Rules of Vengeance

“Get your men there ahead of us,” said Kate. “Block off all streets leading to the hotel. Make sure they have a description of Ransom.”

“He is dangerous, this man? He has a gun, no?” Dangerous. Shorthand for asking whether the order be given to shoot Ransom on sight.

“We’d prefer him alive,” said Kate. “He may have information that could save lives.”

The lieutenant colonel placed a call to his counterpart in Civitavecchia and advised him that the man responsible for the car bombing in London two days earlier might at that moment be in or near the Hotel Rondo. “We are mobilizing our local brigade,” he a

Kate said nothing. She stared out the window at the whitecaps and the sailboats cutting through the blue water. Soon the road narrowed to two lanes. The Alfa Romeo slowed and came to a halt. Traffic was backed up in both directions. Drumming her fingers, she looked out the window. Across the street was a gated enclave with a sign reading “Regional Barracks Ladispoli; XX Artillery Battalion. Italian Department of Defense.” Kate recognized the name with a start. It was from this barracks that Emma Ransom had hijacked the shipment of Semtex three months earlier.

Just then the car accelerated, and soon they were moving at high speed again.

Kate lowered her hand to her side and crossed her fingers for luck.

Ransom was close.

She could feel it.

51

The Hotel Rondo was closed for business.

Jonathan stood at the front door, gazing into the lobby where he had seen Emma those eight years before. The red English phone booth was gone, as well as the furniture and the potted plants. Even the reception desk had been ripped out. The hotel was a husk.

He tried the door anyway. Locked.

Disappointed, he turned and walked back down the street. A café around the corner was just opening its doors. He took a table near the window, and when the manager came, he showed him a picture of him and Emma together and asked if he might have seen her a few months back. The manager studied the picture long enough to be polite, then apologized and said that he hadn’t.

“A coffee and some rolls,” said Jonathan.

“Súbito.”

A busboy delivered the breakfast a few minutes later. Jonathan set the picture on the table and stared at it as he drank his coffee. The photograph had been taken five months earlier, in Arosa, Switzerland, the day before the climb that had ended in such disaster. He and Emma stood close to each other on the ski slopes. She was smiling su

He knew then that he was beaten. He was no match for her cu

His fingers curled around the photograph and crumpled it inside his fist. The search was over. He had nowhere else to go. No more clues to follow. No trail, however faded, to trace. Emma had gotten her wish. She had disappeared.

Jonathan paid the bill and ambled outside. He looked up into the sky, considering what to do. Going back to work with Doctors Without Borders was out; so was returning to the camp in Kenya. The thought struck him that he might never be able to practice medicine again. He would need to reinvent himself. But as what? And where? He shrugged and began walking.

“Signore, per favore.”

Reflexively, Jonathan quickened his pace.

“Yes, you, signore!”

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was the busboy from the café, the kid who had brought him his breakfast. He stopped and turned to face him.

“The woman you asked about. The lady with the beautiful hair. I see her.”

Jonathan dug out the photograph. “Her?” he asked, flattening out the wrinkles. “You’re sure?”

“She was here in April. She ate at the café every morning. She was German, I think, but her Italian was very good.”

“Do you remember how long she was here?”

“Three or four days.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“No, she always ate alone. Are you her husband or something?”

“Or something,” said Jonathan. “It’s important that I find her.”

“Did you talk to her hotel? She was at the De La Ville. It is a few blocks up the road.” The busboy smiled sheepishly. “I followed her one day when she left. I wanted to ask if I could buy her a drink.” He lowered his eyes, signaling defeat. “I didn’t have the courage to ask her name.”

Jonathan patted the young man on the shoulder. “No apology necessary. Thanks for helping me out.”

“She was a kind person. You know, decent. You could see it in her eyes. The first genuine girl I met in a long time. Before you go, can you tell me something?”

“If I can,” said Jonathan. “Sure.”

“What is her name?”

“Lara.”

“Of course I remember Mrs. Bach,” said the manager of the Hotel De La Ville, studying the picture of Emma and Jonathan on the ski slope. He was a short, fastidious man, dressed in an immaculate gray suit that contrasted with the lobby’s seedy decor. “But who are you?”

“Her husband.”

“Her husband?” came the skeptical response. “You are Mr. Bach?”

Bach. Another name to go with another identity. “Yes, I’m Mr. Bach.”

“From France?”

“No,” said Jonathan, taken aback. “I’m American, but my wife and I lived all over. Our last residence was in Geneva.”

The manager looked at him a moment longer, then walked behind the reception desk and punched a blizzard of commands into the computer. “Your wife checked in on April fifteenth. She was here four days, then she disappeared. Not a word. Not a call. I phoned the police, but no one has heard of her. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She had an accident while she was here and had to spend some time in the hospital. Do you still have her belongings?”

“I’m sorry, but I gave them to the other man who was here asking about her.”

Other man? No doubt the same person who’d checked her out of the hospital. “Tall guy,” tried Jonathan, fishing. “Dark hair.”

“No, in fact he was short like me. And older, with gray hair. He said he was her husband, too, but I did not believe him. Mrs. Bach is far too pretty for such a rough man.”

“What do you mean, rough?”

“He was not polite. A foreigner, but not like you. He paid the bill. Cash.” The manager crossed his arms, his brows raised in some Mediterranean mixture of apology, sympathy, and camaraderie. Women, he seemed to be saying. They could never be trusted.

“Do you know where he was from?”

“He spoke no Italian, only English, but with an accent. Maybe British. Maybe German. I really couldn’t say.”

Jonathan sighed, bitterly disappointed. “Well, thank you anyway,” he said, shaking the manager’s hand, then feeling stupid for doing it. For some reason he needed that contact. Putting on his sunglasses, he headed for the door.

“I do, however, have an address,” said the manager.

Jonathan spun and returned to the reception desk. “You do?”

“The man was very worried about your wife. He thought there might be other people inquiring about her. I got the feeling he did not trust her so much. Perhaps ‘suspicious’ is the better word. He asked me to contact him if anyone came to the hotel and asked about her.”