THE GELWITZ CIPHER (A Novel)

[Brag]

Chapter 24

Bond got into the passenger side of the Ford Escort. As the driver turned the car around, Val noticed the side-view mirror was missing.
Curious. Bond didn't wear evening clothes. With all the guests, It would have been easy for Val not to have seen him. But this confirmed Bond hadn't been at the party. And what had he been doing at the airport?
After the Escort drove off, Val waited, wondering on the meaning of Bond's hunting rifle.
The tux was scant protection from the night air. Val began to shiver. The answer to his earlier question was pure and simple. Bond came to the cottage to pick up the rifle. My dear Leonora, I hope Burton won't be staying long.
The shivers had become serious when the door opened and Burton strode out. He got into the Bentley and drove toward where Val presumed the main house to be. As soon as the taillights vanished. Val, filled with anger at being duped, moved toward the cottage. He removed the Sig from its shoulder holster and tried the door. It was locked.
Val knocked.
A bolt slid back, Leonora opened the door. "Crissie what--"
"Gutt iffnincks." Val pushed the door open and swept a small sitting room with his pistol.
Her eyes bulging, Leonora stepped back.
Val kicked the door closed.
"I came to let you know I won't be coming in the morning."
Leonora stared at the gun.
"Any more rifles in the house? I feel at a disadvantage with only a pistol."
She shook her head.
"My dear lady, you're mixed up with the wrong people. How much did Burton pay you to give me a blow-job?"
Leonora backed two steps and dropped on a stuffed chair.
"You won't look pretty with a bullet between your eyes." Val hoped he sounded convincing. But he doubted it. The shivers caused by the cold made his gun tremble.
"Don't be a fool. You know I wanted you."
"Maybe you get your kicks by blowing men about to die."
"You're vulgar."
Now what does the great Val Orloff do, shoot the redhead? Thinking how to coerce the woman into confessing, Val replaced the pistol in its holster and took a seat.
The expression of fear on her face vanished. She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. A slit on her long dress revealed a lot of leg. "You do make a dramatic entry, and look sexy even pointing a gun."
"Lady, don't try the sex thing on me. It won't work."
"Ah, Mister Tough Guy. Do you want to dominate me? Do you want me on my knees? Do you want to simulate rape? Tie me up?"
Val felt himself grow hard.
She stood slowly and turned her back to him. "Unzip me please. All you need to convince yourself I want you, is feel between my legs."
Val rose and pulled the zipper down, exposing the crack of naked bottom. "I'll tell Burton, you warned me about Tony planning to shoot me. And let him take care of you."
Val took two steps back.
Leonora twirled to face him. "You . . ." Fear had returned to her face.
"I'm going to see him right now." Val side stepped toward the door, his hand reaching the knob. "Pleasant dreams, my dear."
"No, please--wait."
Val let his arm drop. "Are you willing to negotiate for my discretion?"
She nodded.
"That's better."
Even as frightened as she looked, the woman still oozed sexuality. All Val had to do was tug at her unzipped dress to expose her breasts.
"Do you have a brandy?"
She nodded, and went to a sideboard.
Val placed his hand on the pistol but in case she tried something funny.
Leonora returned with two glasses, handed one to Val. "I didn't want to do it. I don't mean what I did with you . . . you taste good." She smiled briefly. "But I knew they were planning something. What, I don't know. This is Tony's cottage, I thought he was going shooting pheasant with Chrissie."
"With a big game rifle?"
"Men do strange things, I don't know guns. They want you here in the morning. That is all I know." She gulped down half of her brandy.
"And what scares you so much about Burton?"
"He's powerful, a big man at MI-6."
"And Bond?"
"Tony travels all over the world, does jobs for Chrissie."
Val had trouble believing what he heard. Having British Intelligence against him had never entered his mind. And like a fool he was in their home turf.

#

Even if he managed to find and ambush the snipers, having a shootout with MI-6 was not an option.
Satisfied that Leonora would not reveal his visit to her accomplices, Val drove the Jaguar and left it on a cow pasture approximately five miles due east of Sir Regies estate. It would take Burton and his men some time to find. Partially familiar with the area from the ride he had taken with Claudia, he studied the sky to be able to maintain his direction. It wouldn't be easy. Black holes told him clouds were moving in.
To keep from freezing to death, he ran with an easy jog and was glad he had only brought regular street shoes. Running through the fields in pumps would have been hell.
After twenty minutes, he felt warm enough and slowed to a walk.
A cow path along a hedge still showed under a darkening sky. He thought he recognized the gate where he had met Burton the other morning.
The woods on the hill protected him from the drizzle but he lost the path in the darkness. After several stumbles, he came out of the woods and followed a hedge and found a gate. The bleating of sheep confirmed he wasn't lost. Now he knew how to get back to Sir Bertie's mansion. No longer worried about finding the manor, his mind cleared and he knew how to avoid the snipers. The Brits where a thorough lot who wouldn't let things to chance. He was sure if this was an MI-6 operation there would be more than one sniper. As he trotted across the field with the sheep, it occurred to him that MI-6 and the CIA, in recent years, were as thick as fleas on a fox. He slowed down wanting to drop to the ground with despair.
Ahead, lights reflected on the drizzle and he could hear music. Approaching the manor, Val moved quietly along the stable walls.
No longer a beacon, lights in the manor, gardens became hindrances to unobserved approach. The back lawn was flood-lit. He was a mud-splattered mess, ambling in and mixing with guests was bound to draw attention.
He circled the house and worked his way down the gravel parking lot.
A number of voices approached.
Val hid behind a Rolls Royce. Several people crunched past the Roller. The darkness beyond the parking lot seemed ominous. Tony Bond and his rifle could be there waiting. Or more likely the watcher who would notify Bond Val had left the house for his tryst with the irresistible Leonora. It was five past four, time for the actors to take their places.
Car doors slammed. An engine started. Gravel popped and faded into a ripple.
Val continued toward the service entrance taking advantage of every shadow he could find. Twenty yards from the house, he straightened and walked as if he belonged.
A dozing waiter sitting on a bench under a row of pegs with waiters' jackets in the hallway, opened his eyes and looked up as Val passed him.
With his car gone and him not in his room, the ambushers would presume he had left the manor. Val took the service stairs. On the third floor he went to Claudia's room. A light showed under the door. He knocked softly.
There was no answer.
A harder rap still didn't elicit a response.
He tried the door handle. The door was locked.
"Who is it?"
"It's Val."
A moment later, a key turned and the door opened. With squinting eyes and a hand over her mouth, Claudia peered out the partially opened doorway. "Hmm?" She muttered over a yawn. Her eyes opened wide and she stepped back, holding a silk robe closed with her hand. "What happened to you?"
"Long story, went for a walk."
She closed the door and turned away from Val to tie the robe belt. "What time is it?"
"Four twenty."
"What do you need?"
Val glanced at the bed with its covers thrown back. "It is best I don't go to my room and your husband's killer think I left the house."
After rubbing her eyes and pulling her hair back, she looked around. "You can't stay here."
"Go back to bed, I'll take the chair."
"This is crazy." Claudia covered a yawn with her hand.
"I need a place to hide. I won't bother you, I promise."
She looked at the chair then at Val and shook her head. "The maid brings tea at seven. Can you imagine the gossip she will start?"
"I'll hide in the closet."
"Ay Madonna, like in a bedroom farce?"
Val opened the closet door. "See, I can fit easily."
"I'm too tired to think. This is crazy." Claudia climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets over her.
Val dropped on the chair, undid his tie and opened his wet shirt collar.

#

Full realization of how cold he was came with the rap at the door. Val glanced at his watch, 7:04. He lurched into the closet.
Through the closet door he listened to Claudia exchange good mornings with the maid and thank her.
"You may come out," Caludia said.
Val came out wearing a mink stole over his shoulders.
Claudia shook her head. "I was too sleepy to think when you came. You may share my tea. Milk and sugar a la inglesa?"
"Please."
She handed him a cup. "You look a mess."
"No improvement?"
"No, now you look like you've been out all night. Please explain yourself."
"I think someone wants to shoot me."
"Coming here at four in the morning. You deserve to be shot."
"When we wheel the count's body into the ambulance, I'll wear a white jacket so it will look like I am an ambulance attendant."
"And if you don't go to your room, how do we get your luggage?"
"You can get my laptop. I'll write to Sir Reggie later about shipping my stuff."
Claudia took the cup away from Val and took a sip. "So I go to your room and they kill me by mistake."
"They won't kill anyone else in this house. Two people dying would draw the police."
"You are so practical. How am I going to get dressed with you in the room?"
"I'll turn my back."
While Claudia got dressed, Val faced the window and studied the fields surrounding the manor. Of course the window faced in the wrong direction. If a sniper was waiting to plug him, chances were he would be somewhere in the northwest corner from where he could cover the service entrance and main entrances. It gave him little consolation to note that a shot from this sector was highly unlikely.
"Do you have the key to your room?" Claudia asked.
Val dug into his pocket as he turned. Claudia wore a beige skirt and a knit jacket with flower-like patterns. He handed her the key and she left the room.
After three minutes Val asked himself, What's delaying her?
It should take no more than thirty seconds to reach his room, maybe five-ten seconds to open the door, five seconds to grab the laptop on the secretaire--she should have been back.
Floorboards creaked. Someone went past the room.
Four minutes.
When five minutes went by, Val took the pistol out of the holster, cracked the door open, and stuck his head into the corridor.
Someone was coming.
Val pulled the door shut.
The footsteps receded.
Six minutes. His hand holding the pistol in his jacket pocket, Val stepped into the corridor. He moved swiftly past portraits of overweight gentlemen with bulbous red noses. Boards creaked. He stopped at the corner, pulled the pistol out, and peered into the connecting corridor.
In the dim light, someone carried an object over its shoulder.
Val recognized Claudia's walk.
Back in the room, Claudia said. "It's gone."
Val's gut contracted. "The laptop?"
"No, I went to get corn to feed the chickens. I looked everywhere." She handed Val a hanger with his hound's tooth jacket, a pair of slacks and a shirt. "You'd better change into something presentable."
"The laptop is gone?"
Claudia placed her hands on her hips. "You ask one more stupid question, and my confidence in you goes to zero."
Val wondered how in the hell he would contact Boikin.
"I imagine you have your work backed up somewhere. Don't look so victim of disaster. I'll buy you another one."
Val nodded. At least if someone tried to open the secret files without the password, a virus supplied by Stuart would activate and wipe everything clean. Val forced a smile. "Thanks, you are very kind. I can get another one."
"Oh, yes. This was on top of your bed." She handed Val a white envelope. "You can change while I go to breakfast."
Val grasped her arm as she turned to leave. "It could be dangerous."
"Breakfast dangerous?"
"Well, ah . . . something could happen. I worry."
She shook her head. "You said, two killings in this house would rouse suspicions. Also two people missing at breakfast will alert the, what would you call it, opposition?"
"Okay, you win."
When Claudia left the room, Val inspected the envelope addressed to him in precise manly handwriting, flap sealed with transparent tape. Val used a metal nail-file he found on the dresser to open it.
Dear Val,
This is your last chance to accept the offer to manage the Argentinean estate, a great opportunity to work with Olympic class horses. Bonuses and profit sharing are included in a generous compensation package. Don't let this last proposal pass you by. I'll be at Christopher Burton's place until noon.
Peter.
Val frowned. They were still trying to get him into Burton's place. It bothered to think Carr was seriously mixed up in what Val was beginning to see as a vast conspiracy. Maybe Carr's offer was a bona fide deal. A polite offer to get him out of the way. Go to Argentina and don't cause problems.
The job had its appeal. It would certainly end the nightmare he'd been living lately. Val took a deep breath and began changing clothes. Finished buttoning the fresh shirt, Val strapped on the shoulder holster. He then re-read the letter, crumpled it in his fist. "**** you," he said aloud.
When Claudia returned, she handed Val a cup filled with scrambled eggs. From her jacket pocket she produced two slices of toast.

#

Claudia went out of D'Albano's room when the ambulance attendants arrived. Val watched their cold efficiency in placing the count into a white PVC body bag and strapping it to a stretcher.
He followed the attendants down the stairs. Next to the kitchen door, he removed a waiter's white jacket hanging in a row of pegs and put it on.
The attendants looked at him in surprise as he rushed past them and jumped inside the ambulance.
"Doctor Watson," Val said as he pulled the stretcher inside.
Claudia climbed up front with the driver. "Take us to Wellensbourne Mountford Airport."
"Is that where you have your airplane?" Val asked.
She turned around looking at him as if he was the village idiot. "No, we are going to play cricket there."
Val pursed his lips before he started clucking. Next stop was the airfield surrounded by woods. Val thought of the near collision with Bond's car. That's where they were going to get him.

Chapter 25

The ambulance turned into the airport road. Approaching the sharp bend, Val spotted the skid marks he had left. The broken-off mirror of the Ford escort lay in the middle of the pavement. Anger grabbed him at the memory of the reckless driver.
Low clouds scudded over the airfield. The gate was open and Claudia directed the driver to the funny looking twin engined airplane.
Val got out and positioned himself so the ambulance covered him from the nearest trees.
A young man in a navy blue suit who had been waiting took the head of the litter and squeezed it through the narrow airplane door. The sleek bullet-like airplane had the semblance of something out of a science fiction film with winglets sprouting off its nose.
As the ambulance pulled away, Val followed Claudia inside.
The count's body lay strapped to a gray sofa. Claudia moved forward and stopped by the cockpit door. She motioned Val to sit in a chair that would have made a first class section in an airliner proud.
After closing the door, the young pilot spoke briefly to Claudia in Italian
"Ever fly in an Italian airplane before?" Claudia asked Val.
"No."
"We will cruise at four hundred knots, as fast as most jets. Our flight time to Grosseto will be three hours and ten minutes."
"That's amazing for a propeller plane."
"Turboprop." Claudia smiled. "We have a passion for speed. The fastest cars, ships, airplanes. This is a P-180 Piaggio Avanti, with it I can go into airfields a jet cannot. After takeoff you may come up front." She went into the cockpit leaving the door open, and sat on the left-hand seat. The copilot read off a checklist. Claudia answered and flipped switches.
The Initial whine of engines softened to a hum. As the plane taxied, Val's attention was on the woods on the other side of the fence and paralleling road. A rifle bullet could easily penetrate an airplane's skin. A question entered Val's head. How did Tony Bond know he would be leaving with Claudia?
"Have your seat belt fastened?" Claudia yelled from the cockpit.
The whine increased as they approached the end of the taxiway next to the sharp turn on the road.
The answer to the question hit Val like a slap in the face.
What was the Ford Escort doing at the airport at that time of the night?Bond and his cohorts wouldn't have guessed he'd be on the plane. Hell, they've been monkeying with the plane to get Claudia!
"Hey," Val yelled trying to get up. The seat belt held him fast. Engine noise grew.
"Stop!"
Val realized, with headphones on, Claudia couldn't hear him.
He undid his seat belt and was thrown against the window as the airplane turned onto the runway and accelerated.
Grabbing the cockpit doorsill, he pulled himself forward. The only way to stop the airplane in time was to pull the throttles back.
He reached forward, stretching his fingers.
The copilot gave him a sharp karate chop on the arm.
The nose rotated sharply and Val slid back into the cabin. He hit his head against an armrest as the airplane yawed. Val shook his head and stood, propping himself against a chair.
In the cockpit a bank of red lights glowed. The copilot had a check list in hand. Claudia pushed a button that lit red. A glance through the window, told Val the left prop was winding down.
He stuck his head into the cockpit and yelled, "Sabotage."
Claudia gave him a quick glance. Her attention returned to the instruments as the right engine surged and began to die.
Looking over Claudia's shoulder, Val could see furrows of a plowed field racing by. Forward visibility was restricted by cloud. "We must turn back."
Claudia flipped a switch.
A calm, British accented voice came over a cockpit loudspeaker. "Charlie Mike are you declaring an emergency?"
Claudia's voice answered, "Request radar vector to nearest ILS. Have one engine feathered, other loosing power." She then pulled her headset back, baring an ear. "What are you saying?"
"Sabotage."
"Switch to auxiliary tank." She then said to Val, "Take your seat, we're about to crash-land."
The airplane dropped out of cloud. Ahead, a fuzzy line of trees rushed toward them.
"Charlie Alfa, we have lost radar contact, turn left to one two zero for Cranfield Airport runway two-two."
Claudia pulled the yoke. The view ahead disappeared.
The right engine vibrated, surged and coughed.
Solid mist changed to a ragged ceiling as the airplane mushed toward the ground. Cattle scampered over a green field.
"Vola, vola." Claudia struggled with the controls.
It was evident there was little she could do. The airplane yawed to the left, heading for the square stone tower of a Norman church. The whine of the right engine increased as it stopped coughing. Claudia banked to the right. The plane shuddered and a whoop-whoop alarm sounded. The left wing barely missed the church.
Cloud vapor hid forward visibility.
Claudia brushed a strand of hair from her brow, then patted the glare shield. "Bene, bene, bona machina. I think we have contaminated fuel."
"Charlie Alpha, squawk two-two three-five."
Claudia turned to Val and pointed at the altimeter. "We are now at six hundred feet, two hundred feet above the ground--and climbing."
"Charlie Alpha, radar contact, turn to heading one-two five. Climb to and maintain two thousand five hundred. Radar vector to Cranfield outer marker. Weather at Cranfield eight octas two hundred feet, visibility five hundred meters, light rain. Contact Cranfield approach on one twenty-nine seven. Good day, sir."
"Climb. He must be joking," Claudia said.
The copilot said. "Cranfield Approach, Piaggio India Echo Charlie Alpha, Good morning."
"Charlie Alpha, Cranfield approach. you're number one for landing. Understand you're unable to climb to minimum safe altitude?"
"We have only one engine--developing sixty percent power."
"Roger, be aware of radio towers north west of the Charlie Foxtrot beacon. We have emergency equipment standing by."
Although they were still flying, Val realized they were far from out of trouble. Breaks in the clouds showed they were still dangerously close to the ground.
The copilot lit a cigarette.
"May I have one?" Val asked
"Piacere." The copilot extended a hand with a pack of cigarettes over his shoulder.
"I didn't know you smoked cigarettes," Claudia said.
"Only when scared out of my wits."
"Remember to put it out if we have to crash-land."
"How much longer?"
"Vito hasn't had time to look at the chart, and I'm too busy keeping Petronella in the air."
"Petronella?"
"The name of this wonderful machine."
"Ten minutes," Vito said.
Val glanced at his watch, then outside. They were enveloped in milky gray. If they crashed into something, they'd never know what they'd hit.
Pretending he was in an airliner at thirty thousand feet, Val sat in the plush seat and got his breathing under control while leafing through an Italian fashion magazine.
He leafed back when he realized he had seen something familiar. It would have been easy to miss the group photo of Claudia flanked by two thin women who looked like models. The article was titled Bravo Moda Unbeldi.
"Toot-toot-toot-toot." Val's heart almost stopped at the sound. He jumped and stuck his head into the cockpit.
"We're much below glide path but on course," Claudia said. "You can help by looking outside and tell us when you see the runway or runway lights."
Val peered at dirty milk beyond a windshield streaked with water droplets.
"Glide slope is alive," Vito said.
"Stand by for gear, we will not use flaps or reverse."
"Treshhold lights in sight," Vito said.
A row of white dots stood out brighter than the surrounding cloud.
"Coming up on glide slope."
"Gear down." Claudia pulled back the throttle lever.
Two rows of yellow lights appeared as a runway materialized, with a fire engine and ambulance standing on the edge.
Claudia pulled the throttle all the way back. The airplane settled and wheels chirped.
Val returned to his seat knowing their problems were just beginning.

[Brag]

Chapter 25

While waiting for Claudia to come back from the maintenance hangar, Val paced the plush passenger lounge of Cranfield's executive terminal.
If Bond and company had sabotaged the airplane, they would be anxious to know the results of their nefarious act. They probably been monitoring air traffic control radio frequencies and would be aware the airplane didn't crash.
As he watched the parking lot through glass doors, Val wondered how long it would take the opposition to reorganize. It wouldn't take much longer than an hour for Bond and his cohorts to reach Cranfield by car.
Claudia stormed in. "Assassini," she muttered. "Somebody added laundry detergent to the fuel. Good thing we switched to auxiliary tanks before number two fuel nozzles gummed up. It will be several days until we get fixed."
"Great."
Claudia's expression changed from furious to one of concern. Val realized he'd been clucking his tongue.
"It's not all lost," she said. "I make phone call." Before Val had time to say anything, she whirled around and disappeared behind a door with a sign: Employees and pilots only.
With a growing feeling of hopeless doom, Val resumed his watch of the parking lot. He then realized that Bond and his thugs could also fly in. He moved to a center location in the lounge and sat on an over-stuffed couch from where he could observe both ramp and parking lot entrances. They had to rent a car and get out of here. Then change cars, go to London where he could try to make contact with Boikin. How would they haul the old count's body, he didn't know.
Ten minutes later, Claudia came out.
Val stood and stepped toward her. "We need to rent a car."
Claudia shook her head. "In half hour a plane will pick us up."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I chartered a King Air. It is coming from Luton. I will leave Vito here to look after Petronella." She took out a cell phone from her shoulder bag.
While Claudia talked into the phone in Italian, Val noticed two men get out of a car in the parking lot. They did not seem in a hurry to go anywhere. One of them was talking into a cell phone. Everyone in the world had a cell phone except Val.
He pulled at Claudia's sleeve and pointed at the two men. "We need to get going."
She shook her arm off. "Wait," she said to him and continued her conversation.
"We have to go, those men are after us."
Claudia gave him an annoyed look, glanced at her watch and continued talking.
The man put his phone away. He and his partner exchanged a few words and split up. One of them, in a sheepskin bomber jacket, disappeared from view as he approached the terminal.
The other, wearing a cloth peaked cap and a trench coat moved directly in front of the terminal door.
Val fingered the pistol butt in the shoulder holster.
Claudia finished her conversation.
"There are two men outside. They'll be coming in any second now."
Claudia looked out. "I only see one."
Val took her by the elbow and pulled her toward the ramp entrance. "Let's go to the hangar."
"Yes. That's where I told the charter service to go and pick up Franco."
Almost running, Val dragged Claudia outside. He glanced around hoping to see an airplane taxiing in--nada.
A gray haired man in white coveralls and a clipboard in his hand strode toward them. "Contessa, could you sign this work order?"
Claudia stopped an took the clipboard.
Val glanced over his shoulder.
"Mr. Hawkins," Claudia said, "There are two men doing indecent exposure to me. Can you stop them to do that?"
"Someone bothering you?"
"Yes, very indecent. My gentleman friend, he can't do anything."
Hawkins looked at Val as if Val was guilty of exposing himself to women.
"I'll tell Security. We certainly won't tolerate anyone annoying our customers. He took a handheld radio clipped to one of his pockets.
Val pulled Claudia by the elbow. They had to get out of sight and he had no confidence that a couple of unarmed watchmen could protect them.
The sound of an engine drew Val's attention, he turned to see a red and white plane taxiing in. "Is that it?"
Claudia shook her head. "That's a Cessna, our airplane is larger and has two engines."
Val glanced at his watch. Only a couple of minutes had elapsed since Claudia said the airplane would arrive in thirty minutes. Besides, no one ever arrived in half an hour, the pilot was not a fighter jockey sitting in his plane ready to scramble.
They went past a hangar with several small planes inside.
"When they said they'll be here in thirty minutes, is it just flight time?"
"I think so. Yes it would take twenty minutes to fly here, plus taxi time. They said they had pilots ready to go."
"So we're really talking about an hour's wait?"
"Less if they hurry. I told them to hurry."
"We have to find a place to hide."
"Mister Hawkins will get Security here, he seems very competent."
"I don't think you realize what kind of people are going after us. They're probably armed."
"This is England."
Val took a deep breath. "Look, if I'm armed--"
"They throw people in jail for that."
She was right. Running around an airport with a pistol was more of a liability. Val wondered why MI-6 would be involved in hunting him down. After all they were not a domestic security service.
Wishing he was familiar with airport layouts, he glanced back. The ramp was empty of people. Where does one hide in a small airport?
As they approached the hangar with her airplane inside, Claudia took the lead. "We will go inside the maintenance office."
Val imagined the two men in the parking lot now inside the executive terminal showing credentials if not outright forcing their way through to the ramp.
They hurried past Petronella. Vito and a mechanic stood on step ladders doing something to an uncowled engine. Claudia went through a door on the side of the hangar.
Beyond a counter, a young woman sat at a desk. She looked up from a computer screen. "Can I help you, Contessa?"
"We need a toilet."
The woman gave Val a quick glance. "We have nice facilities at the lounge, ma'am."
"We are coming from there. We want to wait for my airplane out of sight. In the toilet."
Val closed his eyes.
"There are paparazzi who want to catch me with this man. It will be scandalous for me."
Val opened his eyes and held his breath.
"There shouldn't be anyone in the ladies' loo. Through that door, in the corridor, second door on the left ma-am. I will call security."
"Thank you, will you let us know when my airplane arrives?" Claudia took Val by the hand and strode out the door at the back of the office.
"I will give you two knocks followed by one on the door," the office girl said, before Val slammed the office door shut and entered a corridor.
Claudia opened the door marked Ladies and said, "Hello?" She pulled Val in and locked the door behind her.
Val's knees felt wobbly and he leaned against a wall. His heart made an extra beat as the picture of Leonora fellating him flashed through his mind.
"Excuse me, I will sit down," Claudia said as she inspected the small room. She lowered the top lid of the commode and sat on it.
"We better keep our voices down."
Claudia nodded, then shook her head. "First you come uninvited into my bedroom. Now I have to sit on the toilet with you keeping me company." She gave him a thin smile. "Some scandalous behavior. Don't you think?"
"Yes, almost a laughing matter." Val tried to smile back, wondering how he would deal with the gorillas as they broke the door down.
"You must think me frivolous, but I try to find humor in difficult situations. You are so cool blooded when there is trouble, and you think quick."
Getting cornered in a toilet, what an ironic way to end one's life. Val thought of the microchips the Russians had placed in his clothing. Would a screen in Moscow flash: Orloff is in an English ladies' loo?
A door slammed in the corridor.
Val held his breath.
Hurried steps went by. A door opened and closed. Probably the Gents' next door. Val let his breath out, slowly.
Too bad the only way he had of communicating with Boikin was via computer. But even if he could call him on Claudia's cell phone, what could the Russian do?
Val remembered the desperate night when he had to swim for his life; dragging a semiconscious, delirious wounded shipmate. Did fate spare him that night to have him end his life inside a crapper?
Claudia gave him a curious look.
Val stopped his clucking. Embarrassed, he glanced at his watch. They still had 45 minutes to wait. By now Tony Bond could have been here with an army of goons. Even if they weren't found in the toilets, how would they board the chartered airplane without being seen, especially carrying the body of the Count?
"That was quick thinking, during take-off," Claudia said, "How did you know it was sabotage?"
"I saw a suspicious car coming out of the airport last night. Didn't put two and two together 'til it was too late."
"It wasn't too late--just in time to give me idea to switch tanks before second engine fuel nozzles gummed up in total. We would have crashed into those trees at the end of the runway."
"The way I saw it, it was a feat of airmanship to get us here in one piece."
"I still haven't calmed my nerves."
How could anyone expect to calm one's nerves while a bunch of goons were after them was beyond Val's imagination.
The sound of loud voices reached inside the toilet as someone opened the door to the office.
"Here they come," Val said.
Heavy steps rang in the corridor, went past the door.
There was a clack as someone opened the Gents' door.
"Nobody here," a male voice said.
Someone knocked on the door.
Val fingered the pistol butt.
He thought of opening the door fast, grabbing whoever was knocking by the collar, and jamming the pistol against his temple. With a hostage he might be able to dissuade the goons from further action. Of course the goon would be armed and would shoot Val.
Val pulled the pistol out of the holster.
Claudia shook her head.
A louder rapping on the door resonated.
"Occupied," Claudia yelled.
"I'm sure that helps," Val murmured under his breath.
"Madam, you may come out now," a male voice said.
"There is a toilet in the lounge, use that. I will be here some time." Claudia made a puking sound.
"Come out whenever you like. Do you require assistance?"
Assistance with barfing? Val thought. He really didn't expect the goons to have a sense of humor.
Someone opened a door, again revealing a number of loud voices in the office.
High heels clacked in the corridor.
"Contessa, are you alright?" The office girl asked.
Claudia answered, "I am fine, thank you."
"You may come out. The police are here."
"Police?"
"Yes. They need to talk to you."
"Uniformed police?" Val asked.
"Oxfordshire Constabulary," A male voice said. "Madam, are you alright?"
"Yes, I am fine."
"Is that man bothering you?"
"No, he is a friend."
"Sir, please come outside, or we'll use the pass key."
If the guys outside were cops, God knows what they would be thinking. It sounded like they thought he could be molesting Claudia. Holding her hostage?
These sounded like real cops. If he stepped outside, they would pat him down, find the gun and throw him in jail.
"Alright, I'll be out in a second." Val dropped his jacket on the floor, took his holster off. He then reached over Claudia and dropped the holstered pistol into the water cistern.
He put the jacket back on. To his amazement, his heartbeat, and tremors running down his legs subsided. He felt as if moving in slow motion. He gave Claudia a mock salute and smiled.
"Coming out," Val said loudly, flicked the lock and opened the door.
The first thing he saw was three blue uniforms.
"Contessa, are you alright?" The oldest of the cops asked.
"Of course I'm alright," she said right behind Val.
"I'm Inspector Appleton. Heard you had a spot of trouble, with. . . is it the press?"
"Paparazzi."
"Sorry, we can't do anything about them . . . and this gentleman? Appleton pointed at Val. "He's not causing you distress?"
"No, inspector. He is a perfect gentleman."
Appleton gave Val a curious look and said. "We're here to secure your aircraft for the CID and the CAA, the Civil Aeronautics Authority to investigate, and get a statement from you about the suspected sabotage to your aircraft."
"Very well, we must do quickly because I need to continue my journey."
Val stayed back as the cops, Claudia and the office girl headed out.
He waited for the door to slam shut and went back into the Ladies'.

Chapter 26

While Claudia made her statement, Val watched out of the office window. Cops were placing barrier trestles and circled Petronella with crime scene tape.
The two King Air pilots assisted by a couple of mechanics had just finished transferring D'Albano's body to the chartered airplane. With all the cops around, Val felt reasonably safe.
Inspector Appleton said, "That should do it, Contessa."
Val took a deep breath of relief that Claudia hadn't mentioned Val's role in discovering the sabotage. While she and the inspector exchanged pleasantries, Val headed outside.
He scanned the ramp. No sign of bad guys.
"We're all set to go, sir," the captain of the King Air said.
"How long will it take us to get there?"
"Four hours and 20 minutes, to Grossetto."
Val liked Grosseto, the closest large town to where Claudia lived, in the Maremma on the southern edge of Tuscany. He had known about the Butteri, legendary cowboys who inhabited the Maremma delta even before visiting the D'Albanos. This knowledge had impressed Claudia in the early days of their friendship.
"What's the weather there like?" He asked, looking forward to returning to this little known part of Italy.
"It is deteriorating fast, sir. We expect rain and gusty winds when we arrive."
"An evil south wind?"
The pilots laughed. "A south wind is hardly ever good news, sir."
"Let's go," Claudia said as she came out of the hangar. She stopped and addressed the captain, "What route have you filed?"
The captain seemed surprised. "Paris, Tour de Pines, Nice, Elba."
"Very good. What flight level?"
"Two three zero," I should keep us out of most of the weather, ma'am."
"Thank you, captain." She climbed the steps into the cabin.
The airplane had an air ambulance layout and the Count's body was strapped to a gurney. Claudia crossed herself as she went past toward two front seats.
As Val strapped himself to the seat next to her, she said, "We will have the funeral tomorrow, and put Franco to rest in the land he loved so much. I will miss him. It still doesn't seem real . . ."
She shook her head. "And to be cheated of his last years . . ."
Val didn't know what to say. So far, Claudia hadn't shown signs of grieving. Maybe it was denial or maybe all the nasty distractions. Val wanted to reach across the aisle and take her hand.

#

A few minutes after take off, leaving the white blanket of cloud covering England, the airplane broke out into brilliant sunshine.
As tension in his body ebbed, Val's eyelids became heavy and he caught himself nodding. For some reason his mind kept fighting the tendency to doze and Val would jerk awake.
Claudia had the back of her seat in the reclining position and seemed to be asleep. The airplane leveled off at cruising altitude. Val found the reclining lever and let the back down as far as it would go. He might as well get a good refreshing nap. He rearranged himself to where he felt comfortable, entwined his fingers over his belly and closed his eyes.
Gratefully he allowed his mind to drift. Since his trek through the fields the previous night, his feet had been cold. Now, they were warming up.
Sunshine on his cheek suggested a woman's warm caress. Val felt like smiling as he drifted deeper into sleep.
The warm hand left his face. Why? Why do you leave me?
Val jerked awake.
He glanced outside. The horizon was at 45 degrees to the airplane. The sun moved from left to right.
They were heading north and still turning. What?
Val shook his head. This didn't seem right. But of course the pilots would know better which way they were supposed to go. His unease increased. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over and shook Claudia's shoulder.
She moaned and opened her eyes.
"Yes?"
"I think we're heading back."
Claudia blinked and looked around. "Something is wrong." She reached for the intercom on the bulkhead. "Why are we going west?" she asked.
Her facial expression became puzzled. She hung up and turned toward Val. "Strange."
"What's the matter?"
"ATC, Air Traffic Control orders."
"Air Traffic Control?"
"They want us to proceed to the Stanstead VOR."
"What's that?"
Claudia reached into her briefcase, pulled out, and unfolded an air navigation chart.
"Here is London Heathrow." She pointed with her finger, then moved it to the north of London. "This is Stanstead. The VOR is a navigation beacon."
"Is this normal?"
"Of course it isn't. They want us to hold over it."
Val imagined Bond or someone else making phone calls, coordinating a cumbersome bureaucratic machinery. "We're screwed," he said, feeling crushed under the invisible power of the bastards who called themselves the ruling elite.
"Screwed?"
"Adequate words escape me," he said, with the weight of impending doom hovering over him.
Claudia gave him a sharp look. "Now that we need a pistol, you left it in the toilet. You are the most useless I man I have ever met."
Val touched the still damp shoulder holster. "I'm not going to shoot it out with the cops after we land."
Claudia's face brightened. "You saved the gun?"
"I have it with me."
"What are you waiting for?" She unbuckled her seat belt, reached over and opened the cockpit door. "Signori--turn this airplane back on course to France," she said in a commanding voice.
Val couldn't make out what one of the pilots replied.
"If you don't, my gentleman friend will shoot you."
"You don't believe? He will show you."
"Caro, show them your gun." Claudia stepped aside to where he could see the captain who sat half turned.
Like an automaton, not believing it was him, Val pulled the pistol out and heard himself say, "Do as the lady tells you."
The captain swallowed, his gaze locked on the pistol.
A most unusual feeling of being in total control of a situation came over Val. This was raw power. His gun was not aiming at a hapless pilot caught in the middle, but challenged the authority of a government. A government manipulated by obscure forces. The idea of being a rebel made him smile. "Shall I shoot the copilot to make my point?"
"That won't be necessary, sir."
The airplane began to turn.
"No more talking to ATC," Claudia said.
"Whatever you say, ma-am."
"What is our position?" Claudia asked.
"Five miles south east of Biggin Hill," the captain answered.
"Proceed direct to Abbeville."
Val wondered what their legal status was. Would this qualify as a hijacking? After all, Claudia was the charterer who insisted on going to the destination she paid to go. She was simply forcing the pilot to disobey air traffic control instructions. Soon they would leave British airspace. Val wondered what the reaction of the French would be. He was sure there would be some major hassle after they landed in Italy. "Maybe we should turn on the radio speakers so we can hear what the Air Traffic Control has to say."
The captain flipped a switch.
"Golf Echo Hotel, Golf Echo Hotel," overhead speakers boomed, "Do you read me? Over."
"Golf Echo Hotel, if you read me, squawk two eight one one."
"Do not touch the transponder," Claudia said. "You better go into the cabin where my gentleman friend can shoot easier. I will take the copilot seat and handle communications."
"Golf Echo Hotel, turn left to heading three six zero."
The copilot squeezed out of his seat. Claudia let him pass into the cabin and took his place.
"Take the chair and fasten your seat belt," Val said to the young man.
Val wasn't familiar with air law, but he assumed it would be based on the laws relating to piracy on the high seas. Something like interfering with the lawful operation of a vessel and that the captain had ultimate authority. He was now sure he had gotten himself into big trouble. He was the guy holding the gun and threatening violence.
"Golf Echo Hotel, this is London Control, you are to turn left immediately, proceed direct to Stanstead VOR." The voice on the radio had taken an urgent tone. "Golf Ech--"
Claudia turned one of the tuner switches to 131,350. "The English can be so annoying." She picked up a mike. "Paris Control, this is Golf Echo Hotel, do you read, do your read?"
"Golf Echo Hotel, bonjour, this is Paris Control, read you loud and clear."
"Paris Control, this is Golf Echo Hotel, do you read?" Claudia repeated.
The voice from Paris Control repeated several times that he read loud and clear.
Claudia said, "If you read me, we are maintaining flight level one nine zero, destination Grossetto."
Val smiled. Maybe they could get away by faking loss of communications, if they could convince the pilots not to bitch about having a gun pointed at them. Fat chance. Nevertheless, Claudia's quick thinking impressed him. She was certainly more suited for skullduggery than he was. He thought of his imaginary pirate queen of Marie Galante Island and gave her Claudia's face.
"Golf Echo Hotel, this Paris control, we have radar contact three zero miles from Abbevile. Descend to and maintain flight level one zero zero. Standby to be intercepted by French Air Force."
The transmission hit Val like a bucket of cold water.
The copilot said, "Sir, you'll end up much better off if you put that gun away. The game is up."
Val didn't answer.
Claudia stuck her head out the cockpit door. "I think they mean business."
With a deep breath, Val accepted the inevitable and nodded.
"Golf Echo Hotel, after crossing Abbeville, turn to heading zero six three, descend to three thousand feet. Altimeter setting 1017 millibars."
Claudia said something to the captain and the airplane began descent. At the new angle, Val could see ahead. The cloud layer ended shortly after reaching the French coast, exposing fields of winter-brown. "Do you have a cigarette?" He asked the copilot.
The copilot shook his head as a tremor seized the airplane and a roar replaced the hissing noise of the slipstream. With its afterburner glowing, a Mirage fighter appeared on the King Air's windscreen. It pulled up and disappeared from view.
Impressive. Val wondered if the French jet scorched the paint of the little turboprop. The damn Frogs weren't messing about. This wasn't Val's day for flying. It really wasn't his day for anything. The whole world had turned against him. One couldn't win. Angry at his own stupidity, he jammed the pistol into the holster. "Now we have machine guns pointed at us."
"As they say in France, c'est la vie," the copilot answered. He then yelled, "I say, Jock, do you have a fag for our passenger?"
The captain handed a box of Senior Service cigarettes to Val.

#

Depression was the right word. Val watched the two Mirage fighters flank their airplane as it lined up with the runway of a French military base.
"Welcome to wherever we are," the copilot said as the wheels of the King Air kissed the runway.
The man's calmness irritated Val. Of course pilots were trained to deal with crisis. This was even evident in Claudia, who took everything in stride. In this situation there was only one thing left for him to do.
He had to behave with dignity.
After all, he was an Orloff, the last survivor of an illustrious family.
The airplane stopped in front of a two-storied yellow building and was immediately surrounded by paratroopers in camouflage uniforms and red berets.
The copilot opened the door and scampered to the ramp with his hands up.
"You go now," Claudia said to the captain, who left the cockpit and then the airplane with alacrity.
Claudia sighed above the hum of gyros winding down. "They will separate us for interrogation and then send us to separate jails, but we will write to each other, yes?"
Val tried to smile. "We'll meet again after serving our sentences."
"Yes, we will meet again."
"I'll go out first," Val said, getting up from his seat.
An officer in khaki and wearing the four metal bars of a commandant, a major, greeted Val. "You are under arrest, monsieur."

#

Commandant Chabass leaned back in the high backed chair in his office and lit a Marlborough. "Now explain to me with calmness . . . why did you threaten the pilots with a pistol?"
Sitting on an arm chair next to Val, facing the desk, Claudia said, "Because they did not obey my orders. I'm the charterer of this airplane. Here is the faxed contract."
Chabass nodded. "And then, you flew the airplane?"
"I did, I always fly my own airplane."
"But this is chartered. Not your airplane."
"What I mean is I'm a pilot."
"You threatened to shoot the pilots?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"To keep them from flying back to England."
"But you were over England when that happened."
"Yes," Claudia said. "So you have no jurisdiction."
Chabass rolled his eyes. "The Gendarmerie or the Criminal Police, whoever gets here first will sort out these details. I just need some sane information for the report I must write."
Half-hour later, Chabass finished tapping a computer keyboard. A printer buzzed. Chabass slid a printed page across his desk. "Please read it, and sign stating the contents are what you have told me."
Val read it. "This paragraph where it says forcibly took command. The Contessa took command after the pilots were threatened. She didn't use force."
Chabass sighed. "Let's start from the beginning."
One of three telephones on the desk rang. "Alo? Oui, show him in."
After hanging up softly, Chabass said, "Air Force hospitality is about to finish." He stood as the door opened.
Val turned, felt momentary relief. Though the face was familiar the expression was grim and spelled more trouble.
"Bon soir, Commandant," Shapquine said, showing an ID card. He then nodded toward Val and Claudia. "Yes, that's them."
"Leur histoire est tres bizarre." Chabass shook his head and handed Shapquine the declaration.
"Hmm," Shapquine said after reading it. "They didn't include they almost crashed another airplane this morning."
"Another airplane?" Chabass shook his head with disbelief.
Shapquine looked at his watch. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast," Val said.
"Is the kitchen still open for the colacion?"
"Yes, of course."
"Let's take your guests to the mess. I'm hungry, too."

#

The small mess looked like a McDonalds divided by trellises and artificial creepers. Chabass joined several officers who sat at a long table, having their afternoon meal customary in the French armed forces for duty personnel.
Shapquine chose a table on the opposite side of the room.
A waitress brought plates of fried eggs with French Fries and a carafe of red wine.
Shapquine said, "In England eggs have a slight fishy flavor. Contessa, I congratulate you on your superb airmanship this morning."
"There was no other recourse, Colonel." Claudia poured wine into her glass.
Shapquine smiled. "Last night, Moscow raised the alarm. Professor, what were you doing traveling cross country at a speed between five and nine kilometers an hour? Your friend was worried. And you failed to check in this morning."
"Someone stole my laptop."
"We thought we lost you when you headed back to London."
"Thanks to the Contessa, we turned around."
"I have to get Franco to his funeral."
"The British government has issued an international arrest warrant for both of you. And the French government is happy to comply."
"You can't do that," Repressing a shout, Val growled.
"Professor Orloff, Contessa D'Albano, you are under arrest."

[Brag]

Chapter 27

"Arrest me, I threatened the pilots. The Contessa had nothing to do with this."
Shapquine nodded. "Now that you have been arrested, we can inform the Brits. We don't need to tell them you are released on parole. We'll provide you with an aircraft tomorrow."
Relief made Val's hands shake.
"Contessa," Shapquine said, "Do you have a couple of spare rooms at your residence?"
"Yes, why?"
"I plan to accompany you to Italy and there is a lady who wants to talk with our dear count."
Claudia gave Val a sharp look. "Another lady?"
"Academician Lydia Stuart," Shapquine said.
"Colonel, I don't run a hotel."
"Of course we could stay somewhere else, but providing security will be more difficult. And then there's the risk of Italian authorities acting on the British warrant."
"With the funeral, the airplane to fix, business obligations, the professor wanting perusal of documents; now you throw Italian authorities into the basket of problems. And then, to boots, you propel another woman into my house."
Val stopped eating. "This lady is quite fun. You can think of her as my mother checking on her errant son."
"Madre mia," Claudia said to the ceiling. "This lunatic wakes me up at four in the morning, now he wants to bring his mother."
Val chuckled. "The trouble with the Contessa, she doesn't like how other people fly."
Shapquine said. "I'm informed that Academician Stuart has found a lead to uncover Captain Jack's identity."

#

Rain and wind swept across Grosseto Airport's concrete apron. The French Falcon Jet taxied to a remote corner of the airport where a black Mercedes hearse and an old green Range Rover waited.
Two men in black hats and raincoats took D'Albano's body, placed him inside the hearse and drove off.
"From here on he will be treated with dignity," Claudia said, opening a red umbrella outside the airplane door. Getting drenched, Val followed her to the Range Rover wishing he had a hat.
Shapquine, wearing a trench coat festooned with D rings, flaps and straps caught up with Val. "Perfect weather for a good Italian bean soup."
"The way she likes cops, the Contessa will pour it on top of your head."
"No, she'll be too angry at Boikin who's been camping at her Palazzo since last night."
"You could have told me yesterday."
"He didn't tell me 'til a few minutes ago on the cell."
Val imagined the little Russian ransacking through the D'Albano papers.
"You two climb to the back seat." Claudia said after greeting the driver.
Water ran down flooded ditches on the side of the road. In the fields along the narrow country road, miserable looking Cattle stood their backs to the wind. Because of the clouds dragging wet bellies along the tops of hills, Val had no way of telling in which direction they were going. Soon the terrain became flat and the driver pulled off the paved road onto a muddy track.
Four kilometers later, they entered San Albano, a one street village Val remembered as sun drenched. The car turned into a square where in the summer people sat on benches eating ice cream. There was something extra melancholic about Italy on a rainy day. They stopped in front of the modest village church.
Claudia said, "I have to see the priest." She jumped out and hurried into the church. A wind gust shook the car. Val's bones absorbed the chill of his wet clothes. So much for warming under the famed Tuscan sun.
"Our friend Boikin would have commented how suitable the weather is for a funeral," Shapquine said in Russian.
"Are you his stand in?" Val wiped his fogging window with the back of the hand.
"Have you considered that the young wife might have murdered her aging husband?"
"What for?"
"The obvious reasons. And she could be using the situation to commit the perfect crime."
Indignation rose up Val's chest. "I find the suggestion preposterous if not offensive."
The French policeman, or whatever he was, shrugged.
"The next thing you'll say I offed the old boy."
"In France you'd be a suspect, at least as an accomplice."
Val wondered if Shapquine's words were a threat. He was going to tell him to watch what he said when Claudia ran out of the house next to the church.
"Andiamo." She climbed back into the car.
Shortly after leaving the village, the driver slowed, turned into an open gate with cattle guards. A herd of fallow deer, hoof-deep in water, watched the car drive by.
"Our plot borders the Uccellina Nature Reserve. And those cattle you see are wild," Claudia told Shapquine.
"A splendid location, Contessa."
Among scattered umbrella-like Mediterranean pines several white cows with large horns grassed sticking their snouts into water covering the tableland.
The place looked completely different from the summer he had spent here.
They passed a group of houses and sheds built on slightly elevated ground. The Range Rover stopped in front of the white, three storied main house that was the D'Albano ancestral home. Without blooming flower boxes on the iron balconies installed in the late 1800s, the house had the architectural merit of a stone box with small windows.
Inside, the temperature was colder than in the open. Rosalia, a chunky middle aged woman in a black dress and wrapped in a black shawl, gave orders to the driver and a thin young man, who took luggage up a wooden staircase.
Val thought that originally the ground floor was used to shelter animals. He scrutinized statuary lining up the foyer walls and once again had the feeling of entering a museum. Incongruously, a row of parkas hung from pegs next to the door.
Claudia removed her scarlet raincoat, took a parka off a peg and handed it to Val. "Before you die." She then took another and put it on. Turning to Shapquine, she said, "This house was built in the medieval time. In the twelfth century. Franco believed if we put heat to it, the house would crumble. The cold keeps the mosquitoes away in the summer."
Rosalia whispered something into Claudia's ear.
Claudia's eyes quickly shifted between Val and Shapquine as she nodded.
Her expression became stern and she said to Shapquine. "You follow Luciano to your room." She then studied Val. "Yes, you have similar size to Franco. He won't mind if you wear his clothes."
The second floor had a corridor girding the building. Potted palms and benches alternated between interior doors. Claudia led into a dark bedroom and switched on the light. A small chandelier illuminated a military cot, a folding field desk with chair, and a well worn, overstuffed arm chair. "This is the room where Franco really lived."
She opened an armoire. "Use whatever you need, but not his uniforms."
"Thank you," Val said, trying not to show his reluctance of ransacking a dead man's wardrobe.
"I will show you your room, it's the same one you had before. Then I will go to Grosetto for shopping. You have freedom of the house. But the top floor is closed."

#

In the guest room Claudia assigned to him, Val got into dry clothes. D'Albano's trousers were too long. Val rolled the cuffs up. Chilled to the bones, he put on two pair of wool socks. The ancient house made him think how history influenced the thinking of people. Here, even an ignorant peasant was exposed to the monuments and architectural art of the past and became aware of the human greatness of mind. In the States only the East Coast offered anything resembling a historical tradition and the American lower classes had less cultural development than isolated African tribes. Maybe he should write a paper on the subject. He cringed at the outrage such thoughts would cause if made public.
His musings were shattered as the door flew open.
"Valentin Georgevich," Boikin said.
Val restrained himself before answering. "Don't you believe in knocking on doors?"
"I was hoping to catch you and the Contessa in bed."
"You're too late. She's gone shopping."
Boikin shook his head as he sat on a rococo armchair. "Shopping? You let her go shopping by herself?"
Embarrassment and anger at his own stupidity mixed in Val's mind.
Boikin waved his arm in dismissal. "Never mind, it will take your friends some time to discover where you and she are. Lunch will be served in twenty minutes."
"Did you have a productive night searching the house?"
"Didn't find a thing," Boikin probably lied.

#

The room was small, heated by a portable kerosene stove. Stuart rubbed her palms together as she sat at the round table. "Ah, wonderful, zakuski."
"Antipasti in Italy," Val said.
"I found a piano for you."
Boikin took a bottle of vodka out of an overcoat pocket. "This converts Italian antipasti into good Russian zakuski."
"The magic of vodka," Shapquine added.
Val studied the different dishes on the table. There were the obligatory pickles, salami, mushrooms, some fish.
Boikin poured vodka into wine glasses. "To your two extraordinary escapes. May you not run out of miracles."
After downing the vodka and chewing some salami, Val said, "I understand you made some meaningful discoveries."
Stuart waved a mushroom impaled on a fork. "A new call-sign appears after a week's hiatus. We have been unable to decipher it. But Colonel Shapquine says French intercepts indicate the new station communicating with DSXV was located in Alexandria."
The British occupied Egypt at the time. "It would have been impossible for Germans to transmit from Alexandria. Maybe some lost patrol of the Africa Corps, holed up in the desert. But they never got east of El Alamein."
Shapquine said, "French intercepts in Bizerte and Beirut were in excellent position to triangulate precisely."
"For 23 days this station communicates with DSXV almost daily. Then stops for a week. This station also communicates with U-3503. The next transmission . . . Colonel drop your bomb."
Shapquine grinned. "Count, brace yourself."
The vodka, kerosene heater and the two pairs of socks, gave Val a feeling of wellbeing. He laughed and poured vodka. "The next transmission was made from the top of the pyramid of Giza by space aliens."
Shapquine's grin disappeared. "Wadi Haifa, eight-hundred kilometers south of Cairo."
Val thought for a moment. "Interesting. Moving toward U-3503, which by now has run out of fuel."
"From then on, our Beirut station intercepts only one more transmission the following day. So there is no triangulation but the line goes over Khartoum."

Chapter 28

July 1945
From the narrow cockpit window of the war surplus PBY Catalina amphibian Capella had bought in Naples, Captain Jack watched the heel of the boot of Italy slowly slide underneath. Ahead lay nothing but blue Mediterranean with the horizon blurred by summer haze.
It felt good to sit in the copilot's seat. Jack had not been in an airplane cockpit since that bitter day he got washed out from flight training in San Antonio. The Army Air Corps was unfair and brutal. If the stupid instructor said a cadet was not ready to solo in ten hours, that was it. There was no appeal, no recourse. Despite his later success in the OSS, Jack never forgave his instructor nor the Army for shattering his dream of becoming a pilot.
The dream was born in Berlin, where Jack's father was second secretary at the embassy. A humble job he had stoically taken after losing the family fortune during the depression. While visiting the Third Reich, Charles Lindbergh, the great aviator came to dinner. His enthusiasm for the future of aviation got Jack fired up with a burning desire to become a pilot.
At 110 knots, it would take them 11 hours to reach Alexandria. Jack glanced at Capella who still wore his military khakis and smoked a cheap cigar.
"Do you mind if I fly for a bit?"
Capella nodded. "Just keep this heifer on course and altitude."
Jack pulled his seat forward and took the controls.
"Easy," Capella said, and pushed the yoke forward with his index fingers.
The airplane had climbed 50 feet.
Jack pulled the yoke back just a touch and then brought it forward, nailing the altimeter on the twelve o'clock position.
"Use the trim wheel when those *******s in the back move around."
Having his men called *******s, rankled. "Hey, they might not smell too good, but they aren't *******s."
Capella chuckled. "I guess I should be more respectful of this airline's first passengers."
"Now you understand the business aspect of this airline." Jack's gaze swept the sea below. Three white wakes drew his attention. Ships no longer sailed in convoys. Jack chuckled to himself, wondering what Capella's reaction was going to be when they landed next to a German U-boat.

#

Capella's loud snores weren't helping Jack's drowsiness. Showing they were making progress, the red ADF needle pointed toward Tobruk, eighty degrees off the nose. Capella sprawled like a Dali masterpiece with one foot on the glare shield, the other resting between the rudder pedals. His head hung to one side, and his headset had dropped to the floor.
Jack reached for the thermos with coffee
Though lukewarm, the coffee soothed Jack's dry throat. He was pleased to see the airplane stayed nailed on its altitude without him touching the yoke. The Croats riding in the back were probably asleep and weren't moving about screwing up the trim.
The drone of he engines broke into loud, banging belches. Jack spilled coffee on his lap and dropped his cup.
Capella's foot got caught in the yoke as he attempted to sit up. The nose of the PBY lifted. Jack fought to regain control.
A strident bell rang.
"What the ****?" Capella said, as he disentangled his foot.
Jack looked out of his window. "****, the engine is on fire."
Capella sang, "Happy days are here again . . ." He punched the right feathering button, as he took over the yoke. "Look outside, tell me when the prop has stopped."
Jack watched the propeller come to a halt, its blades turned to offer least resistance to the slipstream. "Rotation stopped."
"Do you see flames?"
"****ing A."
"Turn that ****ing bell off."
Capella pulled the right CO2 discharge handle.
It took Jack several seconds to find the alarm mute switch.
"Is the fire out?"
"I think so."
"Okay, panic's over. Read me the checklist."
Jack glanced at the dropping airspeed, as Capella pushed the throttle of the good engine to climb power. Trying to keep his voice even, Captain Jack read off the Engine Failure Checklist.

#

7° 48' S
39° 32' E
With the war over, lighthouses functioned again. Teicher was fascinated by the periodic sweep of Kilindoni Light-beam on Mafia island. Below the horizon, the lighthouse itself couldn't provide the precise bearing Teicher needed. His gaze returned toward the bow, and he peered through his glasses. In the moonlight, the mangrove coast looked like an ancient army of pikemen walking on water.
Shortly after dark he had surfaced and dropped off Charlie and Franco in an inflatable life raft one mile upwind of his present position. According to Charlie, the Southeast Monsoon wind would carry him to the Komboni mouth of the Rufiji Delta. Now Teicher searched for the beacon the two lunatics were supposed to light.
Four hours had gone by. Still nothing. "Ten degrees port rudder," Teicher commanded more out of instinct than observation. The mangrove mess ahead didn't allow precise navigation.
A grunt from the port lookout made Teicher swing his glasses left.
"Light off the port bow," the lookout called out.
"Thirty degrees port rudder. Engines one third ahead, together."
The whine of the electric motors increased. Teicher wasn't taking chances of someone ashore hearing the thump of diesels.
"New heading zero seven three," Krabbe said as he took a bearing with the UZO.
"A bit stronger current than we anticipated."
"Jawohl, I hope those two landed in the right place."
"Depth fifteen meters, fluctuating to thirteen."
Teicher studied the steepening swell. "Danke."
"I hope our friend is right about coral not growing in muddy water," Krabbe said.
Teicher chuckled. "He is right out of a Salgari novel."
"A modern day Sandokan."
They were less than a mile from the coast. "Dead slow ahead." Teicher searched for the opening. He could see spume, and hear thunder of breaking waves. "Hard to port, ahead full." Teicher winced. His commands were like those of a raw junior officer caught with his pants down.
The boat accelerated as it turned beam to the seas.
Like a rearing monster a wave rose and broke on deck. Teicher slammed against the rail as the boat rolled. "Engines stop. Hard starboard."
The boat turned toward the inlet.
As if crossing a magic barrier, they entered calm water.
The boat started to drift back to sea, Teicher understood what formed the freak waves. "Engines ahead one third."
The most primitive navigation beacon on earth, a fire built on a raft Illuminated surrounding mangrove trees. Teicher watched Charlie and Franco pull themselves from tree to tree, working their way upstream against an ebbing current. "What's the depth?"
"Depth twenty four meters."
"The tide turned early on us, Herr Krabbe." Teicher couldn't resist in saying.
"I did my best with what we have, Herr Kaleun."
That had been an unfair comment. All Krabbe had to work with was the tide information given by a commercial radio station in Mombasa. "I've meant it as a compliment."
The sub was doing five knots against the current and stood still maintaining station. Teicher hoped Charlie and Franco moved sufficiently well upstream to be able to paddle up to the ship. "I want four men with lines on the forward deck and four by the stern. If those people get swept to sea, I'll have someone's neck." He then turned to Krabbe. "You have the con."
Teicher sat at the bottom of the cockpit and lit a cigarette. With envy, he thought of his men who soon would enjoy a break under the sun.
"Here they come," Krabbe said.
Teicher sprung to his feet.
With naked eyes, he noticed the disturbance on the water. His heartbeat accelerated as he focused his glasses on the two men furiously paddling the life raft. It didn't take a genius to see they'd never make the sub. The current swept them down four meters for every meter of progress.
Teicher glanced back where the outpouring current met the ocean waves in a maelstrom of white water.
The life raft was clearly visible to the naked eye. Charlie had overestimated their capability of propelling the clumsy craft. Or misjudged the current. It didn't matter. Throughout the war Teicher had not lost a single man. He wasn't about to start now.
"Engines astern, full." Teicher wondered what damage he would do to screws and rudders if he hit something.
The wine of electric motors rose, the sub began moving backward. The life raft was almost abeam the bow, still a good thirty meters away from U-3503.
One of the men on deck tossed a line. The wind blowing above the treetops sheered its course. The monkey fist splashed into water behind the raft.
As the sub's forward speed dropped, the raft's relative position stabilized. The second line flew neatly over the raft and one of the occupants grabbed it.
"Both engines ahead one third together." Teicher looked back as the stern headed for the huge breakers.
"Man overboard."
In all his time at sea, Teicher had never heard the dreaded call except in drills. He leaned over the port rail to see the head of the line-handler reappear on the surface.
"Stern crew toss your lines."
Teicher was going to yell more instructions. But that would add to the confusion.
Someone threw a line, wrapped the bitter end around a cleat. The life raft swung as the line tightened.
The idiot in the water had let go of the line to the raft and swam for it.
U-3503 slowly pulled away from the surf.
"Ahead one half." Now he had to prevent the raft from entering the surf. With relief, Teicher saw the swimmer reach the raft and someone grab him.
Relieved, his attention returned to maneuvering his boat deeper into Africa. Above the soft hum of the electric motors, he thought he heard the trumpeting of elephant in the distance.
Five minutes later, all his charges were back aboard.
Charlie came up to the bridge. "Yes, Herr Kaleun?"
An odd holiday feeling, generally absent in war engulfed Teicher. He patted Charlie on the shoulder and chuckled. "Now you'll act as pilot, show me your famous beach with palm trees."

#

Alexandria, Wadi Haifa, Khartoum. The route Imperial Airways used. It took four days with overnight stops for this airline's plush flying boats to reach Lake Naivasha in Kenya. "Moving up the Nile," Val said. "And it wasn't at the speed of a boat."
Boikin who had been sitting looking pensive, leaned forward. "Time for a perikur, a smoking break." He lit a cigarette. We have the route and the dates of an airplane heading toward East Africa."
"Absolutely brilliant," Val almost chuckled. "All you need to do is have some of your bright young men working in Cairo and Khartoum, dig through the records and we get the names, aircraft registration, everything."
Boikin ran a hand over his head. An exaggerated scowl appeared on his face. "In Cairo we can't sneeze without Tel Aviv getting a report. Mossad has that part of the world under the closest surveillance. They have thoroughly penetrated the Egyptian security services and the police."
"What do the Israelis have to do with this?"
Stuart, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, said, "Without Israeli intelligence, the US is blind in the Middle East. So the plethora of American intelligence organizations keep in close touch with Mossad."
Boikin added. "If we start investigating, Washington will know immediately. Mister X will make his conclusions and you will have to spend the rest of your life hiding in some remote shack in Siberia."
"The way Mossad has North and Eastern Africa covered is simply Amazing," Shapquine said. "Aid programs, hotels, transport, import-export and trading companies, provide an excellent network where it is difficult to move without them knowing."
Rosalia entered the room carrying a large steaming tureen and placed it on the table. "Signori mangia niente."
While Rosalia ladled soup, Val shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was little doubt in his mind the Russian and French spooks would propose he go to Egypt.
With MI-6 already after him, all he needed was to another intelligence organization joining the hunt.
"We'll give you an Austrian passport and you'll go as a tourist," Boikin said.
"I just learned to say buenos dias."
"Tourists outnumber security operatives," Shapquine added. "You'll get lost in the hordes."
"They all go to the pyramids, bazaars and the museum. They don't dig into airport archives. Nowadays airports are high security zones," Val objected.
"There's another high security zone you may want to avoid," Shapquine said, "Wormwood Scrubs Prison in London."
"I see, and you would deliver me there?"
"The trial would be rather sensational. The sort of thing British tabloids love."
"The Italian press is quite colorful, too," Boikin added."
The fury rising inside Val was hard to contain. For a moment he visualized pulling the pistol now comfortably lodged under his arm and shooting all three spooks. The image of the massacre brought out the icy calm he was beginning to learn how to summon in critical moments. He smiled at his lunch partners. "You make interesting suggestions. Of course I'd love to go to Egypt."

#

The rain had stopped and the overcast lifted higher than the steep, rock-strewn hills bordering the alluvial plain. The ruins of a yellow sandstone tower atop one of the hills fascinated Val. Several other towers sprouted here and there. Nowhere else in the world were there so many reminders of the past as in Italy. He was about to go back into his dark room when he saw the Range Rover drive up to the house.
He had to talk to Claudia alone. Stuart's idea made a lot of sense. But unlike the spooks accustomed to using people, Val was loath of involving Claudia.
Val went downstairs and helped the driver and houseboy unload groceries, which they took to an enormous kitchen with a large brick oven.
After the two men left, Claudia said, "Coffee?"
"Yes, thank you." Val sat on a stool by a huge, ancient table that must have been built inside the kitchen and watched Claudia manipulate a complex espresso machine.
In a few minutes, she placed two cups of aromatic coffee on the table and sat across from Val. "This is beginning to look like the United Nations. You really need to do some explanations. Who are all these people?"
Val took a deep breath. "I'm still trying to figure it out. It all goes back to Hermann. I thought I knew the man. He was like a benign uncle who taught me in College, helped me defend my dissertation and eased my career. Obviously I held him in the highest esteem and had an idealized picture of him. But now I came to realize my picture of him was incorrect."
"Incorrect? He was the most correct man I have known."
"What I mean is I had a wrong picture of him. Maybe an idealized one. How did you see him?"
"See him?"
"Yes, paint me a portrait. He and your husband were well acquainted."
"Acquainted?" Claudia inclined her head to one side. I would say they were more like partners. Now that both are dead, I can tell you. They worked together tracking down, is that the correct word, tracking?"
Val nodded.
"They tracked down stolen art work. David Hermann was mostly interested in searching for art looted by the German Nazis and then sold illegally. When David spent his summers here he and Franco traveled a lot. Franco told me, David was obsessed with what he called the silent tower."
"What is the silent tower?"
"Franco took me there once before we were married." Claudia chuckled. "I think he wanted to demonstrate in what an excellent physical condition he was. We climbed to a beautiful place in the Alps next to Switzerland."
"What does it have to do with art, or stolen art?"
Claudia shrugged. "There was an old radio antenna there. Franco called it the Silent Tower. He always laughed at David who often said, 'If only I could make that tower talk."
Hermann probably did make that tower talk, Val thought, and that was what got him killed. "Did Franco ever mention a submarine?"
"You ask the craziest questions and don't answer any of mine. What are all these people doing here?"
"They also want to make the silent tower talk."
"You are riddling me." Claudia slid her coffee cup to the side.
"If we can look at Franco's real dairy, I think we will find most of the answers to your questions."
A frown made Claudia look as if she couldn't make her mind. "I don't think we can do that until I see his will. I have an appointment with the lawyer day after tomorrow."
Exasperated, Val grasped the edge of the table. "A lawyer? Two people got killed already and someone tried to kills us. Once they realize they have a phony diary they will come here and take the real one."
"They won't find it."
"They'll make you talk."
"I am safe here. The Butteri protect me."
"They're just cowboys. Maybe ok against some Mafiosi. But not against the people who have been hunting me down."
"Ah, you don't trust your French and Russian friends."
"The only reason they've been protecting me is because they need me. Or maybe I have already outlived my usefulness and all they need now is the diary."
"So while the Butteri look for people who try to come in, like a Trojan horse, you bring your friends into the house so they can rob the diary."
Val sighed. "We didn't have much of a choice."

[Brag]

Chapter 29

Seeing Claudia was adamant, Val let the subject lie. "I need to check my Emails, can I use your computer?"
She led the way to the second floor into a corner of the house he'd never been to before, and now had to wait while she inserted keys into three different locks.
"Do you keep your gold in there?"
"In the fashion business we have many secrets. I do all my designing here and no one sees my collection until we go into the manufacturing stage."
Claudia's corner studio had an outside view and large windows had been knocked out of the stone walls. Several rough sketches were pined to a drafting table. Unlike the work areas of most creative people, this room was clinically orderly. Only an old fashioned rotary phone and an appointments book sat on top of a large mahogany desk.
Val approached a window and looked outside. The rain had stopped. Half a mile away, large waves churned up into a line of white breakers on the beach. A clump of Mediterranean pines barely hid the dock where Claudia kept her sailboat.
"Your friends tried to come inside here last night and set off the silent alarm. Rosalia is very persuasive when she aims her submachine gun."
"Rosalia?" Val turned to face Claudia. He had trouble visualizing the old chunky housekeeper with a gun.
Claudia laughed. "You look incredulous. Rosalia is an old fashioned Communist, still waiting for the uprising of the working classes. She marched your friends into the cellar and locked them up up."
"You mean she took on Boikin?"
Claudia nodded, then switched on a computer on a small desk. "I told her to release them when we arrived."
"She had me fooled."
"Never underestimate old people."
"She was living dangerously. I'm sure Boikin is armed."
"He was." Claudia opened a desk drawer and took out a pistol. "He was carrying this."
"She must have been a convincing sight for Boikin . . ."
"When she parades her gun at the party meetings, she calls everyone tovarish and speaks a smattering of Russian."
Val shook his head and sat in front of the large, flat computer screen. He had about ten Emails. He started by deleting Spam. He was about to press the key on Subj: Penis enlargements by Bogo. His finger froze in mid air and he opened the Email.
The message read:
For penis enlargement come alone to my Riviera & Split Uvala Baluni 24 1105 1700.
Val stared at the message. It didn't make any sense except the text would probably evade interest by security services Email interception programs. 24 could be a telephone country code. "What country is 24?"
Val smelled Claudia's peach scent as she looked over his shoulder.
"I see, very important for you to have penis enlarged now."
"Well, you see ah . . . " Val stopped clucking his tongue.
"That's not a telephone number. Uvala Baluni is in Split."
"Split?"
"The Dalmatian Riviera. Uvala Baluni is a picturesque harbor."
"Ah," Val said as the message became clear. Split was an ancient town in Croatia, founded by Roman Emperor Diocletian in the 4th. Century. Now the numbers made sense. 241105 was 24 November 2005 and 1700 meant five PM. The day after tomorrow.
"Why are you getting your penis enlarged in Split?"
"I have to meet someone's father."
"Mama mia, you need to take your medicine."
"I won't be able to attend the funeral," Val was pretty sure he would have to go to Rome in order catch a plane for Split.
"To get penis enlarged to meet someone's father is more important than a funeral? Caro Valentino, you need some rest. Then, with a clear mind get your priorities straight."
"My penis has nothing to do with this!" Val swiveled the chair, his nose ending up inches away from Claudia's belly.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. His nose sank into her jeans. Drunk with the smell of woman, Val wrapped his arms around her.
After a few moments, Claudia pushed his head away. "Caro Valentino. First I must bury Franco--Now let go of my posterior!"
Reluctantly, Val released the embrace.
Claudia squatted to bring her face to his level. "Tomorrow, like a civilized friend, you come to the funeral. The airplane will be fixed and Vito will have it here tomorrow night. After we finish the customary formalities required by society, I will fly you to your bizarre meeting in Split."
Val took her hands, stood, and pulled Claudia up. "Thanks, but I have to go alone."
She shook her hands free of his and placed a finger on his nose. "Of course, you will hike over the mountains then swim the Adriatic. You need a pilot to get you there in time. Capice?"
"You're impossible."
"Tonight, Don Marco, the village priest will come for dinner. Don't you dare tell him Franco was Muslim. And tomorrow as a world-famous historian you will deliver the eulogy glorifying Franco as a great hero of World War Two, a great human being and much beloved leading citizen of the Maremma and Tuscany."
"Ok," Val said, thinking of the implications, "But at a funeral I can only tell the truth. Let me see Franco's real diary."
"The real diary is in a safe place. You can't see it today, you can't see it tomorrow. Because you are going to Split, you can't see it until you come back. But I will tell you the real story."

#

21 January 1941
Kassala, Sudan.
It was still dark when Captain Franco D'Albano crept to the edge of the ridge where he was greeted by the smell of cooking fires. Everything was working in his favor, even the light movement of air. Some Englishman in the encampment outside the town, also helped when he started the engine of a tank. The noise would cover the approach of D'Albano's 1500 mounted Spahis. For a moment Franco hesitated. The last time cavalry attacked tanks was two years ago in Poland. Was he also going to sacrifice his men for nothing?
So far, the British Army had nothing but contempt for the Italians who had surrendered in droves in the Libyan Desert. Now. Gazelle Force, with its trucks and tanks, had taken the frontier stronghold of Kassala without firing a shot.
Franco quickly identified the British positions reported by his scouts and spies as he scanned the enemy through binoculars. In the faint light the British lined up by field kitchens to get their morning tea.
"Allah akhbar." Franco muttered and crept back to where Saidi, his orderly, held their horses by the rains.
Franco mounted and rode back into the wadi where his troops stood waiting. The silence of the morning was only broken by the soft snort of a horse. Franco drew his saber.
Following his example, Saidi drew a carbine from its scabbard.
Franco listened to the swish sounds as his squadron commanders pulled their swords in signal to begin the charge. He wheeled his horse around and broke into a trot.
His force climbed out of the dry riverbed. Only the sound of dislodged pebbles gave away movement but the Brits had failed to cover this crucial geographical feature that had allowed the stealthy approach of cavalry.
Out in the open, Franco glanced back. In parade precision, the Spahis deployed in rows of 200 horsemen advanced brandishing carbines and scimitars.
Ahead, the Brits were deployed into two main groups, the elite 25th. Indian Field Regiment with artillery, and the other composed of Sussex and Surrey Yeomanry equipped with tanks.
More engines were starting as the muezzin called for prayers from the mosque in town.
Like a warrior of a millenium ago, Franco waved his saber and broke into a moderate canter. Behind him, the thunder of hooves grew.
Three hundred meters ahead, soldiers ran in every direction. A few muzzle flashes blinked.
"Allah akhbar!" Franco yelled at the top of his voice.
The yell was answered by a thousand voices as the Spahis broke into a full gallop and the cornet blew the signal to charge.
Franco knew this was the last order he would give in this world.
His horse jumped over a concertina wire entanglement and entered a truck park. Franco's saber descended and sliced into a running soldier's shoulder. He twirled the saber free and stabbed into a rifleman's chest.
Grenades exploded. The early dawn light took a rosy hue as fires erupted.
Franco led his horse toward a street packed with soldiers. Next to him, Zaidy had dropped the reins and kept firing his carbine. Terrified Indian soldiers ducked into doorways.
He couldn't see them, but behind the crumping of grenades told him his riders were tossing them as they passed the enemy trying to take shelter.
Franco turned a corner and jumped over a field kitchen. On reaching the mosque and again turning right, he heard the dreaded sound of artillery and the screeching of a shell. The artillery was responding faster than he had anticipated.
He rode out of town where the British combat troops were deployed and reined his horse.
The scene was a chaotic melee of riders slashing soldiers on foot. Another shell screamed across the field. It hit a British tank. The Indian gunners unable to see across the tumult were not aware the shells were passing almost harmlessly amid the cavalry and slamming into their own equipment.
The crack of British Enfield rifles was rising in volume. It sounded like the enemy was organizing and beginning a counter attack. Three tanks exploded one after another. Smoke added to the confusion. It was time to get out.

#

Val interrupted Claudia. "Nothing new in this story and I have verified the facts."
"There, you see, you know the truth. What is not true, is he did not dismiss his troops after the capitulation signed in Asmara."
"Oh?"
"Yes, he stayed fighting in Abbisinia until the end of the war. But you don't need to say that in the eulogy."
"You mean he did not even accept Badoglio's armistice in 1943?"
"His Amhara warriors were totally loyal to him, they accepted him as one of their own. He couldn't leave them as they fought the new colonialists."
Val sighed. "You have used me to perpetuate a fraud. And you're still using me to confirm it."
"Franco was a man of honor. That's all you have to say." Claudia crossed her arms. "And you, Mister Honesty and academic integrity, have no right to say I am using you."

Chapter 30

Confused, was the best way Val could describe his state of mind. Claudia and her husband had razzmatazzed him, yet he felt guilty about the count's murder. When it came to his feelings toward Claudia, he dismissed them as lust. Nevertheless, her Get your hands off my posterior words, rankled or hurt.
As Val headed downstairs for dinner, he wondered how the tense situation in the house would play out. He entered the sitting room and surveyed what looked like a frozen tableau. Enveloped in an electric silence, Boikin, Stuart and Shapquine sat together on a sofa.
Claudia sat on an armchair, leafing through a magazine. A martini glass next to her. Except for Rosalia who served him a scotch and soda, no one seemed to pay him any attention. The old lady wore a formal maid's uniform with white, starched collar. Bordering the absurd, over her apron, she had strapped a leather belt and a holstered Mauser pistol.
Val took a chair and fought the urge to say something.
Rosalia returned to her place at the far end of the room, where she stood looking more like a prison matron than a housekeeper.
The gathering had the charm of a dentist's waiting room. Val sipped his drink, the atmosphere made the scotch taste like disinfectant.
After ten minutes, Val was ready to scream.
Don Marco, the village priest, arrived armed with a double barreled shotgun. After a perfunctory, "Bona sera." He carefully placed the gun in a corner of the sitting room and accepted a Cinzano with a slice of lemon from Rosalia.
The priest made himself comfortable in an armchair and said, "May God protect those who wish harm on the Contessa. The whole village, including atheists, is ready to defend her." He raised his glass. "To the memory of the highly esteemed Count."
"Thank you, Father," Claudia said.
Don Marco said to Val. "What a pity you never came to church during your last visit."
"I'm of a slightly different religion, Father."
"Ah, yes the ancient Byzantine branch. A rite somewhat more elaborate than ours, I hear." Don Marco chuckled. "Don't tell the Pope, but tomorrow we will be honored to have you as a member of a religion older than ours speak and eulogize the Count. He was a great Monarchist leader in our region and many people will come to pay their respects."
He gestured toward the couch where Boikin, Shapquine, and Stuart sat like a chastised trio of juvenile malefactors. "Dona Rosalia says if you promise me that you will not abuse the Contessa's hospitality, she will return your weapons." Don Marco's lips parted in a horsy grin showing huge teeth. "Then we can call our defense force an international coalition."
Stuart pointed at Boikin, "As the rightful heiress to the Throne of Scotland, I can guarantee the word of my colleague." She then gestured at Shapquine. "He hasn't done anything dishonorable yet, so he deserves our trust."
Val had a hard time keeping a straight face.
Don Marco nodded at Rosalia, who took a silver tray loaded with pistols and solemnly passed it in front of the trio.
Boikin's gloomy look vanished as he stuck a pistol under his jacket. Stuart took a nickel-plated small number and stuck it in the waistband of a long black skirt.
Val wondered if Claudia was armed.
"Very well," Claudia said, "now that we have things straightened, I can say benvenuti. Welcome to San Luca."
"As to the evildoers, who tried to kill the contessa," Don Marco said," the Carabinieri have set up ro*******s on all roads leading to the area. So we no longer need to worry about her security."
Val wondered how long it would take the likes of Bond to figure out that coming from the sea was the easiest way to get inside the estate.
He was glad Claudia had suggested coming with him to Split. When one was hunted, one had to keep moving.
Apparently satisfied the guests no longer required armed supervision Rosalia left the room.

#

The following morning, Val found an appropriate black suit and black tie. With the help of pins, he managed to shorten D'Albano's trousers to fit him. Outside the yellow winter sunlight gave the country the aspect of a Renaissance painting. Wearing a black hat, veil and a black outfit resembling a riding habit, Claudia looked the archetypal Italian grieving widow.
The square in front of the church no longer appeared forlorn. A line of Butteri mounted on tall chestnut Maremmani horses solemnly lined one side of the church's main entrance. To the other side stood a platoon of Carabiniery shouldering carbines. A large crowd in their Sunday best watched from the square.
Claudia's driver stooped by a bullock cart parked in front of the church entrance. She stepped out of the Range Rover.
With a drill similar to a sword salute, The Butteri paid their respects with l'unsino, their traditional long, thin wooden cattle prod. In their gleaming riding boots, gray breeches and charcoal vests, they looked like as sharp as any military ceremonial mounted guard.
They made Val think how deeply the equestrian tradition was ingrained in the Italian psyche.
Don Marco greeted them at the church door and led inside.

#

Church bells pealed slowly as eight Butteri and carabinieri pallbearers took the flag draped coffin outside and placed it on the bullock cart. Following the honor guards, the townspeople lined into a long procession to the cemetery.
The sight of television crews bothered Val.
Ignoring the cameras in the cemetery, Val had no problem reading the eulogy, he had written and Claudia had translated into Italian.
After the coffin was lowered into the grave there was a disturbance as reporters tried to break through the security cordon demanding interviews.
Deftly using l'unsinos, the Butteri prodded the journalists back and herded them like cattle to their vehicles.

#

"Even your Italian accent was perfect," Claudia said as the Range Rover left the cemetery. "You have improved our self-image we have since the Second World War. Now your book will become a best seller in Italy. Can you say again I have been using you?"
Still bothered by the TV cameras, Val said, "We need to get out of here as soon as possible."
"The airplane will not arrive until evening. You must have patience. And I have to host the pranzo. Widows are put under many obligations to keep them busy during their time of grief."
After a few minutes of silence, Claudia said, "Once we get to Split, you can take me to one of those smoky cafes and minister me a good, large brandy. By God I need one now."
"We have to sneak out without my baby sitters noticing."
"That will be no problem. The crowd will stay, eat and drink 'til after dark. I will have Rosalia park the Fiat car behind the granary, we leave at sunset and will not be noticeable in the traffic of departing guests. You like my plan?"
"Excellent, you would make a perfect spy."
"We will leave behind three perfect spies who have been driving me crazy."

#

Truckloads of people arrived at the estate and feasted off trestle tables loaded with food and wine. Everyone wanted to say something to Val and shake his hand. The wave of Italian effervescent goodwill almost made him forget his problems.
Like good house dicks, Boikin and Shapquine patrolled the edges of the crowd. God only knew what they carried under their raincoats.
The chatter of the crowd died as four Butteris rode into the middle of the throng and stopped in front of Claudia. After saying a few words, by some unobserved signal they made their horses kneel. They got off the saddles as the horses rolled onto their sides. Impressed by the equestrian skill of the Butteri, Val applauded enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd.
Maybe the honest country wine had an effect. At the moment it was difficult to imagine wanting to live anywhere else. He glanced at Claudia. With sadness, he realized this was an impossible dream. Once this mess was over, he was doomed to living in a two bedroom apartment and briefing elected hayseeds from Ohio and Oklahoma about an outside world they had no knowledge of and worse yet, no interest in learning about it. The only net results of his efforts were free lunches.
Val looked around. Another free lunch. Like a shipwrecked sailor he had been swept here by a wave of violence. But this was only an illusion of a safe harbor. The Tsunami was yet to come. Slowly, he worked his way to the edge of the thinning crowd, in the direction of the granary. If he ran into Boikin or Shapquine he would tell them he had to piss.
He searched for Claudia, couldn't see her anywhere. It was almost sunset. He picked up a chicken leg from a table and ambled away from the crowd. Someone munching a piece of chicken wouldn't look like sneaking out.
The red Fiat was parked behind the granary. Val froze at the sight of a man inside. It took him a few seconds to realize Claudia had exchanged her widow head dress for a wide brimmed gray Buttero felt hat.
Val quickened his pace and got into the car.
"I thought you forgot our rendezvous." Claudia put the car in gear and drove behind the improvised parking lot and joined the trickle of cars leaving the property.
By wearing Franco's clothing, Boikin couldn't track Val's movements via the microchips he had sneaked into his clothing.
"What's the matter, you're not talking to me?" Claudia said.
"Sorry. Was relaxing."
"Vito called. He landed half an hour ago and I told him to file a flight plan to Sarajevo. We will change enroute after leaving Ancona. Is that sneaky enough for you?"
"Quite crafty."
"Rosalia will tell your friends I had to go to my office in Milano and we went by train. It will take them some time to discover my airplane is fixed."
"You're good at misleading people."
"Women must use their brains to survive in a world of predatory men."
"Not all men are predatory."
"A few men are saintly. You for example. You missed your calling, you should have been a priest."
Val turned sharply to look at Claudia. "How do you figure that?"
"With all the time we have spent together, except for yesterday, you have never made a pass."
"And that bothers you."
The car bumped across cattle guards, and they entered the paved road. Claudia turned on the headlights and accelerated. "Men always make passes at me, it gets boring. They say I'm exotic."
Val shifted in his seat.
"You don't think I'm exotic?"
"Most men would find you attractive."
"Bene, next month I have a show in Dubai. Is not as crazy as the Paris Fashion Week but the sheiks and princes will shower me with invitations to spend time on their yachts and villas in the Antilles."
If we're still alive in a month. "I suppose the fashion business has its glamorous social whirl."
Claudia laughed. "Social whirl? It has the glamour of an elegant whorehouse."
"A colorful description."
"It's full of women who know they depreciate with each year and men so insecure of their manhood they must proposition every skirt they meet.
"Not like you, who appears to be a worm book but that is a wrong impression. Now is time to be honest. What is the connection of your penis enlargement meeting and David's and Franco's murders?"
"I think David Hermann wanted to protect Franco from the repercussions of something that happened during World War Two. That's why he convinced me to write the book about Franco. Hermann wanted to create the illusion that Franco was somewhere else and not involved in this event."
Val paused, he was still trying to put the puzzle together. The pieces that didn't fit in the puzzle were the Russian and French involvement.
It had grown dark and they were now on the main road to Grosseto.
"I still don't know, but I hope to find another piece to the puzzle. Once I have most of the pieces, I will know who ordered the murders."

#

A bowser truck was still pumping fuel into Claudia's Piaggio when they arrived.
"Fueling will be done in five minutes, Contessa" Vito said holding Claudia's door open.
"Grazie, you may go home now."
Claudia opened the trunk and took a small suitcase out. She said to Val. "Rosalia packed the few things you have."
Val looked into the trunk and closed his eyes. Bloody microchips would be telling Boikin they were at the airport.
"Valentino, what's the matter. You look like you have seen a ghost."
"We'll leave my jacket and trousers here. And let's get out in a hurry."

Chapter 31

The one hour and thirty minutes flight across Italy, then over the Adriatic had been uneventful. Val enjoyed sitting in the darkened cockpit from where, even at night, the view was spectacular.
He was also glad not have to talk with Claudia who had enough to do as she handled the airplane and communications by herself.
The lights on the Croatian coast were in sight briefly before vanishing under a veil of silver cloud lit by a new moon. The airplane shook a little as it settled inside puffy cloud tops. After ten minutes of flying blind, they broke out of the clouds. In front, the runway was lit up like a welcome marquee. Once again, Val was impressed by the technology of blind flight, how a pilot could find a precise spot hundreds if not thousands of miles away without seeing a thing. And he marveled at the woman who could do all these things.
It wouldn't take Boikin long to discover they had flown to Split. Val decided to use his real passport to enter Croatia.
Claudia parked to the side of the passenger terminal. Reluctantly, Val stuck the pistol into a small locker on the side of the copilot's seat. "Thanks for the ride, have a nice flight back."
Claudia looked up from the logbook she was filling out. "What is the matter with you? I'm coming, too."
"No, you're safe with Boikin, Shapquine and the Butteri."
"You need a complete examination of your head. I flew you in and will fly you back."
"But--"
"Basta! Claudia slapped the logbook shut.
Seeing that arguing was hopeless, Val shrugged and wiggled out of his seat.

#

Done with customs and emigration, they stepped out of the passenger terminal where the overhang was held up by illuminated futuristic columns that looked like giant martini glasses. Claudia said, "I know a little hotel which is quite charming."
"We won't go there." Val took Claudia firmly by the arm and made her stop as she extended her other arm to flag a taxi.
"Why not?" She looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face.
"First things first. We'll wait a few minutes and choose a taxi instead of the taxi choosing us. Then we go to the hotel Split to make the driver think we are staying there. After that we'll walk and find a place to stay."
But I like the Adriatica."
"They know you there. You are now Mrs. Diaz from Argentina. That way if the other team will look for us, we simply vanish in this charming town."
A chilling gust of wind made Val shiver, he shook his head at a taxi driver who yelled, "Taxi?"
Other people were coming out of the terminal and taking taxis. Except for his black suit, Val thought, they weren't too conspicuous.
"And by chance, are you Mr. Diaz?"
"Yes, ma-am."
"And you plan for us to stay in one room?"
"Yes, ma-am."
"You are taking too many indecent liberties."
"Okay, you wanted to come with me. Now you can go to your charming hotel but I will try to hide. So when the bad guys come they'll only have you to amuse themselves with."
"I will amuse myself when I watch how they enlarge your penis."
"Come." Val marched to the second cab waiting in line.
"Valentino, we don't go to the Split Hotel but to the bus station."
"What for?"
When taxi driver is questioned, he will tell people we left town by bus, capice?"
"That makes sense." Val hated to admit Claudia was better at this business than he was.
Thirty minutes later, he watched the taxi drive off and the driver thinking they were taking a bus to Zadar.
"Now, Señor Diaz, we go up the street into the old city where I pretend to be Señora Diaz and we look for an adequately seedy hotel suitable for immoral purposes. This is the first time in my life I go into a hotel and use a false name."
"You have to start sometime."
The streets were empty. Not auguring well, like a rattlesnake, cold wind rustled in the palm trees lining the waterfront promenade. Val was eager to get off the streets, out of sight and out of the cold. The more he thought about it, the surer he became this was a trap. A soldier survives by having good instincts, his grandfather had said many times.
Two blocks from the seafront, they found a small hotel. A desk clerk well past retirement age hardly looked at the blue passport Val presented, accepted euros as payment in advance, gave Val a key and mumbled something in Croatian.
Room 12 was a corner room on the second floor. The furniture was modest but it was clean.
Claudia stood in the middle of the room and looked around. "This room doesn't even have a decent chair for you to sleep on."
"Like a good war-horse I'll sleep standing up."
"In this wintertime it looks like everything is already closed." Claudia sighed loudly. "So there goes my dream of a cozy quiet cognac in pleasant surroundings." She took her large shoulder bag and placed it on a chest of drawers.
Val spotted an electric space heater and turned it on.
"Even though I'm not an experienced Argentinean bride, I am an experienced traveler." She produced a pint bottle of cognac out of her bag.
To his surprise, Val found a couple of glasses in the bathroom. Returning to the bedroom, he said, "We have the basics, and you have me as your brilliant and entertaining drinking companion."
Claudia sat on the bed, opened the bottle and patted the space next to her. Val sat down and held the glasses while she poured healthy dollops.
"Well, Señor Diaz," Claudia took one of the glasses and raised it, "You do bring quick changes into my life. From grieving widow to blushing Argentinean bride." She clinked glasses. "Here's to us."
Val's gut tightened. He nodded wondering what she meant and drank a large sip.
She put her glass down on a nightstand and placed her hand on Val's knee. "You may think I'm a harlot. I'm glad we left San Luca where I had to play a role. Not that I didn't love Franco. I did, I still do. He was a wonderful man. But he was not my lover." Claudia paused and her lower lip trembled. "Val, I only tell you so that you understand."
Val nodded cautiously.
Her fingers dug into his leg.
"You won't tell anyone?"
Val hated making promises over something he was about to learn.
"Promise you won't tell."
Reluctantly, Val said, "Yes."
Claudia nodded and bit her lip. "Val, Franco . . . he couldn't do it."
His astonishment must have shown, for Claudia said, "You don't believe me?"
"I should have guessed, I imagine at his age--"
"Nothing to do with age."
Even when he could understand the frustration and the lowering of self esteem of a woman who could not arouse her husband, the sharpness of her retort surprised Val. "I see," he said softly.
She shook her head. "No, you don't see." Her mouth curved into a bitter smile. "You only see me and only part of my suffering."
Though she sat next to him, Claudia seemed to float some distance away, her voice an echo off the walls. "You can't understand the intense loyalty I had for that man."
"It must have been frustrating."
"You don't know the pain he suffered. A mental agony. A lifetime of agony. Once he said I should go out and get pregnant. Of course, I didn't do it." She gulped a good portion of cognac.
"Do you understand now what I want, what I need?"
"I think so."

[Brag]

Chapter 31

Cracks in the window shutters told him it was daylight outside. For a moment Val thought he had been dreaming. The damp warmth around his hand told him it wasn't a dream. Claudia breathed lightly, her arm around his neck and her head on his shoulder. As his thoughts came into focus, he wanted more. He kissed one eye and then the other.
"Mmmmm," she said, pressing her legs together, squeezing his hand.

#

In a blissful glide, Val drifted back to sleep his hand covering a chocolate bonbon on Claudia's breast.
He woke with a start, remembering what brought him here. As gently as he could, Val disentangled himself from Claudia, went to the window and cracked a shutter open.
Despite the overcast sky and rain, he blinked at the relative brightness. Red tiled roofs blocked most of the view but he could see the masts of boats sitting in Uvala Baluni. He looked back at the bed where Claudia had wildly released her years of sexual frustration. **** me, **** me, **** me. Like a fish on a hook, she had trashed each time he brought her to climax.
Claudia blinked and opened her arms. "Caro, let me taste you again," she tossed the blankets off her, "then **** your slut."
Val's insides stirred as he looked at the delightful body remembering thrill of teaching her the vocabulary of a whore.
Having sex with Claudia was not making love but a trip into another dimension he had not known existed. The best way Val could describe it was being drunk with woman.

#

So far, there was no sign of Boikin or anyone else watching. The streets were mostly empty making Val feel conspicuous, a tail would also be easy to spot.
The sheepskin jacket Claudia had insisted in buying him did a good job of protecting Val from the cold, gusty wind sweeping the waterfront. They ducked into a restaurant just before a rain squall obscured the bay.
Laughing, they entered an almost empty dining room. "We have to come back in the summer," Claudia said. "We'll charter a sailboat, drink wine and make love."
"Sure." Val pulled a chair for Claudia and sat facing the entrance. "I will be broke and unemployed."
She shook her head. "After you discover the secret of the submarine and solve the murders, you will be a famous hero."
How did she know about the U-boat? Val wondered. Well, he did ask her if D'Albano had mentioned a submarine.
Claudia spoke to the waiter who came to take their order in Italian.
"Most important is for you to keep your strength. So I ordered Pasticada. It is a wonderful stew with gnocchi. They make it with truffles and we will start with scampi and drink a Posip. This wine comes from the island of Korkula, the birthplace of Marco Polo."
Sitting with this effervescent woman it was easy to forget this was not a vacation. But it was the most pleasant way to kill time 'til the meeting with Bogo at five. Val wondered what Bogo's reaction to Claudia would be. Compared to Bond, he now seemed like a tame character.
The waiter brought a bottle of white wine and offered Val the cork to sniff.
"Excelente," Val said, not knowing whether he spoke in Spanish or Italian or both.
After the waiter left, Claudia said, "Since I know you don't need your penis enlarged. What is this meeting really all about?"
"I'm hoping to find out the origin of some historical documents Hermann bought for a large sum of money." Val told Claudia how Hermann had mailed him the documents just before getting killed.
Claudia looked at him thoughtfully. "And they have tried to kill you, too?"
"Twice."
"And you leave your bodyguards behind. CaroValentino, you are crazy."
After a small chuckle, Val said, "I think those bodyguards are rather expensive. I am afraid of the day when they present the bill."
"Mmmmm, like a pact with the devil?"
"Maybe worse."
The stew did replenish Val's energy and was delicious. Not wanting to talk about the code or his problems, Val steered the conversation to the ancient roots of the Mediterranean cultures, while aware of the slow ticking of time and his meeting with Bogo. At 4:30, they had finished the wine and Val had paid the bill. "My dear, wait for me at the hotel," he said with a heavy heart. "It could take me a couple of hours 'til I come back."
Claudia reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "And then you will have your way with me, yes?"
"Yes." Val squeezed back her hand, realizing his judgement and attention to detail was being clouded by lust. "Now, go my dear. I will leave in a few minutes."
Claudia sighed, got up and left the restaurant.
Val took a last sip of Turkish coffee and went out.
Two blocks away, Claudia hurried down the promenade bending into a south wind. Val followed her with his gaze. Sparse but heavy drops of rain pelted his face. With a nasty feeling he might never see Claudia again, he turned and headed toward Uvala Baluni.
An early darkness descended by the minute. Whipped up by the wind, whitecaps dotted the protected harbor. Boats swayed lightly on their moorings.
"Mister Smithsonian?"
Startled, Val turned toward the taxi that had pulled up from behind. His nerves twanged when he recognized the buck teeth of the cab driver who had driven them into town. After taking a gulp of air, Val nodded.
"Come inside."
Val got into the cab.
"Short ride." The driver put the car into gear and drove toward the docks. Val had hardly any time to mull over the significance of the driver when the taxi started slowing.
Sheets of rain swept from the sea and drummed on the roof of the car and overpowered the windshield wipers. Val hoped Claudia made it to the hotel.
Defused by the water running down the windows, a bulky figure in yellow slickers and a sou-wester ambled into the street. The cab stopped next to him.
"I told you, short drive. That's Tito, not the Serbian pig. He is Italiano, but okay."
Tito motioned Val to get out.
Val stepped outside.
"You, come with me." Tito led to a dock with fishing boats tied Mediterranean style, stern to the dock.
"This is boat. Nice, eh?" Tito pointed at a sixty foot trawler. Two men, also in foul weather gear, waited at the head of a gangplank.
His body tensed and Val stopped. He listened to the rumble of engine exhausts.
"Hey, come."
Val looked back and saw the taxi's tail lights vanish in the murk. He fought the aversion of getting on the boat. There was nothing wrong with meeting someone aboard. But the boat was ready to get underway.
"My name Tito, that's Alessandro and Pascuale."
On hearing the names, Val relaxed a bit. Hired killers or kidnappers didn't introduce themselves. Or maybe they did? He had to get rid of his old way of thinking. There have been two attempts on his life. The first time, though warned, he had been taken by total surprise. The second time, he had made a good accounting of himself. Now he was ready. Distrust but don't fear. He then remembered he no longer carried a gun.
The moment Val stepped aboard, the men raised the plank.
"Hey, where are we going?"
"Not long, this boat fast."
"I'm not going anywhere, I came to see Mr. Bogo."
"You will see him." Tito yelled an order to his men who undid the stern lines.
Val was getting soaked. He followed Tito into the red-lit wheelhouse. For a moment he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth inside. "Where are we going?"
"Not far."
Fueled by anguish his chest tightened. He was now sure it would take him more than a couple of hours to get back to the hotel and see Claudia again.
Get over it, you idiot. Val decided to accept the new circumstances. He then systematically studied the elaborate control panel and an array of electronic equipment. He had seen plenty of expensive yachts dock at the Lower Potomac Sports Club's marina. This fishing boat was as well equipped as the most expensive floating gin palaces.
From the gear levers and throttles, he could tell the boat had two engines.
Tito revved each engine in turn. The rumble was not of diesels but powerful gasoline engines. This appeared to be a fishing boat but wasn't. The hum of two rapidly spinning clear-view windows showed than no expense was spared.
After flipping a number of switches and turning the radar on, Tito opened a door and yelled some orders in Italian.
The boat began to move forward. On the bow, one of the crew signaled with his arm and walked slowly aft, holding the buoyed end of the mooring line. Sitting on a comfortable-looking chair, Tito added throttle. Once clear of the moored boats, he turned, heading for the black gap between green and red blinking lights.
Val removed his soaked jacket and hung it on a peg. His feet felt like ice blocks.
Alessandro and Pascuale walked in.
The older one, Alessandro spoke to Val. Seeing he wasn't understood, he gesticulated at the sky and said, "Molto, molto." He then made signs of eating. "Subito, subito."
Val had to grab the edge of a chart table as the boat lurched. Water hit the wheelhouse with the sound of a cataract. Val's attention was drawn by a chart on the table. It didn't help Val guess their destination. He pointed at the chart and made a questioning gesture.
Alessandro grinned and ran a finger across his throat.
Val moved next to Tito. "How long?"
"Not long. Fast boat. Tonight big sea. Not go fast. Tomorrow you like." He engaged the autopilot, leaned back and crossed his arms.
Tomorrow you like?
Val caught himself clucking his tongue.
Soon the harbor lights vanished, total darkness enveloped the boat. Only the violent pounding of hull against water and the jerky motion of the boat indicated they were going against heavy seas.
Alessandro tugged Val by the sleeve and gestured for him to follow. IT was impossible to move without holding on to something. At the back of the wheelhouse, a ladder led down and Val's nostrils were greeted with the smell of cooking.
Once below, Val lurched past a small dining salon into a carpeted passageway. Alessandro opened a door, and Val found himself in a small stateroom that didn't belong in a fishing boat.
Alessandro said something, handed Val a pair of thick woolen socks and a pair of rubber sea boots.
The pounding of waves stopped and the motion of the boat changed to a vessel in following seas. They were heading north.
Val climbed back to the wheel house and asked Tito, "Where is Bogo?"
"Someplace. He see you tomorrow."
"Where are we going?"
"Not far."
Val gave up asking. He then thought of the cab driver who obviously was on Bogo's payroll. The cab driver and Bogo already knew too much about his and Claudia's whereabouts. Last night as they walked to the hotel he had seen several cars drive by. It would have been easy to follow a couple of pedestrians without drawing attention. "****!"

#

Val woke with a start. Weak daylight filtered through the porthole in the cabin. He thought of Claudia, would she be worried about him?
At least he had managed to sleep a little. He sat in his bunk and peered outside. The rain had let up. A Byzantine chapel stood on a rocky promontory flanked by tall cypress trees. The boat sailed in sheltered, calm water.
They were inside the maze of islands off the Dalmatian coast. Val shook his head. He had arrived here in the most circuitous way imaginable. He was sure no one would tell him exactly where he was.
Twenty minutes later, shaved, and teeth brushed with toiletries provided, Val climbed into the wheelhouse of the deluxe fisherman. Tito, still sat on his chair. Alessandro handed Val a mug of coffee. Pascuale was on deck preparing dock lines.
"Where are we?" Val asked.
"Isola. Island here, island there, island everywhere. You go to island."
Val nodded. The comforting thought was if they didn't want him to know where he'd been, they weren't planning to kill him. He chuckled inside. A week ago, a thought like that would have never entered his mind.
Close to shore, Tito cleared a low headland and turned, entering a cove.
Two soldiers in camouflage uniforms stood on a stone quay.
Like most of the small islands in the region, this one was also plane. A herd of sheep grazed near the shore. Beyond the sheep, a pink stone fortress and a church broke the flatness of the land.
With fenders hanging on its sides, the boat came alongside the dock, and Val stepped ashore.
The soldiers no longer stood casually at the dock but pointed their Kalashnikovs at Val.
He turned. His gut contracted on seeing the boat pull away.
"Hands up, you."
Val raised his hands. This didn't look good at all.
One of the soldiers approached from the side while the other covered him. "Move, we kill."
As the throb of the fisherman's engines faded, the soldier frisked Val.
The other soldier said something in what must have been Croatian.
"Put hands down, you."
Only a few drops of rain still fell, the wind had changed and it got considerably colder.
"Leave island verbotten, capice?"
Val nodded.
Both soldiers slung their rifles and got on Val's each side. They marched through a neatly pruned vineyard toward the fortress.
Someone opened a small access door in the huge studded gates. Val went through.
He found himself in a vast walled garden. Several buildings formed part of the walls. A man in tall riding boots, black breeches and a black shirt under a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin stood in front of Val, his arms akimbo. "Why you not come alone as instructed?" he asked in a gruff voice accustomed to be obeyed.
"I came to the meeting alone."
Blackguard nodded, gave Val a piercing look. "Who else know you come?"
"Nobody."
"We hear that before." He then said something in Croatian.
The soldiers led Val into a building next to the gate, through a room where several soldiers played cards. Beyond the soldiers, they went through a barred door into a corridor illuminated by weak, naked bulbs. One of the escorts opened a squeaky door and motioned Val in.
Stupefied, Val stood looking at the leg and hand irons with chains fastened to stone walls.
Val couldn't believe it when a soldier attached a medieval leg iron over his ankle and snapped it shut with a modern padlock.
The soldiers left. After the door closed, Val was left in complete darkness.

Chapter 31

Maybe a medievalist would appreciate the experience, Val thought. He carefully dragged his chain to its full extension and stretched his arms in front of him. He still couldn't reach neither the opposite wall nor the door.
He lit his cigar lighter. Besides the chains and irons there were no other prisoner facilities. He should have listened to the Russians and stayed in the comfort of the officers' resort. Or at least stayed in San Luca.
Or to hell with it all! He wanted to be with Claudia on a Pacific island no one could find.
He wondered who these people were and why they haven't killed him yet.
How in the hell would he let Claudia know? I'm chained in a medieval dungeon, sorry I'm late, I can't even make it for dinner tonight. Preposterous was the only word that described his situation. Maybe desperate would be more appropriate.
Oddly enough he did not experience fear. Fear was a product of the imagination and being in this situation was beyond Val's capacity to imagine. It wasn't real.
Restrained by a chain, and in total darkness filled him with anger and frustration.
Approaching noon, Val's bladder was about to burst when he heard voices. The ancient lock on the door clacked. Val blinked at the light as the door swung open.
A soldier undid Val's leg iron while another watched from the door. What were they going to do next, stretch him on a rack?
"Come."
"I need to go to the toilet."
"Make pipi?"
"Yes," Val said, expecting the guards to laugh at him.
Solemnly, they led him to the guardroom and pointed at a door.
The commode was an Arab style floor-level affair with two foot prints that showed where to squat. Val relieved himself watching the barred window high on the wall.
Though still overcast, the light outside was blinding. Blackguard again waited for him. "Please follow me."
Val shook his shoulders as if ridding from cobwebs, and clucked his tongue. It took him a few seconds to bring himself back together, staring at Blackguard, not believing his words.
"Please follow me," Blackguard repeated.
The guards went back into the guardroom.
Glancing over his shoulder, Val followed Blackguard toward the little castle that was the main building in the compound.
Staghorns adorned a black and white marble tiled foyer. Blackguard led into a hall with a large fireplace.
A small man with a few white wisps of hair carefully combed across his head sat in a chintz wing-chair. He seemed engrossed in the roaring fire, watching it through sunglasses. He gestured weakly toward another chair. "Excuse me I don't stand."
"Of course." Val took a seat.
"You may have slivovitz or wine, both made on the island."
Val needed something strong to recuperate from the dungeon experience.
Blackguard poured golden plum brandy into a long crystal stem glass, placed it on a little tray and brought it to Val.
The old man spoke slowly, but his voice had vigor. "The first drop that comes from the still is the purest and very finest and the last is the worst. I keep the first five liters from every batch and age them in small casks. Tell me if it's not the best slivovitz you have ever tasted."
The fumes coming out of the narrow glass, almost made Val's eyes pop. The liqueur seemed to vaporize inside his mouth. "Superb . . . Mister?"
"During the war they called me the Gaucho. I was born in Argentina. You can call me that."
"Were you with the partisans?"
Gaucho shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable or looking for something that fell out of his pocket. He then looked at Val. "I spit on them. Communist rabble. Are you really American?"
To Val this sounded like a loaded question. If Gaucho fought on the German side and hated the partisans, he wouldn't have much love lost for Americans.
"I have an American passport."
"Alessandro said your passport is Argentinean."
Val's heart skipped a beat.
Gaucho bobbed his head slowly. "Alessandro is a great thief, a master at picking pockets. I know your Argentinean passport is fake. Bogo says you speak Russian."
"My grandparents came from Russia."
Gaucho chuckled. "In Yugoslavia, many Russians fought the Partisans. Tito was scared ****less of them. They moved through the mountains, silently on horseback. At dawn was when they liked to strike at partisan encampments. They would charge out of the forest, sabers drawn. The partisans didn't have time to even raise the alarm before their heads rolled."
"History is written by the victors. Little of this period is known to the world."
Hidden behind thick dark lenses, Gaucho's eyes must have looked straight at him. "I won't insult you by calling you a young man. But a million years separate us. Bogo is clever in business but has no respect for traditions. Or so I thought. He says you will write our true history."
Bogo's exaggeration made Val uncomfortable. He decided a direct approach was best. "I'm trying to unravel the mystery of the DSXV file."
Gaucho rested his chin on his knuckles.
Val held his breath as he waited.
A woman came into the room and said something to Gaucho.
"We go eat now. Everything we eat is grown on the island."
The woman helped Gaucho to his feet.
With slow, measured steps and aided by a cane, Gaucho led the way into a baronial dining room. "I apologize I couldn't receive you earlier but I was having my morning nap."
"I was quite comfortable in your waiting room," Val said wondering if the old man got his sarcasm. He helped Gaucho with his chair at the head of the table.
"I was told you are stoic when facing adversity."
Val ignored the remark as he took a seat.
"This is an ancient island in an ancient sea; once a borderland where the Byzantine, Holy Roman and Venetian and Ottoman empires either met or clashed. We have a long history and we're long on superstitions. The south wind, which brought you here is called Yugo. It is an evil wind that wakes the demons within people. It is still blowing. A bad omen."
Gaucho leaned forward and pointed a bony finger at Val. "And you are questioning the authenticity of the DSXV book. I told Bogo to sell it to the Russians. But now that the communists are gone they still know how to say nyet."
The woman brought a tureen an placed it on the table.
"Chicken soup for the elderly. Every God-given day, chicken soup. Shoot yourself, but don't get old."
Val ladled soup into Gaucho's plate then his own.
"The Americans. Once I wrote to them how the book came into my possession, they became interested. We negotiated for two years, and nothing happened."
"Why?"
"With Americans who knows, they act as if they were paupers." Gaucho shook his head. "Then Israeli intelligence bought it. They are real bastards. I had to sell it cheap."
"Israeli intelligence? Like Mossad?
"Yes, bastards. They said they would raze the place and blame it on the Serbs."
"But they paid you, right?"
"For Jews business is business. They don't steal, they do have an ethic. Buy cheap sell dear."
Why hadn't it occurred to him that station DSXV could have operated in Croatia after the war, where the Germans had many sympathizers? "The book, did you find it at station DSXV?"
"The Captain did."

#

From his hiding place, Gaucho watched Lorenzo and Pietro talk with the Italian border guards not a hundred meters away. Lorenzo opened a rucksack and pulled out a red Pall Mall carton with each hand. The border guards rummaged inside the rucksack, shook hands with the Italian guides. After smoking a cigarette, the guards took the rucksack and hurried downhill.
With the border guards gone, the sound of cow bells added to the peaceful atmosphere of the Alpine scene taken right out of a Swiss chocolate box Gaucho remembered from before the war.
Lorenzo and Pietro vanished in the trees on the other side of the glade where they had the cows penned in a makeshift corral.
Gaucho hated the Italian communists even more than he hated himself for being allied with them. And he hated Captain Jack even more for forcing him into this alliance made in hell. But at least it was temporary. The Americans would soon march east and fight the communists and Gaucho would be at the head of his army of liberation.
The drowsiness from the buzz of bees, and the afternoon warmth vanished with the sound of engines laboring up the cow path.
Cows mooed in protest. Gaucho imagined Lorenzo and Pietro prodding them with sticks.
A truck appeared at the same time cows emerged from the forest.
The boy, Umberto, sat on a stone to add to the peaceful tableau and to prevent the cattle from straying off the ro*******.
Obstructed by the cattle, the truck stopped.
A second truck came into view.
A man in a Tyrolean hat stuck his head out of the passenger side of the cab, gesticulating for the boy, Umberto, to move the cows.
The second truck stopped right behind the first--Perfect.
Gaucho whistled and stood together with his men, aiming their weapons at the trucks.
"Raus, hände hoch." Captain Jack dressed in a German uniform approached the trucks. His Thompson submachine gun looking out of place.
Within a minute he had eight Germans lined up on the cow path with hands on their heads. Captain Jack's Thompson rattled. The Germans crumpled on the road, shot in the back.

#

After the soup, while Gaucho picked on a boiled chicken breast, Val enjoyed a mutton and white bean stew.
"That cursed radio tower," Gaucho said, "It spoke and made Captain Jack rich. He said the money was to finance the fight against the Communists. He lied, of course. He was no longer in the American Army."
"Where was that station?"
"Where was? Gaucho chuckled and looked up to the ceiling. "The Germans built things to last. It still stands, an obscene memorial to banditry."
Val waited for the old boy to continue. But Gaucho seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and stared at the table, where the knife in his hand vibrated slightly against the plate. The tiny din sounding like Morse code lost in the ether of half a century coming into the room, retransmitted by the hands of ghosts.
"So many people died after the war had ended. People forcibly repatriated. The settling of old scores. The grab for power. Captain Jack. He was really a major. While in Yugoslavia, he played both sides. He used to say, after the Nazis were finished then America would sort out the Communists. He was one of those who betray everyone. I think he saw himself as a warlord. After the raid on the tower is when he really went bad."
The woman came to clear the plates and said something to Gaucho.
"Help me up, it's time for my walk. If I walk like a good boy, I'm rewarded with a coffee." With index finger and thumb he indicated it was a small coffee.
Slowly, they went out through French doors.
"Nice island you have," Val said, admiring a pruned rose garden.
"Living on my own grave gives me some pleasure. It is really a monument to my genius for survival. I like flowers and to grow fruit. This is also a monument to peace, we're self sufficient."
"You take a lot of precautions for your safety."
"Forewarned is forearmed. You have heard that expression, I'm sure."
Beyond the walls, to the north, several blue patches appeared in the sky. Val sensed inside the old man's mind a battle was fought on what to tell him. And what was best to take to the grave.
"Did Captain Jack ever mention submarines?"
As they left the rose garden, the smell of lemons wafted in the wind.
"You should come in the spring, during artichoke season." Gaucho approached a lemon tree, reached out and felt a lemon. After testing several, he snapped off one and placed it in his pocket. Why are you interested in the DSXV documents, are you with the American government?"
"No, I'm a historian. However I am also a consultant on foreign affairs. My interest in the DSXV documents is purely personal."
Gaucho minced his way toward a row of orange trees. "Personal," he muttered probably to himself. "Everything in this life is personal."
Val thought he was losing the old boy's interest. "If the Israelis were willing to pay two million for the DSXV file, why did you sell it when you did and not ten, twenty years ago?"
Gaucho stopped and leaned on the cane in front of him. "Because."
He took a few steps and reached for a branch sagging under the weight of oranges. "Every fruit has it's time to go to the market." He took an orange and handed it to Val. "Try this. I think it will be the best orange you have ever tasted."
Val peeled the orange putting the rind into his jacket pocket. Finished, he offered half to Gaucho. The old boy took two wedges. "I have to be careful with acidity."
After spitting some pips out, Gaucho said, "You came to ask me if those documents are authentic. Yes, they are."
A chapel stood on the other side of the lemon orchard. Gaucho pointed with his stick. "The oldest building on the island, let us go in and rest."
Val helped Gaucho up the uneven stone steps. The door opened easily without a squeak.
"I come here every midnight, to pray." Gaucho sat on one of four chairs, placed his hands on the stick and rested his chin on top. He murmured something in Croatian.
A wooden crucifix with an ivory Christ hung behind a sarcophagus-like altar.
Val sat next to Gaucho. Together with an oppressive sense of evil, the cold of stone walls reached for his bones, causing him to shiver. Maybe the chapel made him think of his earlier confinement. Maybe the conversion of the chapel from orthodox to catholic didn't seem right. But something was definitely not right. Like by the docks of Uvala Baluni, near-panic expressed itself with a strong urge to run.
Val opened his mouth and stopped himself before starting to cluck his tongue.
"Help me up," Gaucho said, "Maybe we'll come back at midnight."
Why did they come here in the first place? Val asked himself. He was sure that after some thought, Gaucho had decided not to tell him something.
Outside, the overcast was breaking up. A group of children laughed and yelled as they chased each other at the far end of the compound. Gaucho stood watching them and murmuring something unintelligible. He looked up and said, "See, the wind has changed. It is now blowing from the north. It is the Bura, strong, cold. It clears the skies. Maybe the evil wind brought you but maybe you are causing a new fresh wind. Come we will have some coffee."
Back in the little castle, they sat in front of the fire. Blackguard served coffee in tiny cups, then wrapped a plaid, wool shawl over Gaucho's shoulders.
Gaucho downed his coffee in one gulp. After returning his cup and saucer to a side table, he said, "I don't know what motivated Captain Jack, it wasn't just greed nor was it pure evil. I think he really believed the Americans would go to war against the Communists."
Val listened to the crackling fire, his gaze fixed on the old man, waiting for him to continue. After several minutes he asked, "What was in those trucks you ambushed?"
Gaucho shook his head slowly and a thin smile appeared on his pale face. "The beauty of Europe."
And, and? Go on, Val mentally urged Gaucho who seemed lost in his thoughts.
After a rumbling groan, Gaucho said, "Great wealth was concentrated in greedy Jewish hands. A lot of it was confiscated when they were expulsed from Germany. The Nazis also looted in France and Poland. Of course it was unthinkable for them to simply give it up to the new order." Gaucho chuckled. "Captain Jack was brilliant. He led us to believe the loot would be used to liberate Europe from Communism. I don't know, maybe he was betrayed, too. It never happened. We ended up with warehouses full of fine furniture, paintings, sculptures, crates full of jewelry, valuable stamp collections. Heh, it was incredible what was being transported through the Alps. And Captain Jack with his little red book controlled a good part of that traffic."
Transfixed by Gaucho's tale, Val tried to imagine the scope of illegal activities in the chaos of postwar Europe. What the old man was telling him went beyond Val's wildest speculations.
"Even though he betrayed many, he still had some loyalty to his comrades. That was Captain Jack, a man who marched to a different drummer. A man belittled by the world, who found his new self in the war. He was a dreamer."
A murderer. So was the old man sitting in front of him. Val had interviewed scores of Nazis, Nazi sympathizers and collaborators but what Gaucho and Captain Jack had done transcended the heights of evil Val had previously researched.
Gusts of wind rattled the French doors.
"Add some wood." Gaucho gestured toward the fireplace.
Val added a couple of logs. Before returning to his chair, he decided to stick another one into the fire.
"Good, thinking. I like adding wood to fires. That is what my life has been. Wherever there was trouble, I would go, add wood to the fire, step back and watch the fun? Do you think God will forgive me?"
"I'm not a priest, nor judge, nor lawyer."
"Ah, you are an observer of life, not a participant." Gaucho shook his head. "When you die you will leave a record but not a mark. But you're lucky, when I'll die, which will be soon, I won't even leave a record." Gaucho rang a little brass bell that had been sitting on the side table.
Blackguard entered pushing a wheelchair.
"Tonight I will bestow on you the power of life and death." With Blackguard's help, Gaucho got into the wheelchair. "I'm exhausted. I will see you again at a quarter to midnight."
Val stood, the roaring fire warming his back. With an intense feeling of foreboding he watched Blackguard wheel Gaucho out of the room.

[Brag]

Chapter 32

This time, he didn't have to wait in a medieval cell. After returning from wherever he took Gaucho, Blackguard led Val to a comfortable guestroom on the second floor and locked the door from the outside.
The snap of the lock annoyed Val. Why bother locking him up? With all the guards and the sea surrounding the island, there was no place to go.
The barred window overlooking the extensive walled compound accentuated his irritation and made him wonder what Gaucho's intentions were for nearly midnight.
And where was Claudia, what was she doing? Was she still waiting for him in the dingy hotel room? Val couldn't imagine her waiting, eating her heart out.
On the far end of the enormous yard, Children no longer played but had been replaced by two adult soccer teams. One side wore camouflaged jackets, the other, tee shirts. With nothing better to do, Val watched the paratrooper booted players kick the ball around. Though there weren't any goalposts the goals were marked with stacked rifles. Who was Gaucho afraid off?
An open Land Rover with a heavy machine gun mounted on a pedestal stood parked by the front gate. It would require a small army to overwhelm this security force.
A light twin-engined airplane approaching the island caught Val's attention an accelerated his breathing. It descended, rocking in turbulent air and vanished beyond the wall. But it wasn't Claudia. This airplane looked different.
Two soldiers came out of the guardroom, got into the Land Rover and drove off.
Assuming the Land Rover went to pick up whoever had arrived on the plane, Val stayed by the window. Ten minutes later the vehicle returned and stopped almost directly below Val's window.
Bogo got off the front passenger seat and chatted with Blackguard for a few minutes before entering the house.
An hour later, unable to concentrate, Val was trying to read a French novel by Exbrayat. His mind kept wandering off the text and gnawed on the question of his status. Locked up in his room, he was a prisoner. Finally, vexed by the situation, he went to the door and peered through the old fashioned key hole. The key was still in the lock. Now he was going to show these Croatians that he was not someone to take lightly. Remembering an old trick he had learned as a kid, Val searched for a newspaper or a magazine. There were none in the room.
He opened the top dresser drawer. It was empty. As he was about to push it closed, he realized the bottom of the drawer was lined with paper.
Armed with the sheet of paper and a thin ballpoint pen, Val went to the door. He inserted the pen into the lock, fiddled with the key and pushed it. The key yielded about half an inch and got stuck. He tweaked the key a bit and pushed it another half inch.
The key was about ready to fall from the lock. He shoved the sheet of paper under the door, fiddled with the key and pushed. The movement of the pen and a light clunck told him the key had fallen, if it didn't bounce off, he was in business. Carefully, he pulled the paper back until the key appeared on his side of the door.
After unlocking the door, Val stepped into an empty corridor and replaced the key into the keyhole. Let the bastards figure out how he got out of the room. Threading lightly, he got to the stairs and descended to the ground floor. The foyer and trophy-room were also empty of people. Though no longer roaring, the fire still burned. Val added a log and sat down to continue reading the novel. This was better. An oriental brass-box with molded dragons drew his attention. He opened it and looked at the cigars inside. Perfect. Feeling like a naughty kid, he took a cigar, inspected the Cuban Upman and lit it.
The cigar, the fire, and the manorial surroundings provided an illusion of comfort and that he had control over events. Even in his home turf, Gaucho didn't hold absolute power. Congratulating himself of his own cleverness, Val relaxed and proceeded to read.

#

"Smithsonian."
Bogo's voice brought Val out of an uneasy sleep. He blinked and his eyes focused on the pistol in Bogo's hand. "What a hospitable gesture."
"You are supposed to be in your room, not smoking my father's cigars as if you owned this place."
"A comfortable nap by the fire is what I needed."
"Who let you out?"
"The royal jester."
"Don't play games with me, Smithsonian." Bogo stuck his pistol into a shoulder holster under his tweed jacket and sat facing Val.
Val took the book that had fallen on his lap, placed it on the side table and re-lit his cigar. "I thought you'd be busy doing something useful, like selling arms to Syria."
"I came to make sure you're not swindling my father. Or worse."
"Worse?'
"You could be an agent of Captain Jack. I know who you are. The story circulating that Captain Jack is trying to kill you is too convenient."
"Is that who's after me?" Learning that the mysterious Captain Jack of WWII was still alive explained a lot of things.
"You like to play role of idiot."
"It's an easy role to play when one doesn't know what's going on."
"Who did you bribe to let you out?"
"You lack imagination."
"Answer me, Smithsonian, before I loose my temper."
"I'm the one who came here for answers. You can learn from me how not to lose your temper." Val caught himself in time not to start clucking.
Bogo pulled his pistol out and twirled it on his index finger. "I don't know why I tolerate you."
"Because you actually believe that Captain Jack wants me dead. That's why you have this fortress and guards. Because you are afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of anybody."
"Not even of yourself? You can shoot your balls off playing with that pistol."
"I can shoot your brains." Bogo stopped twirling, closed his fist around the pistol grip and aimed at Val's head. "You shut up. I an not a stupid student of yours. Now you will listen to me."
Val nodded. "That's what I'm here for."
Bogo's mouth opened and his chest rose, exposing a deep breath and the fury he was trying to control. If he shoots me in the head, I won't even know it, Val told himself.
Bogo placed the pistol on a side table, balled his fists and beat his chest like a Hollywood gorilla. "We are not afraid of anybody, even of those Russians who support you."
"Is that what they're doing?"
"Russians are chess players. They think many moves ahead, they make you think you're winning," Bogo hit the palm of his hand with a fist, "then, batz, they smash your face against the table."
"And Croats threaten me with guns."
"Smithsonian, you are in a bad position. Captain Jack wants to kill you. The Russians control you. You don't have friends." Bogo shook his head. "Very bad position."
"You don't seem to help much."
Bogo stood and broke into loud laughter. Still looking amused, he said, "You brought some very nice crumpet with you. Women like that shouldn't be left alone in cheap hotel rooms."
Val thought it best not to betray his concern. "A one night stand."
"Oh, not interested in what happened to her?"
"Has something happened?" With effort Val kept his voice even.
"We shared a bottle of champagne. I moved her to more suitable surroundings for a woman of her quality."
The innuendo sounded real. Maybe like she had said, Claudia just wanted to get ****ed and it didn't matter by whom. Val wanted to jump and throttle the scoundrel.
The self satisfaction written on Bogo's face vanished. "Tonight, my father will decide your fate." He clapped his hands.
Two soldiers armed with machine pistols entered the hall.
"You will now return to your room. If you try to get out again. They will shoot. Like all condemned men you may make a request for your last supper."

#

The trouble with Bogo was, Val believed him.
The "last supper" tray a guard had brought in earlier still stood on the dresser untouched. Val had tried to sip the wine that was included but the taste was bitter. He had also tried to sleep to no avail. The longer he stayed in the room, the more certain he became that these people were going to kill him. What bothered Val the most was why.
He tried not to think of Claudia.
At 11:45 the key clicked and the door opened. The same two guards who had escorted Val into the room, entered.
"You, come."
Thinking of midnight executions, Val went downstairs flanked by the guards.
Outside, a cold wind rustled through the orange grove. Val's eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could faintly see the gravel path illuminated by starlight. Chanting coming from the chapel gave the night and eerie quality. Shafts of candlelight spilled out of the narrow windows.
Under different circumstances Val would have considered the effect beautiful.
The guards stopped by the door. "You go inside."
Val entered and the guard closed the door behind him.
Ten hooded monks holding long candles formed two queues on both sides of Gaucho who was on his knees leaning on a chair, his head bowed as if in deep prayer.
At midnight, one of the monks rang a small bell. Still chanting, the monks turned and marched out of the chapel.
While the chanting faded into the night, slowly, Gaucho pulled himself up and sat on the chair. "Do you have a God to pray to?" He asked, without turning toward Val.
"Yes, I do."
"You have five minutes to say your prayers, to seek guidance and salvation. I can tell you, it is never too late to commune with God."
"To me, this seems like the chapel of doom."
"Doom," Gaucho repeated while nodding. "Doom. Yes, you are the man." He turned and looked at Val. "Do you believe in preordination?"
"In life one always has choices."
"You really think so? You really think you can escape fate?" Gaucho stood, faced the altar and crossed himself. "You have no choice. Tonight you will meet your fate."
Like the air before a thunderstorm, the atmosphere in the chapel was oppressive. Val shifted his weight to the ball of his feet. For what? He did not know.
"Go to the altar."
Val looked at Gaucho.
Gaucho lifted his head and tapped his cane on the floor. "Don't stare at me, go to the altar."
Unsure of himself, Val stayed in place.
"Go on. I'm not asking for you to shoot yourself."
Wondering what this was all about, with legs reluctant to move, Val took six steps to reach the altar.
"Put your hands on the edge and lift."
Val turned his head. The old man was crazy.
"Lift, that's what you came here for."
Val put his hands on the edge of the marble slab and pulled.
"Don't be afraid, it's hinged."
Val gave the stone another tug and the top opened like a lid.
The face of a man stared back.
After the initial jolt, It took Val some time to recognize the face on the framed 1958 Time Magazine front cover.
"Before seeing that. I didn't know who Captain Jack was."

#

With his heart still beating like a drum roll, Val watched one of the soldiers drive off with Gaucho in a golf cart. The other soldier closed the chapel door and said, "Come." He led Val back to the main house.
Bogo sat in front of the fireplace. Next to him, he had a tray with a bottle of Vieuve Cliqot champagne and a plateful of little caviar sandwiches. He stood as Val entered. "Welcome. Now you know who your enemy is." His facial expression mutated into a friendly grin.
Amazed at the change, Val sat in one of the wing chairs.
Bogo poured champagne and handed a flute glass to Val. "To your success."
"My success in what?"
"You will become almost as famous as Harvey Oswald, if you get caught." Bogo laughed loudly.
"You're mad. You want to assassinate him?" Val jumped to his feet. "Out of the question. If you guys have a vendetta, you settle it among yourselves."
Bogo shrugged. "Amongst ourselves, that's funny. My father and I are small players. Our business is peanuts--small peanuts. We make money when people fear Godzilla. But we make sure to stay out of Godzilla's way."
"Are you sure it was Mossad who bought the documents?"
"In this business one is never absolutely sure of anything. They wanted the transfer to take place in Russia. Probably to blame the Russians if something went wrong."
Val had trouble believing Hermann was a Mossad agent. But everything he's been learning about Hermann's secret life indicated in that direction. To slow down the wild thoughts rushing through his brain, he took a caviar sandwich and chased it with a sip of champagne. Any nation would consider it a coup to have their man in the position of U.S. National Security Advisor. At least now he knew why the Russians and the French were interested in protecting him. Knowledge was power. The problem Hermann had not understood was how to bridge the chasm dividing a private citizen from national asset protected by the machinery of state. Thinking of Himself as a sort of Kissinger, he had barged into the comfortable world of the old boys and started breaking china.
"Your choice of food and drink for this occasion is impeccable."
"I see you are beginning to understand your position. And you didn't pay millions for the information." Bogo lifted his glass. "I hear you're an excellent shot. Very useful in this business."
Amazing how most people lacked the capacity of thinking beyond the partitions created by their background. "Very useful," Val answered to get Bogo to think he was playing along. "How much are you willing to pay?"
"Five million. Together with the release of an Italian Contessa, unharmed."
Val noted his heart didn't even miss a beat. He had achieved control over himself. "That doesn't show goodwill from your part." Val glanced at his watch. "I want her free tomorrow noon."
"I'm a businessman. Like a banker I hold collateral."
Val tilted his head to one side. "Really? I'm also a businessman. How do I know my goods haven't been damaged?"
"I'll send you a tape recording."
"Not good enough."
"A photograph with her holding tomorrow's newspaper."
"Cheap stunt, which doesn't work with me," Val said to cover his vulnerability.
Surprise registered on Bogo's face. "What do you need?"
"I need to talk to her in person."
Bogo thought for a moment. "I'll arrange for a phone call."
Seeing he had leverage, Val pressed for advantage. "I said in person."
"You're not in a position to make demands."
Remembering Bogo's short temper in the restaurant, Val shrugged. "Then we don't have a deal."
Bogo closed his fists and his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Then you die and I'll sell her in Somalia."
Regretting he had left his microchipped clothing in Claudia's car, Val said, "You provide the airplane. The Contessa and I will fly to Maria Galante Island. I'll set up a meeting with Captain Jack and his son in one of those abandoned windmills. When they come out of the car I shoot them both with a sniper rifle. You will also provide me with an RPG-7 and adequate supply of rockets to take care of the security detail." Val smiled and paused. "He'll feel safe in the Caribbean. Maybe you'd like to have some of your men around to make sure we get everyone. Then you fly us to Transdniestr. Dougan will help me vanish into comfortable retirement."
"Smithsonian, not a bad plan. But the collateral will be delivered only after your success."
"Okay, but we go and see her tomorrow. After that we can discuss details." Val thought he had to buy time. By now Boikin will have traced them to Split. If Val delayed enough, rescue was possible. But only if they were still interested in protecting him. Val hoped he had guessed the Franco-Russian agenda right.

Chapter 33

The following morning, the black hood over Val's head didn't feel good at all. Inside the executive turbo prop he had been able to determine the airplane's direction only while still on the ground. The take off had been toward the north. But once in the air, he had no clue which way the airplane went.
He knew Bogo was in the airplane because he recognized the voice, saying something to one of the guards. When Val told him to have the handcuffs removed, Bogo didn't answer.
Now, someone tugged at his hood and pulled it off.
"We are about to land. I don't want people to think we're Americans doing a rendition," Bogo said.
Val growled in response while blinking his eyes. He turned around. His guards sat in the chairs behind him. In their leather jackets they looked like typical Balkan gangsters. "Where are we?"
"We're landing in Split," Bogo answered.
At least this bit of news was good. Val tried to think of a stratagem to get into Claudia's airplane, grab his pistol and shove it against Bogo's head. Wishful thinking. Impractical, stupid. Now he was paying for all his idiotic actions. Bogo was a world class operator who took his dirty business seriously.
The landing gear came down and the airplane changed attitude. Val glanced outside. They were crossing the coastline with Split to the left. Below them, the green hills were dotted with red tiled roofs.
"I own several houses here. We use them as recuperation resorts for women."
"I figured you wouldn't restrict yourself to the honorable business of gun running."
Bogo's loud guffaw overpowered the noise of engines and slipstream. "Smithsonian, you're the funniest."
The airplane touched down with a soft thump. Propellers reversed. The tent-like roof of the terminal building confirmed this was Split. Claudia's airplane was still parked on the side of the building on a ramp reserved for light aircraft. Bogo reached over and unlocked Val's cuffs and the chain around his waist. "Now I want you to behave like a nice VIP passenger. The reason for the cuffs was to prevent you from lifting the hood. You may as well forget you ever visited the island, ok?"
"Yah, yah," Val grumbled, while inside hopeless desperation squeezed his chest.
The pilots parked the airplane next to Claudia's. Since Bogo hadn't made any comments, Val wondered if Bogo was aware this was her airplane. "How did you know where we stayed in Split?"
Bogo grinned. "When you were at the ramp in Transdniestr, my assistant photographed you with his lighter. Another assistant distributed your photographs among taxi drivers. I was lucky, one of my own men took you into town. I have a good organization, don't you think?"
"Yes, impressive."
"Ah, you finally appreciate my genius."
The two goons deplaned first as a large Mercedes sedan pulled up. One of them opened the rear door.
Val got into the car and the two goons slid in, one on each side sandwiching him between them. Bogo got into the front passenger seat.
Two guards at a service gate of the airport waved the car through.
Just outside the gate a line of men in coveralls lined up beside a catering van.
Val said, "let's stop so I can get a coke."
No one paid any attention to him.
"You will again wear the hood, you don't need to know my address."
Val glanced at his watch as one of the goons slipped the hood over his head.
Even through the tinted glass, Val could feel the sun behind him. They were heading west, toward the coast. About ten minutes later the car turned south. They traveled over a curvy road. The way the tires squealed even on moderate curves, made Val think this was a heavily armored car.
Eventually the car slowed and made a sharp turn. After a minute it negotiated a steep incline and came to a halt.
"Here we are," Bogo said.
Val reached for his hood, pulled it off and defiantly slapped it on one of the goon's lap while glancing at his watch. One hour and four minutes. It was 11:53.
A portly woman in a black dress and white apron came out of a pink villa surrounded by wilted geraniums.
A man in blue uniform and a Kalashnikov stood at the edge of the terrace fronting the house.
Val stepped out. While stretching, he looked in the direction from which they had come. Two hundred yards downhill, a gate of iron spikes was closing. Beyond the fence surrounding a manicured lawn, the slopes of the hill were covered with pine.
The driver got out of the car and slipped the car keys into his right-hand trouser pocket. Val was surprised to see the escorting goons no longer preoccupied with him join the driver and head for a smaller house on the side of the main building.
"Impressive, yes?" Bogo gestured with his arm. "This is mine. Not a present from my father. Nice, don't you think?"
"Imposing." Val nodded trying to portray appreciation. "Someday I'd like to have a house like this." And shove it up your ass.
"This way, my friend." Bogo pointed toward a large arched doorway. "This is a solid house, built to resist a rocket attack or light artillery. Sensors, television and mines around the perimeter. A place that gives peace of mind."
Val entered a pink marble foyer that opened into a large room with huge plate glass windows offering a spectacular view of the Adriatic dotted with islands.
"This makes the French Riviera look like a beggar's paradise," Val said, genuinely impressed with the panorama. His attention returned to the salon. In the modern, open layout of the room, the Luis XIV furniture looked out of place. Someone spent hours on the floral displays scattered about the room.
Bogo laughed. "People of better taste vacation on the Dalmatian Coast. Slivovitz?"
"I want to see your so called collateral first."
"You Americans, always pushy, don't observe the niceties of small talk. Come."
Bogo led the way to a stairway leading to a lower level, then down a corridor into the south wing. He opened a door into a small dark room. After Val entered, Bogo closed the door and drew a curtain revealing what Val guessed was a one-way mirror.
The next room was a large bedroom with a circular unmade bed. Wearing jeans and a blouse, Claudia sat in an overstuffed chair reading a paperback.
"As you can see, she's quite comfortable."
Val took in the filming equipment in the little room. "A bit of a voyeur, aren't you?" Val said calmly, hiding his indignation.
"No, my friend. I like to be filmed in action. It extends the pleasure and confirms a man's reputation. Would you like to see some films?"
"Thank you, maybe later."
"But of course I don't have this setup out of vanity. It is really a business tool."
Val pointed into the bedroom. "Get her out, I want to talk to her."
"What for? As you can see, she's perfectly comfortable."
"Humor me, assassins are strange people."
"You are already too much of a prima donna." Bogo sighed, picked up a telephone and said something in Croatian. "All right, let's go upstairs, She'll join us there. We'll have a drink and then lunch, do you like sea urchins? I have a diver who picks them fresh from the cove in front of the house."
Back in the main salon, Val clucked his tongue on purpose, the way he used to do as a young child to piss off his father. Funny he should remember it now. A murky memory for some reason buried long ago.
"Champagne?" Bogo asked, looking beyond Val.
Val turned and saw Claudia standing at the head of the stairs.
"About time you showed up," she said, looking angrily at Val.
"Sorry, I got delayed." That's all he needed, was being berated.
"You are a lying, disgraceful son of a bitch!" she shouted.
Taken aback by the verbal assault, Val took a step rearward.
Claudia rushed toward Val, grabbed a large flower vase off a side table, lifted it. Abruptly she changed direction and smashed the vase against Bogo's face.
Bogo staggered, dropped the Champagne bottle and a glass he was holding.
Claudia picked up another vase off a cabinet by a wall and crashed it over Bogo's head.
Bogo collapsed onto a field of smashed shards.
Thinking of the guards in the servants quarters, Val rushed toward Bogo, turned the body over. He reached inside Bogo's coat. Sure enough, the gangster had a shoulder holster. Val removed the pistol.
He turned to Claudia. "How many guys guarding your room?"
"There is a small room before you enter, one man sits there."
Val thought of the door at the end of the hallway. He probably would have not heard the racket. But the housekeeper would. "Let's go," He took Claudia's hand and ran outside, heading straight for the servants quarters.
He opened the door.
Three men sat around a table with mugs in front of them. A fourth one sat at a console with TV monitors. They all turned their heads toward Val.
"Hande, hoch," He said in German.
They obviously understood and raised their arms.
Val looked at the driver. "Give me the keys."
He got a blank stare in return.
"Schlussel."
Claudia crossed the room and took an assault rifle from a rack.
Val fired a round at a TV monitor. He heard the clacking of a rifle bolt slamming home. The expressions on the goons' faces expressed uniform fear.
To get the key out of the driver's pocket would be a dangerous maneuver. To incapacitate him, Val slammed his first into his nose.
The man fell off his chair.
Val rummaged inside the man's trouser pocket and found the keys. "Open the gate," he told the ashen console operator. Seeing Claudia covered him with her rifle, he moved across the room toward the rifle rack. A TV monitor showed the gate sliding open. Val pocketed his pistol and took a rifle. "Outside."
The guards shuffled out.
Once on the parking terrace, Val feverishly thought how to gain enough time to reach the gate while it was still open. Unless he killed the guards, they would shut the damn thing the moment he drove off an no longer pointed a gun at them. With his rifle, he motioned down hill. "Now run," he yelled. To add emphasis to his order, he fired a burst at their feet.
Like kids racing each other to jump into a pool, the goons leaped off the terrace onto the sloping lawn.
Val raced to the Mercedes, opened the door and got inside. Claudia fired a burst over the heads of the goons scampering down hill and also got in.
Down the driveway, the gate was still opening.
Val placed the car in gear and accelerated out of the lot. The rearview mirror showed the goons had reversed their race and rushed back into the guardhouse.
Val wasn't half way down the driveway when the gate stopped opening and began to close. A quick glance told him the car built to smash through road blocks didn't have air bags.
"Brace yourself."
****, he hadn't had time to strap on the seat belt.
The opening left on the gate wasn't wide enough. Val stomped on the accelerator.
With a noise of screeching metal, the Mercedes crashed bending the gate. Val fought to control the car and was through. He essed on the road to check the steering was still ok and hoped the radiator wasn't damaged. So far no steam came out.
In less than a minute they reached the main road and Val turned left.
"Valentino, you are a total disaster. You have bad friends, and you leave your lady waiting. But this time I'll forgive you."
"Remind me not to have flower pots around when you're my house guest."
Claudia emitted a forced laugh.
"Check in the back, I'm sure they have some booze in the cabinets."
"Booze?"
"Yes, whiskey, brandy, something." Val's legs were beginning to shake. He hoped Bogo didn't have a handy helicopter and wondered if he would report a stolen car to the police.

[Brag]

Chapter 34

After driving for five kilometers, Val pulled to the side of the road. "Take the rifles and hide them in the trunk," he told Claudia while he walked up front to inspect the damage. The bumper was slightly bent and the right hand side of the body had some dents and was badly scratched. Relieved that the damage was only cosmetic, Val inspected the windshield stickers. One of them was for the airport. Every little bit helped.
Back in the car and racing toward Split, Val said, "I hope you didn't kill Bogo."
"My handbag, passport and documents are still there. You have turned me into an international criminal. Now the Croat police will be after me, too."
"Shapquine and Boikin will fix it."
"I don't trust those men."
Val didn't trust them either. "That's the best we have."

#

Even with the brief stop, it only took 53 minutes to reach the airport. Val drove sedately around the terminal and to the service gate. "Now comes the moment of truth." He turned into the service road and slowed as they approached the gate.
A guard waved them through and saluted.
As he stopped behind Claudia's airplane, Val said, "I wish I had a knife to slash the tires of Bogo's plane."
"Is the King Air his?"
"We arrived in it."
"That will only delay him half an hour. After I start engines you drive the car into his wing. That will delay him for a long time." Claudia got out of the car.
She walked up to her airplane, stopped and stomped the ground with one foot. She then threw her arms up and turned to Val. "The keys are in my purse!"
"****." Val wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel. This car must have a tire iron. He would jimmy the door open.
Val got out and opened the trunk. He brandished the tire iron.
"I don't think that will work. Besides it will damage the door."
"We can wait here and ask Bogo and his men to help us. They should be here shortly."
Using both hands, Val rammed the lug wrench cum tire iron against the door seam. Except for jarring his bones, there was no effect.
Claudia shook her head. "That will not work. We must shoot the lock."
"Shooting in an airport will bring police like flies to manure." Val tried to think. There had to be a solution, maybe he could borrow a drill from the mechanics by the lunch wagon. Why they were trying to break into the airplane would require a lot of explaining. Especially if the owner didn't have documents.
They didn't have much time. With over an hour to recover, Bogo or one of his henchmen would be doing everything to prevent their escape. One of the first things police did was alert airports. Bogo probably had the cops in his pocket.
"Coke!" Val exclaimed. "I'm gonna get a coke."
Claudia frowned. "Are you crazy?"
"Wait here, I have an idea." Val wanted to run, but that would look suspicious, he strode to the gate a hundred yards away. The lunch van was still parked there though the owner was closing it's side counter. "Hey," Val yelled and waved, now he had and excuse to run.
Approaching the gate, Val slowed to a walk. "Hey, Coca Cola." He waved at a smiling guard, who nodded back.
The vendor spoke in Croatian.
"Coca Cola?" Val asked.
The vendor shook his head. "No Coca Cola." He produced a bottle of Greek Portakalada orange drink. Val needed a plastic bottle, glass wouldn't do. "Voda, voda." He used the Russian word for water.
"Dobro." The vendor took out a bottle of mineral water. It was plastic!
"Dva."
The vendor took out a second bottle. Val paid and marched back through the gate toward the airplane. As he approached, he could see Claudia's legs behind the plane and heard tapping.
When he came around the tail, covered in sweat, Claudia was banging the tire iron against the airplane door. All she had achieved was make small dents and scratch paint.
"I have these," Val showed her the two bottles he brought.
"Mama mia." Claudia rolled her eyes.
Val opened a bottle and emptied it on the ramp.
"Caro, calm down. Somehow we'll get the door open."
"Step aside." Val pushed Claudia away from the door. He pressed the bottle against the lock, took Bogo's pistol and pressed the muzzle against the bottleneck. He took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
Recoil, a muffled thunk, and fog inside the bottle showed the pistol had fired. Val pulled the primitive noise suppressor away. Almost as neat as if drilled, a hole had replaced the tumbler of the lock. Val pulled the handle out and rotated it.
With a hydraulic hiss, the door opened and swung down converting into stairs.
"Presto, singnora." Val bowed and gestured for Claudia to climb in.
"You only look crazy, let's go." Claudia dashed into the airplane, Val followed. She pulled on the wire that doubled as a handrail and lifted the door closed. "I don't trust the door. We'll have to fly without pressurizing."
"Which means . . ?"
Claudia clambered into the cockpit. "We'll fly low, it burns more fuel, but we'll be okay."
Val squeezed into the copilot's seat, wondering what the procedure was on flight plans and other aviation formalities.
Claudia started the turbines and called on the radio. "Split ground-control, this is India Golf Echo Hotel, taxi VFR Dubrovnik."
Val turned his head sharply. "Hey! We're not going to Dubrovnik."
Claudia waved him off looking annoyed.
"Golf Echo Hotel, Split Ground taxi runway two eight, altimeter setting one zero one seven millibars."
"Roger." Claudia answered. Then she said to Val, "We haven't filed an international flight plan, nor cleared customs. So I told them we're going to Dubrovnik, a domestic flight."
Looking pleased with herself, she released the brakes and taxied out of the ramp.
Before the airplane turned onto the taxiway paralleling the runway, Val glanced at the service gate expecting to see Bogo and his men storming in. Everything looked peaceful.
Established on the taxiway, Claudia let the plane roll faster.
"Golf Echo Hotel, return to the ramp," the controller said on the radio.
Claudia added throttle.
A few seconds later the controller's voice became urgent. "Golf Echo Hotel, return to the ramp."
On the other side of the runway, a pick up truck sporting a large yellow and black checkered flag raced toward the end of the field.
"They will block us," Claudia said, stomping on the brakes. She switched radio frequencies and made a sharp turn unto a taxiway halfway to the end of the runway. "Tower, Golf Echo Hotel ready for takeoff."
"Hold your position, traffic landing."
Again Claudia slammed on the brakes shoving Val's body against the shoulder harness.
A large airliner was about to touch down.
"Golf Echo Hotel, be advised we don't have flight plan, return to the ramp."
The airliner rolled on the runway.
Val watched the airport pick up truck cross the runway and race toward them on the parallel taxiway.
The pick up left the taxiway and bounced over the grass surface in a diagonal course to block the taxiway.
Claudia jammed the throttles forward and rolled in front of the now rumbling airliner.
Val swallowed, hoping the big jet's decreasing speed and Claudia's acceleration worked to prevent a collision.
Even inside Claudia's plane, Val could hear the roar of the airliner's engines in full reverse.
With relief, Val began to breath again when the plane leaped into the air.
"It's only a little over a hundred miles to reach Italian airspace. Twenty minutes flight," Claudia said as she flipped the landing gear handle up. Less than a hundred feet off the ground, she leveled the airplane and accelerated to 300 knots.
"Now, you will add Croats and Italians to the list of people pissed off at your flying."
"I don't think they will pick us up on the radar. Once we are in Italian airspace, I will slow down to less than one hundred knots, the Doppler radar won't pick us up."
"You have it all figured out, don't you?"
"In a world of predator men, a girl has to know how to think."
The word predator triggered a sideline area of knowledge in Val's head. "Look, Miss Know-it-all. Doppler type radar is used in civil aviation air control. The military depend on the actual electronic echo of an object to detect it, not its movement. Even the Taliban were able to detect CIA Predator reconnaissance drones flying at 70 miles per hour."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Approaching the coast, Claudia dove the airplane following the slopes of the green hills dotted with houses. "There was a German boy who flew undetected and landed in Moscow's Red Square."
"Yeah, he had the terrain, woods, hills and whatever to mask him. Here you have nothing but flat sea. And two air forces to shoot us down."

Chapter 35

Grosseto Airport had acquired a familiarity of home. Claudia's red Fiat was parked where she left it, next to her yellow, corrugated iron hangar. Just like a Stateside garage she opened the hangar doors with a remote, and drove the plane right in.
Flying at only ten feet above the sea had been thrilling for a few minutes then it became a deadly dizzying experience where the slightest wrong move would smash the plane into a million bits.
Though Val had a hundred questions to ask Claudia, he kept quiet.
In the middle of the Adriatic they encountered larger waves and the air the waves displaced made the plane rock like a boat. Beads of perspiration formed on Claudia's upper lip.
On reaching the coast, Claudia had kept the airplane low, flying along valleys and climbing through the passes to cross the Appenine Mountains.
"That was an exhilarating ride," Val said.
"Now, you drive." Claudia rummaged through a storage compartment next to the pilot's seat and produced a key ring.
"And let's do it fast before police comes, maybe asking stupid questions."
Val scampered out of the plane, exited the hangar through a side door, while the main doors rumbled shut. The third key he tried unlocked the Fiat's door.
If one could call a day dedicated to escaping from gangsters a good day, things had gone well. Too well.
A bad premonition stabbed him. Val hesitated opening the door. He shook the shiver off and opened it. Things couldn't get worse than they have been.
He inserted the key into the ignition. Again the premonition stabbed.
He located the hood release latch, pulled it and got out of the car.
Claudia emerged from the hangar as Val opened the hood.
"Do we have problem?"
Val looked into the engine compartment, half expecting to see a bundle of dynamite sticks. Everything looked normal. "Just checking the oil," he said feeling stupid.
"You are an impossible worry too much about everything professor--andiamo."
He slammed the hood shut and got back into the car.
Without needing directions, Val drove toward the D'Albano estate. The sun had just set when he passed San Luca. Ten minutes later he turned into the nature reserve. He wondered if Boikin was waiting at the D'Albano manor or was out trying to find him in Croatia. Next to him, Claudia appeared to be dozing.
Val wondered how come he didn't see any of the wild cows that usually gathered by the salt lick in the evenings.
Ahead, something blocked the road.
Val switched the headlights on.
A dead horse, its legs stiff in rigor mortis, lay by the road.
Val switched off the headlights and stopped the car.
"My God," Claudia said.
The dead horse was saddled.
Val killed the engine, stepped outside, crouched and listened.
"What are you doing?"
"Quiet," he hissed.
Chill air and wintry silence. Small patches of fog were beginning to form close to the ground.
Twenty yards beyond the horse, sprawled a human body.
"Stay here, Val reached inside and handed Claudia Bogo's pistol. He whispered, "Move quietly to those trees."
In the remaining light, he saw Claudia nod.
"I'll be back shortly. I'll whistle when I come close. Shoot anyone else."
Trying to stay in the shadows created by the trees on the side of the road, Val moved past the dead horse. The dead man wore the clothes of a Butteri and still grasped a shotgun.
The horse and his rider were killed at least three hours ago. The corpses were beginning to smell. Val doubted the attacker was still around. Nevertheless, he got off the road and proceeded toward the cluster of buildings with extreme caution and his pistol ready.
By the time Val reached the granary, it was completely dark. From behind the corner of the stone building, he watched the dark main house.
Expecting to be shot at, crouching and zigzagging, he dashed across the plaza-like space and pressed himself against the main house wall. Standing still and hopefully invisible, he tried to listen for movement inside the house. Slowly he slithered toward the front door.
Everything he had learned from his father as a boy came back to him almost like reflex. Val's breathing was steady so were his hands.
Slowly he pressed the door handle. The door was unlocked, he flung it open and dove inside.
He slid on the floor and hit something solid. He knew it was a corpse.
Val crouched in a corner of the vestibule. In the total darkness he couldn't see a thing. An old clock ticked in the living room.
Val waited five minutes. He then stood, went to the front of the room and switched the light on. The sudden buzz of flies startled him.
Val fought hard to contain his nausea.
Her white apron stained with blood, Rosalia lay on the floor, her Mauser pistol next to her. She'd been hit multiple times and her face was disfigured by at least two bullet wounds.
A separate pool of coagulated, fly-speckled blood indicated another body had been hit and dragged outside.
Boikin, still gripping a pistol lay stretched at the entrance to the sitting room.
Val picked up and inspected Rosalia's Mauser. It hadn't been fired.
In the sitting room, Stuart had been shot while sitting in a wing chair, a bullet between the eyes.
"Damn," Val said before vomit surged up his throat.
Breathing hard, he brought himself under control and tried to piece together what had seen. The murderers had been fast. They probably knocked on the door. When Rosalia opened it, they shot her. Boikin managed to shoot one of the intruders before being cut down. Stuart, still sitting, never knew what was happening.
In the kitchen, two bullets on his chest had knocked Claudia's houseman/driver backward as he sat by the sturdy kitchen table, leaving a large plate of soup half-eaten.
The door into Claudia's office was broken and her studio was a mess of emptied drawers. Val rushed around the house looking for Shapquine's body.
He only found rooms in disarray.
At least Shapquine was alive, or was he? Was this good or bad? The question startled him. Good or bad, it didn't matter one led one's life by trusting people.
Except now there was hardly anyone in the world left to trust.