The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts (8 page)

‘Voice’ will expect me to take a flight out
of Tenerife and most surely will have people watching for that, so
I believe my surest bet is to rent a car – I am less likely to be
observed in my new outfit going to an ‘Enterprise’ desk than buying
a plane ticket, but I’ll have to play it by ear.

I buy a Real Madrid soccer cap from a
passenger who’s part of a group returning from an international
match for twenty bucks and pile my hair in a knot under it. Anyone
familiar with me wouldn’t look twice at this persona and even I
have to look twice at my reflection when passing a mirror. After
landing and disembarkation I make sure to blend in with the soccer
group and do my best to whoop it up with them as they head to the
exit, but peel off and wave good bye like they are good friends
before going to the rental car area. To a careful observer I’m just
getting a car to get home or whatever.

There are people trying to be invisible who
could be connected with voice, one pretending to read a newspaper
but looking over the top of it, one sitting on a stool at the
coffee shop, another leaning on the railing on the upper level and
maybe a couple of others, but they pay me no heed.

The rental woman greets me.

“I need a car – one way to London.” I
declare.

“Is not possible.” She denies with an accent.
“Our vehicles no leave Spain.”

“Very well – to another airport then.”

“Si that is possible. You no like this
airport?” she asks.

“It’s complicated…”

“Is okay – I no like some places too.” She
confides. “You have license?”

I reach into my purse and hand it over.

“Ooh, so pretty! Such beautiful red hair -
but it no look like you.”

“It is me.”

“But you look
very
different – maybe
if you take the hat off.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Please understand – I need to be sure or I
can no rent car.”

“I have other identification…”

“Our rules say physical identification – I am
so sorry…”

I look around but see no-one paying me
attention and so whip my hat off and back on as soon as she
smiles.

“Si – it
is
you!”

“I told you so – now can I get a car please?”
I urge.

“Oh, Si senora – of course. Economy model –
small?”

“Absolutely not! Something fast –
luxurious.”

“We have a Jaguar… but it is expensive.”

“I’ll take it – will you have Bilbao airport
programmed in the GPS please.”

“But of course. I will have our shuttle pick
you up and take you to the rental lot. It should only be about ten
minutes.”

“As soon as possible please.”

I check my phone and see that I have a four
hour drive to Bilbao and book a flight on British Airways to London
accordingly.

The man leaning on the upper level railings
has disappeared and the newspaper guy is trying not to make it
obvious that he has me in view.

Damn! I’m sure they’ve made me.

I walk to the coffee shop and stand next to
‘stool’ guy while ordering an expresso - he doesn’t even look at
me, – a sure give away. Okay that confirms it.

I’ll have to outdrive them.

The shuttle is waiting for me and drops me at
the rental lot pick up area where a gleaming Seafoam XJS awaits
with engine purring in readiness to growl. There are two vehicles
parked obtrusively outside the security gates facing opposite
directions – they are letting me know I’m expected.

“Is there another exit?” I ask the
attendant.

“No – only that one.” He points.

I slide behind the wheel and immediately feel
at home. The array of gauges are business like and remind me of my
Cessna back home, the seat grabs me firmly and the gear selector
dares me to hit ‘Sport’ mode. The gas tanks are full and will
definitely out-range the cars waiting for me outside and the GPS
merely waits for the command ‘GO’. The seat belt clicks
reassuringly, I select a radio station playing songs that I tango
to and turn the volume loud before touching ‘Go’. I pause at the
gate, lower the windows and cruise slowly past the two vehicles,
waving. The upper level guy is in the driver’s seat of the BMW
facing the same direction that I take and smiles with a two finger
salute to his forehead.

The Jag expresses gratitude in being let
loose and positively snarls at the lesser vehicle as we burn rubber
in a black cloud around it. The Beemer fights its way out of the
fog and makes a valiant effort to chase but falls back with every
kilometer until I no longer see it in the rear view mirror. My cat
digs in its claws and tears down the road in ever increasing speed,
bends are insignificant for the tuned suspension and the
speedometer shows we are touching a hundred miles an hour.

This is fun!

I am forced to slow as I enter a mountainous
region and the GPS is invaluable in alerting me to upcoming curves,
what it didn’t alert me to was the roadblock set up around the next
corner. The Jag’s brakes more than meet expectations as I stamp on
the pedal and the ABS kicks in to bring me to an unwavering
stop.

There are three guns aimed at me from behind
the barrier formed by two vehicles and a man raises a white flag
and steps forward. The road is too narrow to turn around so I
select reverse gear and hurtle backwards until I can swing around
to face the opposite direction using a ‘scenic overlook’ area. I
will be meeting the Beemer coming at me soon, so I need a place to
hide and luckily see an offshoot track on the right hand side, made
by road repair crews. The XJS responds to my sudden jerk on the
wheel without complaint and slides into the gap scattering gravel
as the wheels grab for purchase.

I’m sure they will see me as they pass by but
I should have enough time to back out and be heading down before
they can take action. I’m aware of a man’s voice saying
‘recalculating’ repeatedly, from the dash board and telling me to
‘drive eight point nine miles and turn right on Rio Del Sera
road.’

It is the second chase car that catches me -
the one that was facing the opposite way at the rental lot.

It is broadside to the road and empty.

As soon as I come to a halt a man appears at
my window with a Beretta pointed squarely at my head. He beckons me
to get out and I have no choice but to obey.

One thing I learned from watching old Roy
Rogers’ westerns was that if a person puts a gun in your back with
a quick spin and arm swing you can knock the weapon aside before a
finger can squeeze the trigger. But I have to feel the gun in my
back first.

He tells me to get the ‘item’.

“It’s in the boot.” I reply and he gestures
me back there.

I hesitate and wait for him to push me with
the Beretta, but instead he shoves my shoulder with his free hand.
This man must have seen the same movie for I cannot get him to put
his gun where he should.

There is no latch to open the compartment and
I shrug my shoulders.

“I don’t know how to open it.”

“From inside – get the key remote.” He
instructs.

I open the driver’s door and lean in; he
stands about four feet behind me still aiming the gun at my head. I
need him closer.

I fumble with the keys and he steps forward.
“Hurry up.”

“Okay.” From my kneeling position on the seat
it is easy to give him a mule kick to the groin and drop him.

“Was that quick enough?” I ask
sarcastically.

His face is beet red and about twice the size
as normal and his mouth gasps for air like a fish out of water.

He won’t be able to function for a while so I
throw the gun on the passenger’s seat and leave him beside the
road. It’s a shame to push a Saab over a cliff, but a girl’s gotta
do what a girl’s gotta do. By the time the crashing noises stop, I
am driving the eight point nine miles and he GPS informs me that I
will add thirty eight miles by driving around the mountains - darn
that’s cutting it fine to get to Bilbao in time for the flight.

I push the car as fast as I dare before
having to refuel and pray that the chasers haven’t guessed my
destination, but they know I’m heading north, so it won’t take a
rocket scientist to figure that I’m on this road.

A faint dust cloud in the distance betrays a
fast moving vehicle and supports my theory. I squeeze the last drop
of gas into the tanks and get going.

A Policia speed trap decides that I am making
too good a time and wants a chat.

“Officer, I am American and am being chased.”
I make my excuse for speeding.

“Why are you being chased?” Officer asks.

“I have something they want.”

“What?”

“Just some old books.”

“You need a gun to keep them away?” He asks,
eying the weapon.

Damn, I forgot. “That is not my gun.”

“It fell out of the sky?” He looks up.

“It belongs to one of them…” I point down the
road. “Please – take it.”

“I have my own. This is a serious offense
Senora, one that could see you in jail for many years.”

“Officer, I have a plane to catch in Bilbao –
I am leaving the country as soon as I can, please… take the gun and
let me leave.”

“You say it belongs to someone following
you?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, we’ll wait here and speak to them –
what car is he driving?”

“Not ‘he’ – they, and
they
are very
dangerous – they probably all have guns and will shoot first. Just
let me go.”

“Senora, I cannot do that.”

By now I can see vehicles approaching and the
officer takes ‘my’ gun and pulls a shotgun from the police car. He
positions himself at the corner of his vehicle and waits. When the
cars near, he holds up both arms to stop them and they pull over in
front of him.

“That’s them.” I confirm.

He walks towards the BMW in the lead and a
shot rings out. He drops face down to the ground and lies
still.

I bend low and run to the Jag, there are more
shots but none hit their target, which I assume is me. The engine
accelerates me to seventy miles an hour in seconds and the chase is
on again.

The GPS shows only minor bends ahead and I
find that the Jag handles a hundred and twenty with ease but the
chase cars aren’t too far behind. I wish I could push buttons and
drop an oil slick like James Bond could.

The screen shows a town four miles ahead,
maybe I can pull something off there.

The cell phone rings.

“Gavin wants you to stop at Aronde del
Duero.” Voice says.

“Sorry – can’t do that.” I decline.

“He’s very insistent.” Voice reports; I hear
a scream in the background.

“So you can shoot me, like the cop?”

“That was unfortunate.” Voice laments. “But
necessary.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” I refute.

“Gavin’s next, if you don’t stop.”

“Oh… he’s still alive?” I try to sound
nonchalant.

“Only just - that was him screaming.”

“Pulling fingernails?” I ask.

“How did you guess?”

I shudder involuntarily.

“I see you’re still in Rome.” I remark.

“I was told you were a computer genius.
Bravo. By the way, it wasn’t nice – what you did to my man in the
mountains. I’ll dedicate another fingernail to him.”

I hear another scream.

“I’ll have to start on his toes soon at this
rate.” Voice says.

Gavin made me mad, but he doesn’t deserve
this torture and I’m feeling sorry for him.

“You both know I cannot give up the ‘item’ –
for anything.”

“So sad, but I really understand your
decision.”

“Good, then you may as well let him go.”

“No, I think I’ll hold on to him for a while
longer. You never know.”

“Up to you. Well, it’s been nice chatting
with you, but I have to go now.”

“Okay, I’ll be sure to tell my men to keep an
eye out for you – if you get my meaning.”

“Bye.” I hang up.

The town is small with twisting streets that
offer plenty of hiding places if that’s what I want. But do I? Is
that what my followers expect me to do? The GPS map shows winding
roads ahead so speed will not be a factor to any degree – there are
up to eight people after me so a showdown isn’t realistic and I
have witnessed that they have no scruples in killing.

My options are to carry on and outrun them,
make a u-turn and go back to the original route or… go back to
Madrid airport and take a flight from there – tempting, especially
as it would be totally unexpected. I kind of like that idea. I take
a side street and kill the engine while I think about it more. The
only drawback I can think of is running into the Policia back at
the murder scene which is a distinct possibility and I don’t know
if the cop radioed in my vehicle description when he stopped me. I
think it’s worth the risk.

The chase group comes into view and slows
down to look up and down side streets, but hurry on when they don’t
see me. I back out of the driveway and wait a few minutes before
venturing back onto the highway.

I am surprised not to see the crime scene
buzzing with Policia and I slow down to look around. The cop is
sitting up against the rear wheel of his car with blood oozing from
his mouth and he is breathing shallowly. The handgun droops from
numb fingers and his eyes focus on me.

“I tried to tell you…” I say.

He coughs.

I look around for help but there is no other
sign of life.

I hear two shots and spin around.

He has shot out two of the Jag’s tires and
has collapsed flat on the dirt.

There is no pulse. I’m screwed. As wonderful
as my car is, I’m sure it only has one spare tire.

I only have one alternative – I pull the
officer’s body and rest it against the Jag wheel where it will be
seen by a passer by and load my luggage into the police car, which
is a VW Passat. It’s pretty quick and has three quarters of a tank
of gas so I will be able to reach Madrid quickly. By pushing
various buttons I find the ones for siren and roof lights and will
use them if the need arises, but for now I wish to be
inconspicuous. The radio crackles to life and a female voice
addresses what I’m guessing is this vehicle – I am reasonably
fluent in the Spanish language but I can only pick out a few words
of this dialect.