Scorpion Betrayal (36 page)

Cienna bent over and whispered in Bruno's ear, at which Bruno turned and stared at the two of them, his eyes wide.

“Remember tell no one, not even your boss. Anyone can be killed. This never happened. I was never here,
capisce? Arrivederci e grazie,”
Scorpion said and started to leave.

“I'll walk you out,” Cienna said, and accompanied him out to the reception area. “How do I get in touch with you again?” she said, glancing around to make sure they weren't overheard.

“You can't.”

“Suppose we see him again in another video?”

“It won't matter.
Ciao, bella signora,”
he said and felt her watching him as he left, his mind in a whirl. He had to talk to Rabinowich, and wondered if he should risk sharing it with Moretti. Once again there were things that made no sense on this mission. A single question churned in his mind: Why would the Palestinian risk his entire operation just to participate in a public demonstration?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Campo dei Fiori, Rome, Italy

T
he Palestinian woke in a sweat, not knowing where he was. He hadn't had the nightmare in a long time but it never seemed so real.

In the dream he was a child and they were coming for him. He was hiding in a closet, the heat unbearable, and even though it was night, the flashes of light from the window that filtered through the cracks in the closet door were intensely bright. The sound of explosions and gunfire kept coming closer, and the smell was like nothing he'd ever smelled before. He heard men crashing into the room and shooting, his mother screaming, and he wanted to scream but he was so frightened he wet his pants. They ripped the closet door open and grabbed him, and now they had the faces of boys who had taunted him at Grundschule: Aksel, his red face contorted, yelling,
“Leck mich am arsch, Türkisch schwuchtl,”
and fat Dolph, and Geert, kicking him while he was squirming on the ground, laughing at the
“Blödes arschloch”
as he tried to protect his privates where fat Dolph had grabbed his testicles and squeezed till he screamed, telling him he didn't need them,
“Sie brauchen diese nicht, mutterficker!”

And then he was awake, his heart pounding, and he realized that Liz was gone.

They had worked late into the night, he, Mourad, Jamal, and Hicham. Earlier in the evening, he had sent the others back to Turin, either by car or by the Metro to the Stazione Termini to catch the train. After they had left with calls of
“Ma'a salaama”
and
“Allahu akhbar,”
the four of them finished packing everything into the UniMOG, filling it to the roof with just enough room left for the four of them to sit in it. They ran into a snag then. Mourad noticed that the license plates given to them by the Camorra didn't begin with the correct lettering.

“Did they do this on purpose?” he asked.

“With the Camorra, nothing is an accident,” Hicham said. “They wanted us to be caught.”

“Why? We could inform on them,” Jamal said.

“None of us would ever live to inform if we were in prison,” Hicham said.
“Il silenzio o la morte.”

“They did not want it to come back on them.
Ma'alesh,”
the Palestinian shrugged. “Just make sure the UniMOG runs when we need it.”

“It's good. I checked it myself again this morning,” Mourad said. “What about the license plate?”

Finally, Hicham came up with the solution. They forged white metal with the correct red letters and glued them over that portion of the license plate. It wouldn't bear close inspection, but the Palestinian thought they could get away with it on a moving vehicle while other things were going on. Although it was past three in the morning by then, they went over their roles again, rehearsed what they were to do and how to deploy and rehearsed their answers to questions that might be asked.

The Palestinian, still known to the others by his cover name, Mejdan, looked at his watch. It was almost eleven in the morning, and although he got up and walked around the warehouse to look for Liz, he knew she wasn't there.

“The woman, Liz is gone,” Mourad said, looking up from making coffee in the makeshift kitchen. “Your English
sharmuta
whore will destroy everything.”

“I'll take care of it,” the Palestinian said.

“Why did you bring her? Just because you had to have English
koos
?” Mourad asked, using the Arabic vulgarity for the female sex organ.

“I needed Liz to get to the English demonstrators. It was part of the plan,” he said. “We have one more day. Check all the cell phone batteries, but don't touch the detonators. I'll take care of the Englishwoman.”

“It would have been better not to bring her,” Mourad said, not looking at him.

“Khalli baalak,”
the Palestinian said. Be careful. “We will soon all of us be
shaheedin
martyrs. We should not go to Allah with words we should not have said.”

He went to the hotel near the Stazione Termini, but the room was locked, and when he asked at the desk, he was told that Alicia had checked out.

“When?” he asked the desk clerk.

“Mezz'ora,
maybe.” Half an hour. The desk clerk shrugged. “Is curious. That
signorina,
she look like
la donna inglese
on the
televisione.”

“Not at all. Maybe a little, but it wasn't her. Was my
ragazza,
Liz, you know, her English friend, with her?”

“Sì.
Also her
italiano
boyfriend with the hair long, like a girl. They all go.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

“They did not say, but I think the
aeroporto.
They have all their baggages and they talk about London.”

“Grazie,”
he said, and ran to the Stazione Termini. He raced through the station, hoping against hope they hadn't left yet. With relief, he saw Liz, Cristiano, and Alicia waiting on the platform of the express train to Fiumicino Airport. To avoid being recognized, Alicia had dyed her hair blond and wore large sunglasses under a Burberry bucket hat. When they saw him, the three of them started to move away, then Liz stopped.

“You didn't say goodbye,” he said.

“I can't do this,” she said, taking off her sunglasses. She was back to wearing a Hermès scarf and Jimmy Choos, but her eyes were glistening, he noticed. “I thought I could, but I can't.”

“Children are dying.”

“I know,” she said miserably.

“What have you told them?” he asked, indicating Cristiano and Alicia.

“Just that we had a fight.”

“Liz, nothing happened between Mejdan and me, did it?” Alicia said, looking at him.

“I'm sorry,” Cristiano said in his clumsy English, patting the Palestinian on the shoulder. “Alicia want to go back to London too. She afraid the
paparazzi
find her and she will be exposed for liar.”

“I understand. Can I talk to you alone?” the Palestinian asked Liz. “It's important.”

She looked at her friends and nodded. He drew her to one side of the platform. Looking beyond her, he could see the train coming.

“You left your things at the apartment,” he said.

“Just send them to me,” she said.

“I won't have time. We can't leave evidence behind. Please, come back to the apartment with me. Just you and me, the way it was supposed to be. I need you.”

“I can't help it,” she said, her eyes glistening in the sunlight reflected off the rails. “I can't do it anymore.”

“One last time,” he pleaded. “It'll be like Mykonos. You owe me that.”

“Why? Why do I owe you?”

“Because by this time tomorrow I'll probably be dead. Don't let it end like this. You can catch a later flight. I can do what I have to if I know you're away and safe.” His last words were nearly lost in the sound of the train pulling in.

“Liz, we have to go,” Alicia called. People were rushing to board. The cars were getting crowded and they would have to squeeze in.

“I don't know what to do,” Liz said, poised between them.

“We can't let it end like this. Not us,” he said, and grabbed and kissed her tightly. “Stay, just for another hour. You'll be able to remember it your entire life,” he whispered. She looked back at Alicia and Cristiano.

“You go on,” Liz called out to them. “I'll catch a later flight.”

“You sure? You'll be all right?” Alicia asked.

“I'll be fine,” Liz said, then ran over and kissed her and then Cristiano on the cheek. “'Bye,
caro.”

“Ciao, bellissima,”
Cristiano said, kissing her back on both cheeks and picking up Alicia's luggage.

They boarded the train, squeezing in to find standing room. Liz and the Palestinian waved to them and they smiled and waved back.

“Call me when you get to London,” Liz called out.

As the train pulled away, the Palestinian took Liz's suitcase and pulled it behind him. She took his arm and they strolled toward the platform exit past a man in jeans and a
SALVO LE BALENE! SAVE THE WHALES!
T-shirt, who appeared to be looking for something in his backpack.

As they walked away, Scorpion closed the backpack, slung it on his shoulder and began to follow them.

R
abinowich didn't know. Neither did Moretti, when Scorpion had met him the previous night at a trattoria near the Piazza Navona. The night was warm and they ate outside at a sidewalk table, the lights from the piazza seeping into the street, along with shoppers and tourists walking by.

“Why would he risk it? Suppose he had been arrested by the
polizia,
that would have been the end of his operation.”

Moretti shrugged. “Many things could have ended his operation. The foreign minister from Sweden—this time Sweden is head of European Union—wanted to call off the
congresso.
It was left to the Carabinieri and the intelligence agencies to decide. Only your DIA and I opposed it. The way they are talking, I think is total catastrophe;
buona notte al secchio,
good night to the bucket, as we say. Fortunately, I was able to persuade them.
Cin cin,”
the little man toasted.

“Cin cin.
What did you say?”

“I told them the truth. The threat is real. If a bomb—I say nothing of Uranium-235—is big enough, it will kill many. It can be exploded in apartment or in car parked anywhere and still kill many people and destroy
il congresso.
The only chance we have to stop and catch il Palestino is if we know his target—the Palazzo delle Finanze. To stop him there is the best chance of eliminating this threat. They agree,” he said, taking a sip of his Chianti. “The real reason is not what I say, but because they do not want to cancel il Congresso Europeo and show weakness. The Swedes do not care, but the French and the German care. This
congresso
is important for Israel, and the Germans must always be sensitive to the Jews, you understand.”

“It would have been a disaster if it had been cancelled. And it would have stopped nothing. As you said, he could set a nuclear bomb off in an apartment and do just as well.”

“So you saw something on the
televisione?
That is why you go to RAI Uno? But what you see, you don't tell.”

“You know what I saw.”

“Il Palestino,” Moretti said, putting down his fork.

“At the demonstration.” Scorpion nodded. “I needed to see it slowly and up close to be sure. What I don't understand is why he would risk it.”

“He is
fanatico.
We already know this about him.”

“So you risk everything to wave a sign at people you plan to blow up? Makes no sense. But believe me, he had a reason.” Scorpion shook his head through a shadow thrown by the light from the restaurant window. “He always has a reason.”

“Still, he is not Signor Superman, your Palestino. He made a mistake this time. You know what he looks like, you know when he is coming and where, and now you know something more. You find
la donna inglese,
you will find your Palestino.”