Shout in the Dark (41 page)

The woman stayed in her car, making a call
on her cell phone. She looked at her watch before unfolding a map
with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the cover. Karl felt
conspicuous hovering close by. The window was down, but it was
difficult to hear the Italian conversation, let alone understand
it. The woman kept her finger on part of the map while chattering
excitedly about someone or something called
Parigi
, one of the words on the cover.

Parigi
could be anything, but the name Paris was
also there, and the map was obviously a street plan.

The little Fiat was full of petrol. Now
that he had stupidly tried to contact Phönix, Herr Kessel's credit
card would soon be cancelled. The accountants in the ADR were not
stupid. They would get Herr Kessel's bank to run a check, then they
would notice where the card was being used.

Paris.

He must get cash. Cash could never be
traced. There was a large bank with an ATM across the street.
The
stradale
had
gone and the woman was still making her call.

The machine accepted the number and the
monitor lit up, asking what language he wanted to use. Karl smiled
as he pressed the German key and was told that money could be
withdrawn. He tried for the maximum indicated, listening anxiously
to the whirring sound inside the machine. Within seconds he was
pulling a wad of the new euro notes from the delivery slot. Better
than Italian lira, these could be used anywhere in Western Europe.
Even better, he still had the card. One day the leaders of
Achtzehn
Deutschland Reinigung
would be grateful for his resourcefulness. He returned to
his car.

Sartini appeared on the doorstep and
signaled to the woman who had finished her call. A squeal of tires
and the silver Alfa reversed all the way back to him. The
Priester
got in and with another shriek
of rubber the car joined the traffic. Karl allowed another car to
pass before he followed. He had been spotted once before, but this
time he would stay with them all the way to France if necessary --
without being seen. Whatever lay in Paris must be worth the
journey. The woman had looked so excited as she held the
map.

The Alfa halted without a signal by a smart
apartment block on the west side of the city. The couple went
inside and closed the door.

"
Is this your place, pretty lady? The more I see of you, the
more I want you. I would have paid you a visit one dark night if
I'd known where you lived. But it doesn't matter, because you and
your
Priester
friend
will soon be dead."

A dark blue Peugeot drove up. A man got
out and walked over to the Alfa carrying a small overnight case
which he threw into the back of the woman's Alfa. This was the
Italian who had tried to attack him with the knife at the Colosseum
yesterday. Sartini was not just a simple priest after all. He was
mixed up with criminals.

MARCO WAS IN the front passenger seat,
studying Laura
's map and
a guidebook of Paris.

"
I don't think we should stay in the center," he said. "If
the
gendarmes
or
anyone from the Vatican come looking for us we'll be harder to find
in the suburbs. I know a couple of hotels near La Porte de la
Chapelle where I used to stay with … where I used to stay
sometimes. That's near enough to Montmartre."

The other two agreed, telling him to work
out the route. He drew a circle on the map to mark the cemetery and
noted the best way off the northern section of the Périphérique.
Putting the map and guidebook away he looked out at the
countryside. There were amazing hilltop villages and monasteries
perched high above the
autostrada
. Presumably the SS would have raided all these during the
war. From time to time he turned to look out of the back. Only
later did he become aware of the little red car keeping its
distance a long way behind.

"
That red Fiat's been with us for ages. It's like the one
yesterday in Rome." He had no intention of causing alarm, but they
definitely didn't want anyone following them to Paris.

Laura in the driving seat shrugged her
shoulders. "It drops back from time to time, but it never goes
past."

Riccardo turned round quickly in the back.
"You stupid cow, Laura, we're being followed. Now what do we
do?"

Marco flinched at Riccardo's words and
suggested they stop as soon as possible for a coffee. Riccardo's
attitude to Laura was objectionable. She should never have let him
come. When the next
area di servizio
came in sight Laura signaled right -- and the Fiat
continued on its way.

The crowded bar served dry rolls filled
with thin slices of dark, tasteless
prosciutto
. Marco disliked the hard bread of northern Italy,
but the choice of prepared food here was extremely limited. When
they returned to the car Laura said she weren't going to travel
through the night. She needed to look for a motel. Marco reckoned
that in two hours they would reach Aosta near the French border,
which would split the journey to Paris roughly into
half.

Laura turned to speak to Riccardo who was
now stretched out on the back seat. "Is your paper still planning
to run Bruno's series on the war? Only I wondered, with Bruno
dead."

Marco was taking his turn at driving. The
16-valve Alfa felt competent on the
autostrada
, but high revs were needed for overtaking.
"Series on the war?" he asked.

"
Laura was talking to me," snapped Riccardo. "Anyway, the
answer's yes. We found Bruno's work on his computer. It's going to
cause one hell of a stir. There are pics of guilty men and women in
his files, and I mean good pics. The roll of negatives he brought
back from the Bayer's house in Germany the other day shows scenes
that have never been published before." His voice rose in pitch and
volume. "My paper is going to expose the fascist
innocenti
.
Bruno's been busy for the past twelve months taking close-ups of
every one of them -- without them knowing of course."

"
Should be interesting." Marco checked the rear-view mirror
for the red car.

"
There are some foul people around, my friend." Riccardo
sounded calmer now. "Not that you'd know anything about it. You're
a priest; I expect you've lived a sheltered life."

Marco said nothing. He kept his speed down
as they entered a succession of tunnels. The
carabinieri
were often ready to pounce on speeding
cars at the exits.

Riccardo broke the silence he had started.
"The Nazis were scum."

The car went quiet, leaving Marco to
concentrate on the road and think about Riccardo's accusation. His
life had definitely not been as sheltered as Riccardo seemed to
imply, although the Sartini family had escaped almost unscathed
from the war. These last few days had brought about an introduction
to a hatred that still simmered dangerously in many lives. He was
also becoming aware of the bitterness still filling his own life --
hatred still for the drunken gang who had killed Anna. He should
have dealt with it a long time ago. He even felt hatred for the
killers of Canon Angelo,
and
for
the young driver of the rusty Alfa who'd smashed into Old Savio in
the Piazza Venezia.

Perhaps the pain of losing Anna would never
die.

For such a flavorless ham, the
prosciutto
was leaving a remarkably strong
taste of stale fat in his mouth.

They continued in silence with Marco
driving, until he said,
"I think it's time we stopped for the night." He was
already looking out for a service area with a hotel. Aosta was only
a few miles ahead. "Okay?"

Laura agreed.

Riccardo, half asleep on the back seat,
didn't answer.

Laura said that anywhere with a bed would
suit her, and Riccardo mumbled something that was probably a yes.
In the rear-view mirror Marco saw a small red Fiat. He pulled over
to the emergency shoulder and came almost to a halt. The red Fiat
slowed, and then speeded up to go past, disappearing into the
evening haze now settling over the
autostrada
. Marco had time to notice the driver, a large man
with a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

"
Right," he said, "we're definitely stopping at the next
service area -- while that Fiat is still ahead. It had Roma
plates."

Chapter
36

IN THE MORNING,
Marco felt far from refreshed. He sat in the front of the Alfa,
with Laura now taking a turn in driving. The motel had been too
close to the
autostrada
for
anything more than occasional snatches of sleep. Laura had
requested separate rooms for the three of them. This was a
surprise; Marco had assumed Laura would be sharing with Riccardo,
but it seemed unlikely the two had stayed apart simply because he
was with them. Maybe Laura wanted it that way because Riccardo was
in such a foul mood. He could tell that Riccardo still resented his
presence.

Laura pulled out to pass a large tanker
that was rapidly losing speed on a long climb. "Mont Blanc Tunnel
coming up. Get the credit card out of my purse for the toll,
Marco."

Marco had been staring in fascination at
the huge mountain covered in ice and cloud. He said he would pay,
the Vatican would reimburse him, but Laura insisted it would come
out of her writing expenses. With the tanker safely behind, she
dropped a gear to get by a whole convoy of trucks, the engine
buzzing sweetly at high revs.

"
We'll stop for a coffee in about an hour," she said. "We'll
be somewhere near Geneva by then."

"
Good idea." Marco was only half listening. The credit card
had a small photo of Laura on it. It was a pleasant picture, if on
the small side. But below the card was another photo of Laura. He
felt a chill run down his arms.
He had found a security pass for
TV Roma
-- in Laura's
name.

Riccardo might be a newspaper journalist,
and Bruno had probably been one as well, but this was a pass issued
by TV Roma for their permanent staff. It even had a payroll number
on it. It meant that Laura worked full time for TV Roma. She had
lied -- she was not a freelance journalist.

Slowly he zipped the purse shut and passed
over the credit card, hoping his consternation was not apparent.
Was it too much to think he could still trust Laura? Looking across
at her now, he had an almost irresistible urge to move behind her
and put his hands over her breasts, and kiss her on the neck --
never mind about Riccardo watching in the back.

But Riccardo seemed more interested in a
black Opel keeping pace with them a few cars in front.

IT WAS EARLY evening in the north
of
Paris, and Karl knew
he could relax for a few minutes. He'd made it.

The journey had not been easy, but at
least this part of his Total Training seemed to have been based on
the practical rather than the theoretical experience of the course
leader. He had just watched the
Priester
and his two friends book into a modern hotel north
of the Périphérique, by a place that was signposted
La Porte de la
Chapelle
. The
Périphérique was one hell of a crazy road.

The
three Italians were now in the hotel restaurant having a
meal, so he had enough time to find a food shop. He patted his
pocket and grinned. Cash in Rome from Herr Kessel's card had bought
fuel and food, as well as paying for all the road tolls. With a bit
of luck it would see him through the next few days, so no one could
trace him here.

Paris seemed considerably cooler than
Rome, more like Germany, and it was good to be away from the
oppressive heat. He felt confident that he'd stayed out of sight on
all three stops on the French
autoroute
, the hand of destiny keeping with him all the way. In the
early morning at the service area, while it was still dark, he'd
watched an elderly couple arrive and book in for the night. He'd
quickly hot wired their Opel Vectra, transferred the contents of
the Fiat to it, then driven up to the next rest area to wait for
the woman's silver Alfa to come by.

The Opel wouldn't be reported missing for
ages, because the old people would be sure to sleep late and
wouldn't discover its disappearance until they came to leave.
Wearing a straw hat and sunglasses purchased while he waited, he
knew he'd merged in with the busy traffic on the
autoroute
, and
presented a lower profile appearance since exchanging the red Fiat
for the Opel. Today, sometimes in front and sometimes behind, with
the passenger sun blind filling the side window, he had been
invisible. His instructor was right when he said a black car was
inconspicuous.

He parked the Opel near the gates of a small
industrial area where some children were playing on a mound of sand
outside one of the units. Three youths sat under the trees,
laughing loudly and calling to two girls who were pretending to
ignore them on the other side of the street.