Getting up from the table, Jason moved to the big-screen TV, where he could just hear the news announcer’s voice. The man spoke with that certain authority Americans always attribute to a British accent.
“… Moustaph, reputed to be in the command structure of al-Qaida, was kidnapped while visiting Africa.”
The screen shifted to a strangely familiar scene. It took Jason a second to recognize the black helicopter in a storm of African dust.
The film crew! The fucking TV equipment he had seen before he shot Bugunda! They must have had a cameraman in the pursuing jeep!
“Although no one has claimed credit for the abduction, an anonymous al-Qaida spokesperson, speaking on Al Jazeera, the Qatar television network, has blamed ‘the criminal element posing as governments of Western countries.’”
The camera panned the open area and Jason felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. There he was, running for the chopper for all he was worth. The camera zoomed in just he threw himself to the ground. It was less than a second but his face was clearly recognizable before he disappeared into the tall grass. The scene went suddenly blank, no doubt as the rocket demolished the jeep and its occupants.
The announcer’s voice continued unruffled, as though giving the match results at Wimbledon. Moustaph’s picture replaced the helicopter. “The Muslim extremists threaten unprecedented attacks on Western countries if Mr. Moustaph is not released from wherever he is being held.”
“Now we know why someone wanted to kill us.”
Jason had not noticed Maria come up beside him.
“Huh?”
“The little ‘favor’ you did in Africa for your friend,” she said in the even voice she used when most angry. “Looks like it might not just get us killed, but innocent people all over the world, too. You must be very proud of yourself.”
“How was I to know … ?”
“Jason,” she said as though addressing a dim-witted child, “how many times have I told you? Violence begets violence. It is an unending cycle that must be broken to end.”
Tell that to the people in the World Trade Center, he thought. Or, for that matter, at Pearl Harbor. But he said, “The man was responsible for Laurin’s death. I was hardly prepared to kiss and make up.”
She arched one unplucked eyebrow, an expression he somehow always found sexy. “And I am not prepared to live with a man who continues the killing.”
Spinning on her heel, no easy task since she was wearing flip-flops, she whistled to Pangloss and marched out of the trattoria, followed by every eye in the place.
Giuseppe could not have hired better entertainment.
Jason caught up with both Maria and Pangloss halfway down the hill.
“Maria, you won’t be safe if you leave.”
She stopped and faced him, hands on hips. “And I will be safe with you? They will make sure I am out of the house before someone tosses a bomb into it?”
Pangloss was following the exchange as though they were passing a meaty bone back and forth.
“We’ll leave. We have to leave. We’ll go someplace they can’t find us.”
“Really? And where would that be, the South Pole? No, Jason, they saw your face, know who you are. They followed you to this little speck in the Bay of Naples, they would follow you to Timbuktu.”
“I hear Northwest Africa can be quite charming.”
She stamped her foot, barely missing Pangloss’s tail. “Make a joke if you like, I am not putting my life at risk so you may enjoy the luxury of revenge.”
With that, she turned and marched toward the car, rigid as any soldier on parade.
Minutes later, the Suzuki was straining up the hill toward the villa. From the bottom, a car had been visible, parked in front of the gate.
Maria spoke for the first time since leaving town. “Aren’t you curious who that is? It might be …”
“I doubt al-Qaida would announce its arrival by leaving a car in plain view.”
Maria wasn’t so sure. She was looking around at the surrounding landscape. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? I am leaving as soon as I can get packed.”
“Leaving? For where, your friend Eno in Turin?”
Eno Calligini was Maria’s uncle by marriage. Given his rugged good looks, flowing silver hair, and commonality of interests with his niece, Jason had suspected the relationship might have been, at one time, more than avuncular.
Her expression obviated an answer. “I’ll go where I please.”
“You already do. You were off in Hawaii when I went to Africa, remember?”
She turned around to sit straight in her seat, arms folded, the cold stature of a maiden frozen in rigid marble.
Jason knew better than to even try to appease her in this mood. He drove up to the gate and, using the electronic device, opened it. The Suzuki squeezed by the other vehicle, a dusty Volkswagen Passat. On Ischia, anything that had a backseat that really could hold two adults was considered a luxury car.