Max watched as the man – who was short but powerful-looking, dark-skinned and wearing a cream Panama hat – unloaded the woman from the car.
Unload was the word. Max had expected that she might be frail, but there was this whole business going on, the man taking the wheelchair out of the back of the car, bringing it to the front passenger door, nearly hauling the woman into it. Then he backed the chair up, closed the door, fussed over her, settled her comfortably, draped a pale-blue blanket over her lap to cover her bony knees and her bright red pleated skirt; then he pushed the wheelchair containing the bent old woman toward the arena where Max stood waiting.
Max watched them coming, watched the dust-devils whirl around them, the man and the woman in the wheelchair. They vanished into the deep shade of the entrance, then reappeared into the vivid sunlight in the centre of this decrepit old place. The woman was wearing a huge broad-brimmed straw hat, pulled low over her face. Her hands were tucked in under the blanket, and her feet were big, clad in sparkling white trainers.
They approached slowly, and man and chair came to a halt six feet from where Max stood waiting.
The man gave a grin and said: ‘Mr Carter?’
Max nodded slowly.
‘I am Antonio, I will interpret for Miss Barolli,’ said the man, and he reached inside his shirt.
Max dived to one side and a spring-loaded knife concealed in his shirt sleeve dropped into his hand. He threw it as Antonio pulled the gun out, and the knife hit the man’s wrist with a hollow thunk. Antonio let out a high shriek of pain and shock and the gun fell into the dust. He collapsed to his knees on the ground, clutching at his bleeding wrist with the knife deeply embedded there. Max moved forward quickly and kicked Antonio under the chin, sending him flying backward. Max was on him in an instant, but he was out of it, unconscious. Max yanked his knife loose, ignoring the sudden arterial spurt of bright crimson blood, and turned to the wheelchair. Its occupant was struggling upward, tossing aside the blanket.
Max came up behind the chair and rammed the bloody knife against its occupant’s throat.
‘Hold it,’ he said, pressing hard, and the woman in the chair froze, held her hands up. Max pulled off the hat to reveal a man’s haircut, and threw it aside. There was a gun in the ‘old woman’s’ lap, which had been hidden beneath the blanket.
‘Gina Barolli don’t need an interpreter,’ said Max. ‘She speaks perfect English. I know that because I’ve met her before. And you, my friend, are not Gina Barolli. And you’ve got bloody big feet for a woman, haven’t you.’ Max pressed harder with the knife. ‘In fact, you’re a bloke. Enough of this fucking around. Tell me where she is, or I’m going to cut you a new arsehole.’
The man started babbling in a thick Sicilian dialect. This one maybe did need an interpreter.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Max. ‘Speak English.’
More Sicilian.
‘Mate, you’re going to lose a lot of bits if this goes on,’ said Max. ‘Now come on. It’s an easy question. Where is Gina Barolli?’
And then the man did a surprising thing; he lifted the gun in his lap . . .
‘Don’t,’ said Max, pressing harder with the knife. A thick thread of wet red trickled down on to the baby-blue blanket.
The man ignored Max. He raised the gun to his temple, crossed himself, and blew his own brains out.