Over Adrian's shoulder, Jason could see the speedometer wavering around eighty-five kilometers, less than fifty miles an hour. Even so, he nearly hit the headliner with each bounce.
He tightened his seat belt to the limit, noticing Maria doing the same.
Through teeth clenched for fear of biting his tongue, Jason asked, “Where're we going?”
“Cagliari,” Adrian answered, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Where?”
“Cagliari,” Maria said. “Provençal capital. Italian naval
base.”
“Only town of any real size on the island,” Adrian added. “Figgered you could head to wherever you were goin' and I could drop Mother off, send her home to visit with the wee grandchildren back in Scotland until all this blows over.”
“You need to figger again,” Clare said. “I'll not be shipped off like some mail-order parcel, not after th' years I spent waitin' for you while you were in the service, waitin' to see if you came home upright or in a box.”
“But y' kenna come along,” Adrian argued. “There's people back there mean us all harm.”
“I'm no more in danger than th' lass,” she said, referring to Maria.
Swell.
Barely escaped from Eglov's killers and Jason was listening to a domestic argument that sounded like which child would get to use the sole ticket to the county fair.
He was about to speak up, thank Adrian for his implicit offer to help, and decline, when the interior of the Volvo was filled with light from behind.
“Jesus wept!” Adrian grunted. “You'd think this was the bleedin' M4. Somebody's drivin' way too fast.”
It didn't take a clairvoyant to guess who.
Jason guessed Eglov and his men had reconnoitered the area well enough to know the paved road was the likely, if not only, escape route. They had also obtained a car with a lot more power than the aging Volvo. It was gaining quickly, already well within range of the AK-47s.
“Anywhere we could turn off, maybe lose them?” Jason asked.
“Na' but winding road for the next ten kilometers,” came the reply.
A burst of gunfire, this time close enough to hear, came from the right front of the pursuing car and went wide right.
Jason involuntarily ducked.
The swaying, bucking motion of fast travel made any sort of accurate shooting unlikely. Whether the silver-bullet-firing six-guns from Silver's back by the Lone Ranger or a Walther PPK from a speeding Aston Martin driven by James Bond, a hit was the result of far more luck than skill. The sudden shifts in wind, direction, and elevation all made a moving gunfight more spectacular than deadly.
Nonetheless, Jason felt compelled to fire a few shots in return, with equal lack of result.
“They'll be right up beside us in minutes,” Jason observed. “Got any ideas?”
Adrian nodded. “Aye. In a moment we'll reach a wee straight. Remember the bootleg?”
Jason did.
He sat back down in the seat to cinch his seat belt tighter. “Ladies, I'd make sure your seat harness is supersecure.”
“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 behindâit looked like an older Mercedes as it flashed pastâskidded 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.
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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 Innâknockoff 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 Hermès 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.”
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.