Okay." He waited while I signed the bill and we left. I looked all around for signs of a tail but I didn't see anybody. Either Capelli hadn't been able to get a guy assigned or he'd found one who was invisible. Either way it didn't matter much to me. I figured the kidnap artists had done their dash. I didn't count on any more trouble. I was prepared for it, watchful and ready but not convinced it was going to happen.
In the meantime, it was much easier being with Herbie. Today he was a different kid, interested in everything. Naturally, like any boy, he looked over the wall at the river. "Not very deep is it?"
"Not now, but it floods badly every now and then. They had a bad one in the sixties, it took them years to repair the damage to the books and paintings in some of the museums. It was a good thing in one way. It made them start cataloguing all the stuff they have in the city, what it was, where it was. It's made it easier for scholars."
"Really?" he sounded interested.
"Yeah, and the river, it's the Arno, was a big obstacle to the Allies during the War. Hitler had all the bridges blown up when his troops retreated. But someone talked him out of blowing the Ponte Vecchio. It's been in business for around five hundred years. Some guy on his staff saved it for the Italians. I guess he realized that the War was going downhill for the Germans and they shouldn't make any more enemies for peacetime."
I'd wondered if Carla would show. She could have come anyway, but when she didn't it confirmed my suspicions that the threat was over.
We took a couple of minutes to look in the store windows on the bridge. One of them had a wonderful display of coral, necklaces and other pieces laid out with a symmetry that made them look like a cake. Herbie studied it, trying to read the artfully placed little tag on one necklace. "That looks nice. I'd like to buy that," he said.
"For your girlfriend?" I knew it wasn't but flattery never hurts.
"Naah, for Mom."
"She'd like anything you bought, but I'll bet that's expensive. Why not pick up something in the market? She'd like it just as much."
"I like that one," he said and went into the store.
He was out again a minute later. "Shit," he said. "You know how much they want for that?"
"Too much?"
He laughed. "For sure."
I got the Trib from a street stall in the Via Del Proconsolo and we found a restaurant and sat and ordered espresso while I read the scores. The Jays had won and were still five games ahead of their division. At last, Toronto had a winner.
Herbie was restless, gazing across the street at another jeweler's. "I'm gonna look in there," he said.
I followed his gaze. The place looked respectable. It was thirty yards from my chair. "Go ahead, I'll wait here," I told him. He had to have breathing space and I didn't figure anything would happen on the street in broad daylight. But I set the paper down anyway and watched as he crossed and went inside. He was in there long enough for me to finish my coffee. Then he came out again and looked across at me, triumphantly holding up a little bag. I tossed some bills on the table and set out to cross the street to meet him. And then a car slammed to a halt alongside him.
I was across the street in three seconds but it was too late. Another car roared in behind them, trying to hit me. Three men tumbled out and came for me. I didn't even have time to draw my gun. I kicked the first one in the kneecap and he dropped but the second one was already on me, holding me around the head. I stomped on his instep and swung him towards the third one who was trying to slash me with a long narrow-bladed knife. He missed, cutting the guy holding me, making him scream and let go. Then all three of them scrambled to get back into the car while I spun around, pulling my gun to tackle the others.
I was too late. They had Herbie in the car and it was pulling away, already fifteen yards ahead of me. I dropped to one knee to fire at the tires but a giggling pair of girls jumped into the street, right in my line of fire. I swore and pelted past them but by then the car had gained another twenty yards, too far for me to be certain of hitting the tires and a miss could have killed any of fifty people within three degrees of my aiming line.
I made a note of the license and whirled to face the other car. It was squealing around to turn away from me but at that moment it was broadside, shielding the world beyond from a shot if I missed so I fired twice, tearing the front tire to shreds. The driver accelerated but the wheel pulled him off track and he slammed into a store front in a brilliance of broken glass. I covered the twenty yards in about five steps, dived into the store front and reached into the car to grab the driver by the collar, jamming my gun into the side of his head.
The store clerks were screaming in terror and the other men were trying to get out. I swung my gun at all of them and shouted, "Keep still or I shoot." Maybe they didn't speak English but they understood the gun. They froze. I shouted, "Polizia, molto pronto," and the manager grabbed the phone. He dialed and jabbered and I stood there, ankle deep in shards of glass, surrounded by wonderful wedding dresses, trying to work out where we went from here.
Chapter 10
The first cop on the scene was a traffic guy, one of the Vigili Urbani, the traffic police. They don't handle crime but they carry guns and he pulled his when he saw mine. I let go of the collar on the man I was holding and used the hand to point to all four of them. "Banditti," I said and kept my gun on the driver. The cop poured a torrent of Italian over me but I told him, "Canadese, non parlo Italiano," and he switched to clumsy English, no better than my Italian. I gave up and told him, "Tenente Capelli, polizia, pronto, per favore," and he crunched over the broken glass and took the phone away from the manager of the store.
A crowd had gathered around the window, screaming, chattering, pointing but nobody tried anything. Then the cop came back out and drew his own gun and covered the occupants from the other side of the car. I glanced at him, he was young and smart and he loved having that piece in his hand. He looked like he'd never held it in public before and he gestured with it negligently while he spoke to the men in the car. Over the top of the car I told him, "Other banditti have taken my friend, Signor Ridley. They were driving a red Fiat, license FE 8242. Can you report that?"
He frowned and said, "Che?" and then a woman in the crowd screamed at him, I guessed she was translating for me. He backed away from the car and grabbed the phone again.
By the time he was off the phone I could hear the braying eee-ah, eee-ah of the approaching police car and then the real help arrived. They were two uniformed men but one of them spoke good English and I told him what had happened. He went back to his radio and called in and soon Capelli was there. He looked pale and tired. I guessed he'd been working late o
n the guys from the hotel.
"What happened?" he asked me.
I told him while the uniformed men handcuffed the men in the car and sat them in the rear seats of the two police cars. The one I'd kicked couldn't bend his leg. I guessed his kneecap was gone. They had a lot of trouble fitting him into the seat and it took a lot of shouting before he was inside, half lying across his buddy. Meantime, the store owner had arrived and was screaming at the Vigili Urbani man, obviously wanting to know who was going to pay for his window.
Capelli said, "I tried to telephone you at the hotel. I knew this would happen."
"How, tenente? Did those men talk last night?"
He nodded impatiently. "They sang, like birds. They told me there is a contract out to kidnap the boy. Not to harm him, to get him and hold him."
"Who put it out?"
"They haven't told me," he said grimly. "Not yet."
I had put my gun away by now and we stepped out onto the street where one of the uniformed men was asking the crowd what they had seen. It was like something from an opera. Everyone had an opinion. The air was thick with rapid Italian and a lot of arm waving was going on. Capelli took me over to his car. We stood at the front of it and he said, "The Neapolitans had heard in Roma. They came here at once and got a key from the hotel and waited. They were working with a third man, a driver."
"And what about these guys?" I indicated the pair in the back of his car. "Where do they fit in?"
He frowned. "I know all the criminals we have in Firenze. I think they are from somewhere else." He stooped and spoke through the window at the men in the back. One of them was silent but the other one, the one who had been cut, was feeling sorry for himself and he showed his wounded arm and rattled off a long speech. Capelli listened, then cut him off and turned back, sighing. "They want me to arrest you for hurting them." He grinned. "But I recognize him, he is from Milano, I have arrested him before in the Festival here, he is a thief. I do not think he works for anyone important."