Luke wondered why Cotton Malone was involved with any of this, but knew better than to ask Stephanie questions. None of that mattered to his situation. He was apparently one segment of a larger mission. Nothing unusual there. The job was to get his part right. To that end Stephanie had given him a directive relative to Laura Price and she expected it to be done. So that’s exactly what was going to happen.
He made his way back toward Republic Street, which remained congested, the crowd still focused on the commotion. Dusk had passed toward darkness, the streets and squares all amber-lit. He kept to the alley and was able to see Laura, her arms being held by policemen, talking to the big man she’d identified as Spagna. The conversation did not seem amicable. Spagna continued to puff on the cigar. The local cops seemed to be taking their orders from him. Only two of the four were still there, while a fifth, the driver of the car that had brought Spagna, stood off to the side.
He liked the odds.
The head of Vatican intelligence had apparently come in search of both him and Laura. The big guy had specifically called out Mr. Daniels. So Spagna was privy to solid information. And what had spooked Stephanie? Her attitude had shifted 180 degrees. A lot was happening fast. But he was accustomed to the speed lane. In fact, he preferred it.
He watched as Laura was stuffed into the rear seat of the blue-and-white police car, its lights still flashing. Spagna hesitated outside the vehicle, speaking to one of the uniformed officers. The other uniform, the driver, climbed in behind the wheel. Finally, Spagna opened the passenger-side door and pointed with the cigar, barking something out to another policeman before folding himself inside.
They were apparently leaving.
But the going would be slow, considering the snaking current of pedestrians that choked the streets in both directions. They’d have to inch their way for a bit, until finding one of the alleys. He had his gun and could shoot his way in and out. But that could turn messy in an infinite number of ways.
Better to innovate.
He’d already noticed that the piazza near the cathedral and the grand master’s palace was dotted with vendor carts. Some selling food and drink, others arts and crafts. He counted ten. The police car had begun its departure, keeping the lights flashing and tossing out short bursts of its siren to clear a path through the crowd.
He fled the alley and sprinted into the melee, maneuvering his way toward one of the carts, this one hawking color prints of Valletta and Malta. It was wooden, its heft supported by four large, spoked wheels. He noticed that two bricks were wedged under a couple of those wheels, one front, the other back, to keep it in place. He kept a sharp eye out for any more police, but saw none in uniform. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t around.
Not to mention cameras.
Surely this hot spot was under constant video surveillance.
He told himself to hurry. Get it done. Indecision was what usually got you. He’d learned that early on from Malone. Be right. Be wrong. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t hesitate.
He crossed Republic and entered the piazza, hurrying toward its far end where the police car had stopped, the siren still bursting off and on. He came to the cart with the artwork, its owner talking with potential customers. Other folks admired the prints hanging from its display. He kicked one of the bricks aside, then swung around to the rear and grabbed the stout, wooden handles. The owner and the customers were momentarily caught off guard and he used that instant to shove the heavy bulk forward. He kept pushing, increasing speed and momentum, the wheels rattling across the old rutted cobbles, crashing the cart into the side of the police car, making sure he kept it nestled tight to the front passenger-side door.
The collision grabbed everyone’s attention.
He realized there’d be a moment of confusion inside the car, but the driver would emerge quickly.
And sure enough, he did, opening his door.
Luke leaped onto the hood and pivoted across, planting both feet in the guy’s face, driving the cop backward then down. He landed on the hood and dropped to his feet ready to deal with the driver, but the cop was out cold. He reached back and found his Beretta, aiming it inside the vehicle.
“Let’s go,” he said to Laura.
He opened the rear door from the outside, keeping his gun trained on the Vatican spymaster.
“You live up to your advance billing,” Spagna said. “I was told you were one of Stephanie’s tough young bucks.”
“I get the job done.”
“Only because I let you.”
Laura stood beside him.
He couldn’t resist. “What does that mean?”
“We don’t have time for you two to spar,” she said. “Come on.”
And she motioned to Spagna, who climbed across the front seat and out the driver’s side, minus the cigar.
That was a shocker.
“I assume you know what you’re doing,” Luke asked her.
“I always do.”
The three of them pushed through the gawkers and headed for another of the alleys. No other police were in sight. A low, muted rumble of thunder shook the evening air.
“Mr. Daniels, I saw you watching and assumed you’d make a move,” Spagna said, as they hustled. “Tell him, Laura.”
He glanced her way.
“Before they put me in the back of that car, Spagna told me to be ready to go. He said you’d come.”
“I was the one who alerted the Maltese to both of you,” Spagna said. “I used the attack on the water from earlier as the pretense. I wanted local resources to find you, but now we need to be alone.”
“That conversation I witnessed between the two of you didn’t look all that friendly,” he said.
“I tell my people,” Spagna said, “that sometimes an actor has to play, in a single room, what the script describes as forty rooms. He must make the audience believe all forty exist. To do that, he must change reality. That’s what a good spy does, too. Change reality. Ms. Price is a good spy.”
“Whose side are you on?” Luke asked Spagna.
“Always, my church. My job is to protect it.”
“And what about you?” he said to Laura.
He didn’t like being played. Not ever.
She stared him down. “The only side that matters. My own.”
They kept moving.
He tried to calm down and be the eyes and ears Stephanie needed on the ground. They were now sufficiently far from Republic Street that they could slow their pace. They stopped at the end of an alley, where it intersected with another busy thoroughfare littered with cars. The shops here were all closed for the night. Fewer people on the sidewalks, too.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Daniels,” Spagna said, offering a hand.
Play the part. Be the gentleman.
He offered his hand in return.
“You both should be honored. I don’t usually work the field.”
“Why are you now?” Luke asked.
Spagna extended his arms in a mock embrace. “Because everything is happening here, on this ancient island. And being at the center of the storm is always the best place to be.”
This guy had style, he’d give him that.
“By the way, Mr. Daniels, do you have a cell phone?”
He nodded and found the unit. Spagna took it from him and tossed it into the street, where an oncoming car crushed the case.
Malone’s voice rushed through his head.
Dumb-ass mistake, Frat Boy.
You think?
“We don’t need to be tracked. I know the Magellan Billet’s standard issue contains constant GPS.”
“Aren’t you a wealth of inside information,” Luke noted. “I bet you’d be hell playing Spy Jeopardy.”
“You can keep your Beretta,” Spagna said, pointing to his exposed shirttail. “Call it a show of my good faith.”
Comforting. But not enough to alleviate his suspicions.
“Tell him what you told me,” Laura said to Spagna.
“I know what Cardinal Gallo is after.”
“That’s all great. But I need to check in with Stephanie Nelle,” Luke pointed out. “She gives me my orders.”
More thunder growled in the distance, signaling storms were coming.
“You can contact her,” Spagna said. “Later. I’ll make sure that happens. Right now she has her hands full trying to save a former agent named Cotton Malone.”