Chapter 20

 

Carla kept her bargain. She and Pietro were back in an hour with food for us, a good spaghetti Bolognese that would have set off every garlic detector south of the Swiss border. She wouldn't take the cuffs off me, so Herbie fed me, as neatly as possible but it's an embarrassing process and I was glad to call it quits after about half as much as I would have liked to eat. So far my time in Italy had been a culinary bust.

When we had finished eating, Carla wrote down all the items I told her I needed to defuse her booby-trap and then she shut us in again and left. We had already searched the shed twice for anything to unfasten my cuffs so we sat and waited without talking until they came back for me about an hour later. Pietro was dressed the same but Carla was wearing a set of baggy coveralls that hadn't been sewn by Bill Blass or any of that crowd. I still didn't think any good copper would mistake her for a man but it cancelled out the more spectacular aspects of her shape. I ribbed her anyway.

"Why, it's Rosy the Riveter," I said. "No dice, kid, you couldn't disguise that bod by wrapping it in a lifeboat cover."

"Not everybody is as relentlessly dirty-minded as you," she said with a touch of anger. I suppose she was feeling macho at the thought of lifting all that cash.

"We're on our way," she said.

"Good. These handcuffs are killing me."

"They stay on," she snapped.

I shrugged. "Have it your own way but defusing a bomb is hard enough with your hands free. Dressed like this I can't guarantee results."

"We'll undo your hands when you're shackled into the truck," she said. "You're a mad dog, Locke, we're not taking chances with you."

Herbie was looking at me, waiting for a sign, like maybe the Second Coming. In the meantime, Pietro was covering him carefully with the shotgun, there was no room to move. I gave Herb a microscopic shake of the head. Don't try anything, our turn is coming.

"What happens to Herbie while I'm off playing with matches?"

"He stays here."

"And what guarantee do I have that he's going to be safe?"

"You have my word on it," she said carefully. "Nothing will happen to him as long as you behave yourself."

"Your word." I laughed. "Which word will that be? I can think of about thirty-nine of them that apply to you. None of which is worth making book on."

"Shut your mouth. You come with me and do as you're told and you live. Any more of this crap and I'll shoot you."

"Now instead of later?" I shook my head and sat down. With any luck, Pietro would try to stand me up again. While he was trying that, Herbie could practice some of the tricks I'd shown him. But Carla wasn't buying.

"So far we've been treating the boy gently," she said. "It wouldn't take very much more of your aggravation to stop that. Like we could maybe beat him on the soles of his feet until you came along. Or we could cut his fingers off. I don't care. I just need you with me in that truck."

I didn't believe her but it seemed that Herbie was impressed. He cleared his throat and said, "Listen, I'll be okay John. You go ahead."

I winked at him. "Hang loose, it's me they want out of the way, not you. I'll call out when they bring me back, you'll know it's me."

Pietro scowled at Herbie and flipped up the muzzle of his gun, indicating the inside of the shed. Herbie shrugged and went in. I could see his fingers flexing as he moved. He would be ready if they came to kill him. I hoped so. That way I would have been a successful bodyguard, regardless.

I watched as Carla closed the door and clunked the big padlock shut. Then she hooked her head at me and I followed down the echoing courtyard which I saw now was lit with strips of fluorescent lighting hanging on bare ballasts below the old beams that supported the baked tiles. Why was it covered in? Crime, certainly, Scavuzzo needed a spot out of sight to unload trucks or do whatever else needed doing. Like disposing of unwanted bodyguards. I would have to use my time well once they took the cuffs off me, otherwise I would be shuffled out of here in a bag when they'd got their money, despite what Carla was promising.

There was a van parked close to the big double doors of the courtyard. It was a nondescript rattletrap with no name on the side. Carla led me to it and opened the rear door. Pietro prodded me with his friendly persuader and I climbed in.

The interior was surprising. The sheet metal on the sides was thicker than I had assumed, quarter-inch armor plate I would have guessed. The rear windows were one-inch thick glass, bullet-proof portholes that could be swung out of the way to fire through if needed. The driver's seat was accessible from the rear of the van, the way it is in a recreational vehicle. And there were benches along both sides, room enough for ten men to sit while the van chugged through traffic.

"This thing's an armored personnel carrier," I said. "That's going to be useful if they decide to start shooting at us as well as trying to blow us up."

"Sit there," Carla said and pointed to the end of the seat behind the driver. I sat, obediently. It was the spot I would have chosen over any other. I would be able to put the driver out of commission from here. If Carla was dumb enough to take her gun off me for a moment once we were driving it was game set and match to me.

Carla lifted the lid of the seat opposite me. I could see two Armalites, the Browning rifles the Americans call M-16's. They were laid out in properly built braces. And there were magazines as well. If they were loaded I could resolve the whole situation once she took the handcuffs off me.

Carla opened an inner container and took out a set of leg shackles, the same design as handcuffs only bigger. She spoke to Pietro and he covered me from four feet away while she stooped, out of his possible line of fire and coupled my left ankle to the post that ran up behind the driver's seat. Then she said, "I'm going to take your cuffs off now. Don't try anything cute or Pietro will shoot. I promise you that."

"Sounds like the kind of promise you'd enjoy keeping," I said. "Here, help yourself." I turned away from her, pushing my wrists out where she could work on them. She tried the right wrist first, then swore.

"Try the other one. I'll undo the right."

She unsnapped the left cuff easily and I brought my hands in front of me, flexing my elbows, sighing with pleasure at the end of the cramps. The cuffs were still dangling from my right wrist.

"Let me see the key a minute," I asked her, smiling politely. Manners cost nothing, especially when someone has a shotgun pointed at your gut.

She handed over the key and I pushed the right handcuff shut one click, then banged it on the seat beside me. I saw the tiny shard of steel from the broken needle flip out. After that the key worked perfectly and I handed the cuffs and the key back to Carla and sat rubbing my wrists and flexing my arms, getting ready for the biggest challenge of the day. Because I'd made my mind up. There was no way I was going to do any bomb disposal work for them. At the first opportunity I would break the driver's neck and grab Carla.

Pietro gave Carla the shotgun and stepped out of the van. He opened the big courtyard doors. Outside it was a lovely afternoon, hot and perfumed with flowers. I could see ahead of the van down a long driveway to a closed double gate made of thick iron bars. There were no dogs in sight but there was an eight-foot wall around the whole property, dogs could have run free throughout the grounds, answering to commands on a silent whistle. It would make no sense to come back over the wall and attempt to get in and rescue Herbie. When I came I would have to come armed, or better still, with armed reinforcements.

The only feature I didn't like was the two-way radio Pietro was using. For the fiftieth time since this job had started, I wished I spoke Italian. From his tone it sounded to me as if he was talking to his boss. That meant someone with the power of life and death over young Herb. I guessed that if Pietro didn't make his calls on cue, they would move Herb away from that house, even kill him. If I was going to try something, I would have to wait until we were almost back here before I tried to take Pietro out.

Pietro got into the driver's seat, parking his walkie-talkie on the seat beside him and drove slowly down the roadway between the flowerbeds to the front gate. Carla sat opposite me, nursing the shotgun over her knees.

A tiny old man came out to the gate and opened it before we got there. Pietro drove out, waving at the old guy, moving at a comfortable speed, not fast or slow enough to attract attention. I sat with my hands on my knees, bending forward so that Carla wouldn't see that my feet were braced against the side of the bench ready to lunge at her.

I glanced out of the front window, past Pietro, seeing that we were driving down a slight slope between vineyards that ended raggedly against the road. Then I looked back at Carla and she held my gaze, fixedly, as if she was trying to beam me a message by ESP. Slowly, moving so carefully that Pietro couldn't have caught it in his rearview mirror, she raised one finger towards her lips, an unmistakable signal to wait. I narrowed my eyes at her, questioningly, and she winked. I still didn't trust her, but there was no doubt she expected me to make a move and wanted me to wait for her signal.

Pietro passed a small car, glancing back at it in his mirror, then beaming to himself. When he had settled again, staring ahead oblivious to what was behind him, Carla silently mouthed four words, "First, Get, The, Money."

I didn't move. I just sat hunched forward, forearms resting on my knees, still wondering what was best for me and for Herb Ridley. If I acted now I could possibly put both of them out of action. But if Pietro failed to make his appointed calls, they might kill Herbie out of hand and run. I would have to wait for a while anyway and see what Carla's plan was, if any. Otherwise I would take over the van once we were close to the house on the way back. Bide your time, Locke.

It took us half an hour to get back into the thick of town. I sat there, cooking quietly in the heat. The one thing the van's designers hadn't considered was heat dispersal. As we sat in the afternoon sunlight the temperature rose until perspiration was running off me and I could smell the ghost of every garlic-eating mouth-breather who had ever sat in the van throughout its history. It was getting bad enough to cloud my judgment. I was almost ready to go ahead and take Pietro, trusting that the people at the other end would think the radio was on the fritz. Then I saw the Ponte Vecchio. We were almost at the Rega. I might as well wait and see what Carla had in mind.

She reached into the pocket of her coveralls and pulled out two ski masks. She pulled one of them down over her own face and handed the other to Pietro. He was stationary in the traffic and he pulled it on without taking his eyes from the car ahead. And still I waited. There was something about Carla's certainty that fascinated me. She had a plan. If it was dumb I'd ignore it but first I'd do things her way.

The traffic flows one-way, west along the Lungarno. We drove in the left lane, slowly enough to exasperate a number of drivers who honked and passed. Pietro didn't even look in his mirror at them. He stopped in front of the Rega and sounded his horn four times, two long, two short.

We were parked in front of the door so that I couldn't see what was happening, but after thirty seconds he got out of the van and went around the side. Then the back door opened and the bellboy from the hotel struggled to lift three suitcases into the rear. He was trying to look like he was minding his own business but I could see his eyes darting nervously. Capelli had him primed to notice everything. I made sure he saw my leg shackle. If he did, he didn't editorialize on it with his eyes. He lifted and sweated and then stood back. Smart. Carla had the shotgun trained on him the whole time.

Then Pietro slammed the back door and came around to the driver's seat. He picked up his radio and made a three-word announcement. There was an equally crisp answer and he laid down the radio and drove off, watching the rear mirror with great care.

I was looking over his shoulder, ahead. That was where Capelli would have put his cars, spaced this side of every intersection for the next quarter mile. No matter which way we turned, we would have one of them behind us and the others closing in.

Maybe it was all out of my hands anyway now. They couldn't get away, not if Capelli wanted to hold them. The van stood out like a sore thumb. By now, every cop in Florence knew its license and description.

I glanced back at Carla. She had moved away from where I could reach her and set the gun aside. She was kneeling beside the biggest suitcase, holding the toolbox she had prepared for me.

"Don't touch anything, there are tests to do first," I snapped. Even a small blast inside this steel coffin would pulp all three of us.

She looked up at me and said, "Don't believe everything you hear, John, you'll spend your whole life worrying." Then she took my clasp knife from the toolbox and slit the fine leather of the case, cutting first longways, then across, opening a big L-shaped hole. She put her hands inside and hooted with laughter. "Got it," she said triumphantly. "Five million bucks and it's all mine."

I guess my mouth must have been hanging open like a kid's on his first trip to the circus. "You said those bags would be booby trapped."

She laughed, happily, musically, genuinely amused for the first time since I met her. "Oh, they're going to be, that's where you earn your keep."