Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(68)
She nods tightly and the two of them go in, leaving the driver to light a cigar and unfold a newspaper.
Tomaso walks Rainy to a room that is nothing special: white walls adorned only by a crucifix and a portrait of Mussolini, a tile floor, a sagging bed in an iron frame, the tiniest sink she’s ever seen in one corner beneath a milky square of mirror.
But the view . . . the view is breathtaking.
Even after the stunning drive along the coast from Salerno, Rainy is not prepared for what now unfolds below her. The Mediterranean is genuinely blue, almost placid, and it sends up sudden reflections that dazzle and make her look away to avoid being temporarily blinded.
The town of Positano rests mostly on the side of a hill, which at the bottom is quite steep and by the top becomes sheer cliff. Stucco houses and hotels painted ochre, sunflower, pink, tan, and white cover the hill—all but that last hundred feet of cliff, and even there a terrace has been cut into the rock to allow one last house to be supported. Many of the buildings, almost all in fact, have arched galleries or graceful balconies facing the sea, and on virtually every one there are green plants of a type Rainy cannot name. Palm trees grow here and there on larger terraces.
Looking down there are the roofs, some flat, others gently pitched and covered in Spanish tile. Then, just before the beach, where at last the land levels briefly before touching the sea, there rises a dome, presumably a church. At a glance it is gold, but on closer examination it looks as if it is covered in fish scales, colored shingles that form abstract mosaic patterns of gold, faded green, and dark blue.
Tomaso steps beside her on the balcony and nods. “Yes, that is the duomo. There you will find Father Patrizio.” He steps back inside, unfastens his coat, and draws out a long and clumsy-looking pistol. He lays it on the bed.
Rainy stares at it and up at him.
“It’s a .22 with a silencer, a quiet but not silent gun, and deadly at close range. Tomorrow morning you will go to confession. You will shoot him through the grating in the confessional. Pop, pop, pop. Three times. Quick. You will leave the gun behind, and I will pick you up a block away. You will be taken directly to the Swedish Embassy in Rome. If something intervenes on the first try, you will make a second attempt the next day.”
“Once the priest is dead, you’ll kill me,” Rainy says.
Tomaso steps close. There’s a flinty look in his eye. “I have given my word. Don Pietro has given his word. We have kept our word to this point, and you have the information you sought. Now we embark on a new deal, a deal that we will also keep. So do not treat me with disrespect, or I may forget that I am a gentleman.”
He runs his hand up her arm, raising goose bumps in their wake. He touches the side of her face, pushing the springy hair back to see her neck. “Unless, of course, that’s what you would like?”
Rainy shakes her head no, not trusting her voice, because as much as she fears Tomaso, as much as she knows him for what he is, there is something undeniably . . . compelling . . . about him. The touch of his hand leaves fear but also excitement in its wake.
“Pity,” Tomaso says. “And now I must go. You see therefore that I am a man of my word. I hope you are a woman of your word.” With that he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
It’s a very convincing performance, and for several seconds Rainy is almost willing to buy it. The side of her face where he touched her burns, and she wants to touch it herself. But the effect lasts only those few seconds before cold logic sobers her up to reality.
She walks back out onto the balcony and ignores the beautiful view. Instead she focuses on the railing, and the similar balconies below and to each side of her.
Wherever she goes she knows she will be watched. If she is to warn the priest and escape with her life, she’ll need to avoid the watchers. Will they expect her to try and climb down? If yes, she will certainly die. If no, she will only probably die.
Rainy sits on the edge of the bed, puts her face in her hands, and cries. Then, with tears of frustration and fear released, she begins to plan.
21
RIO RICHLIN—CATANIA, SICILY
Rio is up in the hayrack in a private space she has shaped for herself by moving a few bales. She has a forbidden copy of a scandal magazine with Judy Garland on the cover and a headline promising juicy tidbits.
Hay surrounds her. Hay aroma fills her nostrils—that and the rich smell of cows. She cannot hear them, the cows, which is strange because cows are always making some sort of noise, lowing, shifting position, farting. She’s sure they’re down below and not out in the field, but she can’t hear them because there is a ringing, a very persistent ringing, and now the hay bales are falling and she along with them and . . .
What? Wh . . . What is . . .
Blink. Is that the ground? She’s looking down, seeing the ground and a pair of boots. The boots are running noiselessly. They turn to bypass a large branch lying on its side. Her middle is compressed. Her legs are dangling. She can see, she can feel, she cannot yet put it all together.
And then she does.
“Put me down!” Rio yells.
“Hey! She’s awake!” She can feel the vibration so she knows the sound comes from the person carrying her, but the words sound far away.
Rio is lowered to the ground, an action made more difficult by her attempts to jump down on her own. She’s been carried, over the shoulder, by someone, and then, lying on the ground and looking up, she sees a face in shadow but still recognizable.