Gates of Hades (26 page)
Suddenly, he realized he had no independent recollection of his wife's face. He could recall thousands of shared incidents, but every time she appeared in his memory, he saw a face from one of many photographs. Maybe he was finally letting go; maybe Laurin was finding peace.
Maybe . . .
A sharp rap on the door sprang him out of bed, his hand reaching for the SIG Sauer in its holster.
Weapon in hand and back against the wall next to the door, he nodded to Maria. “Ask who it is.”
Maria rattled off a question in Italian. A woman's voice, muffled by the door, replied.
“The maid. She wants to know if we want the beds turned down.”
Jason let out a deep breath he had not known he had taken. “Later.”
As he returned to the rumpled bed, Maria began to weep again, silent tears leaving shiny trails on each cheek.
Jason sat beside her, reaching out.
She pushed him away. “No.”
“But . . . ?”
“Jason, I care for youâcare for you a lot more than I ever wanted to.”
“And I you,” he admitted. “That's a reason to cry?”
She nodded wearily. “No matter how I feel about you, Jason, we are finished after I've helped you with Dr. Calligini as I said I would.”
“Butâ”
She put a finger across his lips. “It will not be easy getting over you, Jason. I do not . . . what did we used to say in America? I do not fall for guys that often. I might even learn to accept what you do, even if it makes me sick. Even sicker because you enjoy it. Some Old Testament sense of vengeance, I suppose. I gave up on one man because he was a cheat, a liar. I might learn to accept what you do, but I cannot bear to be there for you when you do not outdraw the other fellow at the OK Corral, the time when you do not see it coming.”
“Mariaâ”
She silenced him with a kiss as her hands reached for his groin.
The next day they rented a car and drove to Palau, a small port town a few kilometers north. Seated in front of a trattoria across the tree-lined street from the crescent-shaped harbor, they lunched on stewed baby octopus washed down by an astringent white wine that originated in the nearby hills. They watched ships come and go.
A table away, four young men in navy whites made no
effort to disguise their admiration of the pretty woman seated with the American. Several made remarks, the tone of which Jason understood, if not the words. Just as Jason was wondering whether chivalry required him to flatten each of them, Maria turned. Radiating charm, she spoke in machine-gun Italian. The sailors' faces went from surprise to embarrassment. They quickly finished their beers and left.
“What the hell did you say?” Jason wanted to know.
Maria tossed her head, treating him to that Wife of Bath smile. “I told them their mothers would be ashamed of them for saying things about a woman closer to her age than theirs. Italian men always worry what Mama might think. Even long after she is dead.”
“Even if they don't live with her anymore?”
As an Italian, Maria was fully aware that many Italian men never left, simply bringing a wife to their childhood home.
“They are from that ship.” She pointed toward the harbor where a white, military-looking ship rode at anchor. “The new Italian navy.”
Jason nodded. “No doubt equipped with a glass bottom so they can see the old Italian navy.”
He ducked the half loaf of bread she threw at him.
After lunch, they took the ferry across the Golfo dell' Asinara to empty, wooded hills. A single road led to the crest that held the tomb of the unifier of Italy, Giuseppe Garibaldi. People stood in line at souvenir and refreshment stands to enter the small building. Instead, Maria led Jason up a slight rise and into a rare copse of dense foliage.
“Wha . . . ?”
He never finished the question; her lips were pressed too tightly against his. Oblivious to the crowd screened by folage only fifty feet or so away, they made love even more passionately than the night before.
Afterward, as they returned to the parking lot, Jason
was certain some of the people were staring at them. If so, Maria didn't notice.
They made the ferry from Cagliari to Naples with only minutes to spare. During the drive, she pointedly changed the subject whenever he mentioned any future beyond the next few days.
JOURNAL OF SEVERENUS TACTUS
I know not how many days I remained in the tiny painted room, my only companions my fears and such spirits as might visit. On two occasions, cowled priests entered my cell to inquire as to my father, the more easily to summon his shade.
1
From the darkness, I knew it was early morning when two young boys brought me forth from the painted room to sacrifice a ewe. By the light of a torch, a priest examined the liver of the animal and pronounced the signs to be favorable. I was removed to another room, this one much larger, where I was bathed in herb-scented water
2
and given peculiar-tasting drinks I did not recognize.
Once so purified, I was clad in a white toga and my hair bound with white ribbon. I was girded with a belt with a bronze sword and given a golden branch of mistletoe to carry in my hand.
3
To my surprise, the ancient crone, the Sibyl herself, appeared, robed in scarlet, to guide me on my journey.
Behind us came the priests, dressed in black with pointed headdresses and only slits through which to see. They
drove the livestock I had purchased to be sacrificed at various stages.
We had gone but a short way along a dark and descending pathway when we reached the Dividing of the Ways. To the left went a return to the world, should I choose it. To the right, the final descent into Hades. I had come this far to consult the spirit of my father, and chose to continue into dark and the increasing heat and stench of sulfur.
4
We took a turn, and, to my amazement, the sheep and cattle that had been following us were now awaiting our arrival! We paused for another sacrifice and another study of the liver before proceeding down a sharp incline. As we progressed, the odor of sulfur grew stronger, along with other noxious smells. At least twice we passed a sparse type of bush that immediately burst into flame but did not burn.
5
The deeper we went, the hazier my vision became and the more uncertain my step. At last we reached a point where the black-hooded priests stood aside, framing the place where the River Styx impeded further progress. Between them I could see Charon standing in his small coracle.
6
Though I could not see the dog, I could hear the howling of Cerberus.
The boatman wore only a ragged cape that looked as though it had never been cleansed, a supposition consistent with his filthy, matted white beard. Without a word being spoken, the Sibyl climbed
into the fragile craft and I followed, leaving the priest on the shore.
Thus was I truly committed.
1.
More likely to produce a credible likeness. By skillfully interrogating the pilgrim, the priests would learn something not only of the deceased's appearance, but his personality.
2.
See note 8, previous chapter.
3.
Mistletoe had spiritual connotations throughout the ancient world. Since it bore berries in winter, when other plants were awaiting spring, it symbolized life amid death.
(4)
The origins of the Christian concept of hell as fire and brimstone?
(5)
Dictamuus albus,
also known as
dictamus fraxinella,
native to Asia Minor and parts of southern Europe. The plant exudes a flammable vapor that is subject to spontaneous combustion of the gas without its own leaves being consumed. Likely this is the burning bush from which God spoke to Moses. Other flashing or sparking plants include henbane, white hellebore, and belladonna, all of which had their uses in oracular mysticism. It is odd that no one seems to have undertaken a study of self-combustible plants in modern times.
(6)
A craft used in nontidal waters made of skins stretched around a basketlike frame.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
Via Della Dataria
Rome
Inspectore
Santi Guiellmo,
capo, le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Democratica,
chief of Italy's security force, removed his glasses and glanced down from his third-story corner office at the Piazza del Quirinale and its obelisk and fountain flanked by equestrian statues of the twins Castor and Pollux. Crossing to the other side, he noted the dress-uniformed carabinieri standing at attention outside the Palazzo del Quiriale, the old papal palace that now housed Italy's president, the man whose security, along with the rest of the country, Guilellmo was sworn to protect.
The Chief, as he liked to be called, returned his attention to the hand-tooled, gilt-edged leather top of the boulle desk that rumor attributed to Victor Emmanuel I, the first king of a united Italy. Royalist sentiment had become unfashionable after the last Victor Emmanuel's abrupt departure from Rome in 1944 in the face of determined German defenders and the equally resolute Allied advance. The desk had been relegated to oblivion until the
Chief had restored it, if not to its former glory, then at least enhanced status above that of the petty bureaucrat in whose office he had found it.
Guiellmo replaced his rimless glasses and scowled at the papers that blemished the usually immaculate desktop. He picked up the top of the stack as he plopped into a leather swivel chair.
As chief of national security, he had the job of keeping the country . . . well, secure. Secure from invasion, subversion, or infiltration, though it was hard to imagine by whom. After all, Italy had had sixty-plus governments in the last sixty years. Fascists, Communists, socialists, and everything in between, including a female porn star elected to parliament.
In this country, everyone's allotted fifteen minutes of fame was their term as president.
Now this.
A week or so ago, the police in Taormina had found a man, apparently not Italian, shot to death in a rental house. Scorched paint hinted at some sort of explosion. A Chinese version of the Russian AK-47 automatic rifle had been nearby. Not the usual baggage for a tourist, a visitor to Sicily with no driver's permit, no passport, no identification whatsoever. Nearby bloodstains suggested at least one other person had been wounded.
At the time, Guiellmo had paid scant attention. This was, after all, Sicily, home of the Mafia, which tended to settle quarrels on a permanent basis.
But the dead man in Taormina wasn't Mafia. At least, not in the traditional sense. The cut of the clothes, the facial structure made it almost certain the man was from Eastern Europe. The poor quality of dental workâiron fillings, one steel false toothâmade Russia likely. The ideology of Marx and Lenin had produced dentists more qualified to repair Oz's Tin Man than teeth.
Okay, so there was the possibility the Cosa Nostra boys had had a falling-out with one or more of the organization's heroin suppliers from the poppy fields of Turkey,
Afghanistan, or Pakistan, trade the Russians crime cartels largely controlled. It was a guess, but a reasonable one.
One less narco trafficker, a slightly better world.
Then, two nights ago, the local
polizia
in the wilds of Sardinia had come upon a multifatality wreck. Nothing unusual about that in itself, either. After all, every Italian male fancied himself a Formula One driver.
But in Sardinia, all fatalities, all four, had been foreigners. Again, no identification but bullet holes and empty shell casings in abundance, as well as the AK-47s common to third-world militia, terrorists, and anyone else seeking the most inexpensive and easily obtained automatic the international arms market had to offer.
Again, dentistry that few who could find better would choose, dentistry peculiar to the USSR before its collapse.
Coincidence that there would be a double instance of Russians armed with automatic weapons? Mere chance that they had been shot?
Unlikely.
Then there were the reports of some sort of explosions earlier that same evening. Investigation had been cut short the next day when the American Embassy announced apologetically that somehow one or two of its special aircraft drones carrying little more than training fireworks had broken their electronic tethers and crashed in Sardinia somewhere in the neighborhood of the auto accident. Brief as it had been, the probe of the scene had revealed harmless amounts of pyrotechnics but no trace of aircraft, drone or otherwise.
A fluke?
Why was it every time the Americans apologized for some sort of incursion across Italian boundaries, Guiellmo's imagination could see Uncle Sam, his index finger just below his eye, tugging the lower lid down ever so slightly, the Italian equivalent of a knowing wink?
One was an isolated incident; the second part of a pattern.
A pattern of what?
The Chief hated mysteries and puzzles, be they involving words, like the English crosswords; numbers, like the current rage for Sudoku; or multiple homicides, like the reports in front of him. Mysteries and puzzles represented a form of disorder. Unlike his countrymen, he found confusion and turmoil to be anathema. He hated the snarled traffic, comic corruption of government at all levels, social disarray. He suspected somewhere in his ancestry lurked a non-Italian.
Perhaps a German.
He straightened the papers back into a perfect stack. He hated disarray. That was why he had never married. Sharing a dwelling with another human being, let alone one with lace underwear, hose, cosmetics, and other unimaginable accessories, was to invite bedlam into his well-ordered life.
As was letting these killings go unsolved.
The answer, of course, was to look at the problem logically.
First, although Italy had sent a small contingent to fight with the coalition in Iraq, there was no national enemy as far as the inspector knew. The killings, then, had to be either based on something else or committed by a non-Italian. For that matter, the shell casings and slugs in Sicily and Sardinia were definitely not all from Czech, Chinese, or Russian versions of the AK-47.
