Rules of Vengeance

53

Jonathan ducked into the kiosk across the street from the Hotel De La Ville and purchased two newspapers, the Corriere della Sera and the International Herald Tribune. On its front page, the English-language paper carried a follow-up article about the London bombing. Jonathan was mentioned as an accomplice to the attack, but thankfully, there was no picture. The Italian paper carried a shorter article about the attack on an interior page. The latest Italian political shenanigans generated more than enough scandal to fill the headlines. Finished checking the papers, he tossed them into a trash can and headed down the main street, the Largo Plebiscito.

In the short time he’d been inside the hotel, the seaside town had sprung to life. Besides drawing visitors to view its ruins, Civitavecchia functioned as the main port of call for Mediterranean cruise ships visiting Rome. Earlier he’d counted no fewer than four liners docked in the harbor, and another three anchored at sea. It seemed that half the men and women crowding the street carried travel bags emblazoned with the name of one cruise line or another. Like mice fleeing a fire, they spilled out of hotels and tour buses and taxis and scurried toward the docks.

Threading his way through their ranks, Jonathan kept a sharp eye out for police. It was likely that Lazio had supplied them with a copy of Emma’s hospital admittance form. A savvy investigator would surmise Jonathan’s course of action and send men to scour the area. Jonathan paused, sca

Ahead he saw the sign for the Hotel Rondo. Passing the hotel, he closed his fingers around the paper bearing the address of the man from France who’d rescued Emma from a Roman hospital and paid her hotel bill. VOR S.A. of Èze. But who was the man? And was he the same person Jonathan had glimpsed in the Rondo years ago? Jonathan had no doubt but that their relationship was professional. Why else would he foot her astronomical bills?

Apart from the address in France, Jonathan knew nothing more about him than that he was older, gray-haired, and spoke English with either a British or a German accent. Was he the person who had contracted her to carry out the car bombing? And if so, had Division’s attempt on her life been an effort to stop her? Jonathan could assume that if he was the “friend” Emma had come to visit in the first place, then he, too, must be an enemy of Division’s.

Still, one question held a key to all the others.

Who was Lara?

Somewhere in the distance he heard a tire squeal. A door slam. He stopped on a dime and searched up and down the street. He saw nothing to disturb him. Nerves. He wiped his forehead. Ahead, a sign pointed to the railway station. The nearest terminus to Èze was Nice, a seven-hour ride by train. He could not risk being cooped up in an enclosed space for so long. There had to be another way.

He continued walking down the hill, hoping to lose himself in the throngs along the docks. Rental cars were out. Hitchhiking was off the list. The only way would be to-

It was then that he heard the siren drawing near. It was close enough to make him jump, but before he could mark its distance, it cut off in midwail. He looked over his shoulder and noted a commotion two blocks down a side road. A man in a dark blue uniform and navy jodhpurs was pushing his way through the pedestrians. Two men followed him, hoisting a riot-control barrier. The men were carabinieri. Behind them came a squad of officers, moving authoritatively, submachine guns strapped to their chests, peaked caps pulled down low over the eyes.

Jonathan cut to the side of the street, taking up position near a coffeehouse. A line extended out the door, and he slid behind the waiting customers. He looked on helplessly as policemen positioned the barriers across the street. Their leader was speaking into a walkie-talkie, and it was apparent that he was coordinating his actions with someone else. Jonathan retreated along the street, hugging the storefronts.

Again he heard them before he saw them. A man’s shrill voice barking commands. Then, the sighting of the blue uniforms.

Panic rose in his throat. Jonathan hesitated, not knowing which way to go. Finally he turned and began to jog back down the hill. Instinct told him to get to the docks, where he might lose himself in the masses. As he neared the bottom, a navy Alfa Romeo marked with police insignia drew to a halt 20 meters away. Several more police cars pulled in behind it. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and saw a line of uniforms advancing toward him. Retreat was no longer an option.

There were no side streets branching off to his right or left, either. He looked down the hill. The main coastal highway ran directly behind the police cars. And across the four-lane motorway began the embarcadero, which skirted the sea as far as the eye could see to the north and south. Traffic was congested, a stuttering procession of automobiles and buses belching exhaust into the humid morning air. He stood frozen as policemen piled out of the cars and milled about. All the while the tide of tourists and pedestrians flowed around and past him.

What would Emma do?

Jonathan knew the answer immediately. There was really no other way.

Drawing a breath, he continued toward the police. He didn’t lower his head. He didn’t look away. He was wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and that was it. The front door of the Alfa Romeo opened and a svelte blond woman stepped out. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and white T, and she wore dark aviator sunglasses, but he knew her the moment he laid eyes on her. DCI Ford.

He watched as she sca

Jonathan darted a glance over his shoulder and saw a forest of blue uniforms, then he looked at Kate Ford and started to run. He ran straight at her, straight toward the Alfa Romeo, where at least three policemen were huddled in conversation, none of them paying either him or Ford the least attention.

“Ransom,” she called, but her voice was weak, too full of surprise to elicit shock, let alone attention.

Jonathan brushed past her. And as he did, an ungoverned lick of anger flared inside him. He was incensed at the sight of her, enraged by her unexpected presence, unable to comprehend the reason for her tenacity. He’d told her he had nothing to do with the bombing. Why did she persist in thinking otherwise? Rashly, he tossed a solid forearm that caught her square in the chest and sent her tumbling onto the hood of the automobile.

He could only guess what happened next. He wasn’t going to stop and find out. Concerned about her well-being, the other police would gather around her solicitously, granting him a precious few seconds, a precious few meters. He did know that the jab had felt damned good.

“Ransom!” The voice was louder now.

Accelerating, he jumped the concrete barrier and ran onto the motorway, dodging the slow-moving vehicles and dashing to the far side. A long line of cars and trucks waited to pass through a ma

By now sirens were wailing. In front of him. Behind him. He was breathing too hard to make sense of where anything was except the heart pounding madly in his chest. He caught a shadow behind him, a flicker of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a policeman ru