Gates of Hades (36 page)

Jason had no way to know the number of the cell phone in his hand.

“You can't.”

“But I—”

“I'll hold.”

He could hear steps clamoring on the steal deck overhead. More than one person.

“Listen,” he hissed into the phone, “things are a little busy at my end right now. Get the patch ready.” He gave the number Mama had monitored twenty-four/seven. “I'll call you back in five minutes. Tell the recipient of the call it's from Italy.”

He hung up before the voice could protest. Hopefully Mama wasn't running any other operations in Italy at the moment.

Squaring his shoulders, he tried to stand as tall as possible as he strode purposefully toward the ferry's forecastle, the location of his small stateroom. The two men, one in the uniform of the ferry company, pushed by him, the
victim of the theft pointing toward the bow. Obviously they were looking for a drunk whose face had been obscured in the darkness.

Jason flipped on the single overhead light as he entered his quarters. He sat on the stingy bunk and redialed the Naples number.

Nothing.

He tried again with the same result.

He glared at the steel bulkheads that imprisoned the cell phone's signal as securely as any jail held an inmate. He wasn't going to be able to connect with the satellite from here.

Cracking the door, he checked the narrow hallway outside and climbed the companionway to the top deck. Other than a few passengers leaning on the rail, staring into the night, it was deserted. He descended to the automobile deck and selected a white van.

It was locked.

His next choice was a small Mercedes truck. The door opened at his touch and he slipped inside, settling into the darkest corner. He flipped the phone open and punched in numbers.

This time the voice from the consulate was polite, almost solicitous. “We have your connection, sir. Understand you're calling from an unsecured source. Anything said in this conversation is subject to interception.”

Like any other call made by phone users the world over. Unless the ecoterrorists had somehow found the number he was calling and managed to alert a computer to scan all its calls, this conversation would be hidden among millions of others the same way a pickpocket relied on the numbers of a crowd to conceal him.

“Yes?” The voice was unmistakably Mama's.

Besides the volume of phone traffic, Jason knew brevity would help, though there was no guarantee of anonymity.

“Conference in Washington tomorrow. Hillwood.” He paused, wondering if the words would trigger the search
program of some monitoring device. There wasn't time for circumlocution. “Breath of the Earth. It's ignited from rocks by plants that spontaneously combust.”

The silence that followed was only seconds, but it seemed long enough for Jason to wonder if the connection had been broken.

“Plants? Rocks?”

“Like the trawler. If the conference is held near open windows, like the dining room at Hillwood.”

Another pause.

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“The gas, ethylene, will make everyone—delegates to the meeting, security, everyone—both drowsy and delusional, but it won't kill them. That's the beauty of it. While everyone's on a high, someone will slip into the room from outside, slit a few throats, and disappear while the Secret Service guys are on the nod. No one to yell, cause a ruckus till it's too late. Or, maybe one or more of the Eco people'll have a breathing device concealed on him. When the gas dissipates, no one knows what happened. People have been murdered literally in front of their security and no one knows anything. The Earth will have claimed some sort of revenge with its natural products, the plant and the gas.”

“My God, the president is planning to attend!”

“I suggest he make other plans.”

“You can document this?”

“Not by tomorrow morning.”

Another pause before Mama's rich Creole voice said, “This conference is important. He thinks he can become the person history will record as dedicating his life to reconciling industrialists and conservationists.”

“He will. Just not the way he'd planned.”

“We'll look like idiots if you're wrong.”

“How will you look if I'm not?”

“I see what you mean. Tell you what: I'm passin' this
along to the CIA. They're our client and can do what they want.”

In Washington, the buck never really stopped; it was in perpetual motion.

 

 

Near Silanus, Sardinia
An hour later

There were three men in the rented Mercedes that had pulled off the ferry two hours ago. The face of one of the men in the rear seat was partially covered by a large eye patch. One cheek displayed scars that were angry red, as though recently inflicted. All four wore the loose blouse and baggy pants of the local farmers for whom they easily could have mistaken.

Sardinian farmers, however, would have been unlikely to drive such a car. It was equally doubtful locals would drive through the night to a simple farmhouse, one where a thorough search demonstrated that the normal occupants were still not in residence and had not been for several days.

The refrigerator had a sour smell about it, containing only an open canister of milk long gone rancid. The source of the house's electricity, wherever it was, had been turned off, and flashlight beams revealed that a light patina of dust had begun to collect on flat surfaces. There was nothing remarkable in the house. A few inexpensive
oils hung on the walls and a huge sword over the fireplace—a sword, though effective in its time, that would be no match for the weapons these men carried.

One of the men turned to the one with the eye patch, speaking in Russian. “You are certain the Scotsman and the American will return?”

The man with one eye nodded. “And with the woman. We will wait.”

 

 

Cagliari, Sardinia
The next morning

Jason was careful he was not observed as he dropped the stolen cell phone overboard before being one of the first to disembark from the ferry. A quick survey of the harbor revealed fishing craft, private sailboats, a few motor launches, and no place to rent a car. Adrian had omitted that factoid, he thought sourly.

Taxis, though, were plentiful. He took one to the airport.

The ride through town began as one of no particular interest. Apartment houses of undistinguished architecture and recent vintage shouldered one another for room, screening the view of the ocean. The churches gave some small clue as to the island's multicultural history. Graceful Moorish facades were only blocks from chunky Romanesque fronts left by conquering Normans and Spanish. The ebullience of Italian Gothic, unlike any other of the period, was equally represented. It looked like every second street corner hosted an outdoor market.

The airport was featureless modern. Jason paid the driver and went inside the terminal, where boutiques,
tour guide offices, and duty-free shops outnumbered the two ticket counters. Turning to his left to follow the signs, he crossed a neatly groomed patch of ground to another building housing rental car offices. There were no lines in front of any of them.

The Rugger passport had been left at the pensione in hopes of convincing the authorities that Jason had perished at Baia. He pulled a leather pouch from a jacket pocket and examined the other two IDs Mama had sent him before he left the Dominican Republic. The pictures on both driver's licenses and passports were the same. He selected the documents and cards in the name of Andrew Forest Stroud of New York City. He looked at the address. East Seventy-second Street.

Jason hoped he looked like someone from the tony Upper East Side. But then, New York's wealthy made a practice of shabby dress.

Eurocar had a selection varying from the largest Mercedes to the tiniest Smart Car, also by DaimlerChrysler, though the manufacturer was understandably ashamed to adorn it with the three-pointed star. Jason chose a fourdoor Peugeot, something that would attract as little attention as possible.

The drive back to town was unremarkable, other than the normal frustration of finding a parking space. Jason felt truly blessed when he pulled in behind a departing Opel only six blocks from the harbor.

From his table outside a waterside trattoria, Jason watched the ferry dock. As the cars drove off, the few pedestrian passengers disembarked. The bright colors of Maria's gold-and-blue scarf were visible all the way across the quay. Jason could only marvel how the woman always managed to come up with a different one. He had little doubt she could find a Hermès shop in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Women possessed some sort of internal navigational system for such things. Laurin could detect the proximity
of a shoe store in cities she had never visited. Once in Paris . . .

He pushed the thought aside, surprised at how easy it was becoming to dismiss his former wife. He watched Maria seat herself at a table identical to his but on the other side of the small harbor. The plan called for her to have a cup of coffee and remain where she was until Jason verified that she was not being followed or observed.

Unlike their American counterparts, Italian and most European trattorias, bistros, or whatever considered the price of a single beverage to be a ticket to occupy a table as long as the customer wished. In fact, the national pastime in many large cities was to order a sole glass of wine and spend the afternoon watching the passing crowds from the same table.

After forty minutes, the only interest in Maria that Jason noted was the openly admiring glances for which Italian men were notorious. He was amused by the persistence of one who had tried to share her table and finally admitted defeat after ten minutes of being intensely ignored.

He stood, reluctant to leave the pleasant morning sun, and walked casually along the edge of the port, feigning interest in first one sailboat, then another. He barely gave Maria a glance as he passed within ten feet of her and sauntered on. Without looking back, he turned away from the water's edge and strolled up one of the two streets that dead-ended into the harbor. He paused in front of a
gelaterie,
seeming to marvel at the variety of flavors of ice cream the small shop displayed. In the glass of the adjacent store's display window, he saw Maria turn the corner and enter the same street.

She stopped, distracted by the size of the prawns on ice under a sign proclaiming
FRUTTI DI MARE
. Although the sidewalks bore some pedestrian traffic, no one showed any lingering interest in her.

Jason took the time for admiration. She had a figure Hollywood would envy, honed, no doubt, by scurrying in
and out of volcanic craters. The olive skin framed by crow-wing black hair she had let loose around her shoulders. He shook his head. The object of the exercise was to get her safely to Adrian's for a few days before she returned to her life.

He was in no hurry for that.

Periodic checks of reflections in shop windows confirmed that she was following him to the car at a casual pace. He had to fight the temptation to hurry, to rush to the moment he could take her in his arms.

He turned a final corner, waiting to see her follow.

 

 

Hillwood
4155 Linnean Avenue
Washington, D.C.
0746 EDT, the next morning

Shirlee hadn't minded comin' to work half an hour early, not at all. Wasn't ever'body, 'ticularly ever'body in her 'hood, was gonna see the president up close 'n' personal.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, she looked out the windows beside the front door, searching the driveway for that procession of long black cars she'd always seen on TV. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she smoothed her uniform, making sure no wrinkles marred its appearance. Shouldn't be none. She done took it home and washed and ironed it herse'f. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she walked back into the kitchen, making sure the big coffee urn was turned on and the doughnuts and other breakfast pastries were in neat rows on the trays that Mr. Jimson used for special events. This time, though, granola bars, high-fiber cereal, and fresh fruit occupied equal space on those things Mr. Jimson used to call salvers.

Why he'd call a silver tray
spit
was beyond Shirlee.

Mr. Jimson . . . Wouldn't he proud, he be 'live? Havin' the president hisse'f come to Hillwood?

The thought was interrupted by two men in dark suits entering the kitchen. Both in their mid-thirties, both with athletic builds. Both with small tubes in their ears and murmuring into the little mikes pinned to their lapels. “Bout the fifth time one of 'em had come through here, lookin' into the oven and microwave like they thought mebbe Shirlee done put a bomb in there.

Them mens were 'bout the politest Shirlee ever seen. Always a smile that look like it be stuck on with glue, always, “Yes, Ms. Atkins, No, Ms. Atkins,” when she axed questions. But they be so serious, they scary. But nowhere near as scary as them other fellas, the Russians, the ones that wore what looked like pajamas belted at the waist stuffed into knee boots. They
really
scary, lookin' around with angry expressions like they done eat a mess o' collards somebody done put too much pepper sauce on. They didn' much care 'bout the house like the mens in suits. 'Stead, they kept lookin' at them whitish-colored rocks and scrawny little bushes right outside the French doors in the dinin' room, doors Shirlee been tolt to open so the room wouldn't get all stuffy during the meetin'. What them Russians think, like mebbe them stones an' plants gonna disappear somehow? An' they didn' care much for women, either, least not Shirlee and Cornicha, the other custodian work there. Ever' time either Shirlee or Cornicha speak to 'em, even a “good mornin' ” or somethin', them mens just glare like they angry.