He opened his eyes, aware of the sickening stench of cheap whisky, feeling the dampness about his chest and throat—his shirt, jacket and trousers had been drenched. In front of him were gradations of darkness, shadows of gray and black interrupted by tiny, dancing specks of light that bobbed and weaved in the farthest darkness. There was dull pain everywhere, centered in his stomach, rising through his neck to his head, which felt swollen and numb. He had been beaten severely and dragged to the end of the pier—the far right end, beyond the warehouse, if his blurred orientation was anywhere near accurate—and left to regain consciousness, or, conceivably, to roll over the edge to a watery death.
But he had not been killed; that told him something. Slowly he moved his right hand to his left wrist; his watch was there. He stretched his legs and reached into his pocket; his money, too, was intact. He had not been robbed; that told him something else.
He had spoken with too many men, and too many others had seen him in those strange conversations. They had been his protection. Murder was murder, and regardless of what Il Tritone’s owner had said, a “quiet knife” on the waterfront was a subject for investigation, as was assault and robbery when the victim was a wealthy foreigner. No one wanted too many questions asked on the piers; cool heads had ordered him left as he was, which meant they had been paid to implement other orders, higher orders. Otherwise something would have been stolen—a watch, a few thousand lire; this was the waterfront.
Nothing. An inquisitive, wealthy foreigner had gone berserk, attacking a blond whore on the pier, and men had protected her. No investigation was called for, as long as the ricco americano maledetto had his property intact, if not his senses.
A setup. A professionally executed snare, the trappers exonerated once the trap had sprung shut. The whole night, the morning, had been a setup! He rolled over to his left; the southeast ocean was a line of fire beyond the horizon. Dawn had come, and the Cristóvão was one of a dozen small silhouettes on the water, obscure shapes diffusedly defined by the blinking lights, signals to other silhouettes.
Slowly Havelock got to his knees, pressing them against the wet planks beneath him, pushing himself up painfully with his hands. Once on his feet he turned around, again slowly, testing his legs and ankles, moving his shoulders, arching his neck, then his back. There was nothing broken, but the machine was badly bruised; it would not respond to quick commands, and he hoped he would not have to issue any.
The guard. Had the ego-stroked civil servant been part of the act? Had he been told to confront the foreigner with hostility at first, then turn to obsequiousness, thus pulling the mark in for the trap? It was effective strategy; he should have seen through it. Neither of the other two guards had been difficult, each perfectly willing to tell him whatever he wanted to know, the man at the gate of the Teresa’s pier even going so far as to inform him of the freighter’s delayed schedule.
The owner of Il Tritone? The sailor from the Cristóvão in a narrow, dark alley? Were they, too, part of it? Had the coincidence of logical progression led him to those men on the waterfront who had been waiting for him? Yet, how could they have been waiting? Four hours ago Civitavecchia was a vaguely remembered name on a map; it had held no meaning for him. There had been no reason for him to come to Civitavecchia, no way for an unknown message to be telegraphed. Yet it had been; he had to accept that without knowing how or why. There was so much beyond his understanding, a maddening mosaic with too many pieces missing.
Anything you can’t understand in this business is a risk, but I don’t have to tell you that. Rostov. Athens.
A decoy—a blond, pockmarked whore—had been paraded through the predawn mist to pull him out and force him to act. But why? What had they expected him to do? He had made it plain what he intended to do. So what was learned, what clarified? What was the point? Was she trying to kill him? Was that what Costa Brava was all about?
Jenna, why are you doing this? What happened to you? To us?
He walked unsteadily, stopping to brace his legs as his balance went out of control. Reaching the edge of the warehouse, he propelled himself along the wall past darkened windows and the huge loading doors until he came to the corner of the building. Beyond was the deserted pier, the wash of intersecting floodlights swollen with pockets of rolling fog. He peered around the steel molding, squinting to focus on the glass cubicle that was the guard’s post. As before, the figure inside was barely visible, but he was there; Michael could see the stationary glow of a cigarette in the center of the middle pane.
The glow moved to the right; the guard had gotten off his stool and was sliding the door of the booth open. A second figure could be seen walking through the mist from the wide avenue fronting the row of piers. He was a medium-sized man in an overcoat, wearing a hat, the brim angled as a stroller’s might be on the Via Veneto. The clothes were not the clothes of the waterfront; they belonged in the city streets. The man approached the glass booth, stopped by the door, and spoke with the guard. Both then looked toward the end of the pier, at the warehouse; the guard gestured and Michael knew they were talking about him. The man nodded, turned and raised his hand; within seconds his summons was obeyed. Two other men came into view, both large, both wearing clothes more suited to the waterfront than those of the man who commanded them.
Havelock leaned bis head against the edge of steel, a deep, despairing sense of futility mingling with his pain. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. He was no match for such men; he could barely raise his arms, nor his feet. Since he had no other weapons, it meant he had no weapons at all.
Where was Jenna? Had she gone aboard the Cristóvão after the decoy had fulfilled its function? It was a logical—No, it wasn’t! The commotion would have centered too much attention on the freighter and would have roused unfriendly or unpaid officials too easily. The ship itself had been a decoy, the blond whore the lure. Jenna was boarding one of the other two!
Michael turned away bom the wall and hobbled across the wet planks toward the edge of the pier. He wiped his eyes, staring through the heavy mist. Involuntarily he gasped, the pain in his stomach was so acute. The Elba was gone! He had been pulled to the wrong pier, duped into an uncontrollable situation while Jenna went on board the Elba. Was the captain of the Elba, like the skipper of the Cristóvão, a master navigator? Would he—could he—maneuver his awkward ship close enough to an unpatrolled shoreline so that a small boat might ferry his contraband to a beach?
One man had the answer. A man in an overcoat and an angled hat, clothes worn on the waterfront by someone who did not haul and fork-lift but, instead, bought and sold. That man would know; he had negotiated Jenna’s passage.
Havelock lurched back to the corner of the warehouse wall. He had to reach that man; he had to get by two others coming for him. If only he had a weapon, any kind of weapon. He looked around in the faintly lessening darkness. Nothing. Not even a loose board or a slat from a broken crate.
The water. The drop was long, but he could manage it. If he could get to the far end of the pier before he was seen, it would be presumed he had plunged over while unconscious. How many seconds did he have? He inched his face to the edge and peered around the molding into the wash of the floodlights, prepared to push himself away and run.
He did not run. The two men were no longer walking toward him. They had stopped, both standing motionless inside the fenced gate. Why? Why was he being left where he was without further interference?
Suddenly, from out of the impenetrable mist several piers away came an ear-shattering screech of a ship’s klaxon. Then another, followed by a prolonged bass chord that vibrated throughout the harbor. It was the Santa Teresa! It was his answer! The two men had been summoned not to punish him further, but to restrict him to the first pier. There was no delayed schedule for the Teresa; that, too, was part of the setup. She was sailing on time, and Jenna was on board. As the ship’s clock ran down, there was only one thing left for the negotiator to do: keep the disabled hunter in place.
Fiercely he told himself he had to get to that pier, stop her, stop the freighter from casting off, for once the giant lines were slipped off the pilings there was nothing he could do, no way to reach her. She would disappear into one of a dozen countries, a hundred cities—nothing left, not for him, not any longer. Without her he didn’t want to go on!
He wished he knew what the blaring signals meant, how much time he had. He could only estimate. There had been two blasts from the Cristóvão; moments later the blond decoy had emerged from the shadows of the warehouse door. Seven minutes. Yet there had been no bass chord following the high-pitched whistles. Did its absence signify less time or more? He probed his memory, racing over scores of assignments that had taken him to waterfronts everywhere.
He remembered; more accurately, he thought he remembered as a blurred recent memory struggled to surface. The high-pitched shrieks were for ships in the distance, the vibrating lower tones for those nearer by—a rule of thumb for the sea, and the docks. And while he was being beaten, the outer vibrations of a low, grinding chord had fused with his own screams of protest and fury. The bass-toned whistle had followed shortly after the shrieks—prelude to imminent departure. Seven minutes—less one, more likely two, perhaps three.
He had only minutes. Six, five—four, no more than that. The Teresa’s pier was several hundred yards away; in his condition it would take at least two minutes to get there, and that would happen only if he could get past the two jacketed men who had been called to stop him. Four minutes at the outside, two minimum. Jesus! How? He looked around again, trying to control his panic, aware that every second reduced his chances.
A stocky black object was silhouetted between two pilings ten yards away; he had not noticed it before because it was a stationary part of the dock. He studied it now. It was a barrel, an ordinary barrel, undoubtedly punctured during loading or unloading procedures, and now used as a receptacle for coffee cups, trash, predawn fires; they were on piers everywhere. He ran to it, gripped it, rocked it. It swung free; he lowered it to its side and rolled it back toward the wall. Time elapsed: thirty, perhaps forty seconds. Time remaining: between one and a half and three-plus minutes. The tactic that came into focus was a desperate one, but it was the only one that was possible. He could not get past those men unless they came to him, unless the fog and the translucent, brightening darkness worked for him and against them. There was no time to think about the guard and the man in the overcoat.
He crouched in the shadows, against the wall, both hands on the sides of the filthy barrel. He took a deep breath and screamed as loud as he could, knowing the scream would echo throughout the deserted pier.
“Aiuto! Presto! Sanguino! Muoio!”
He stopped, listening. In the distance he heard the shouts; they were questions, then commands. He screamed again: “Aiuto!”
Silence.
Then racing footsteps. Nearer … drawing nearer.
Now! He shoved the barrel with all the strength he could muster. It clanked as it rolled laterally over the planks, through the fog, toward the edge of the pier.
The two men rounded the corner of the warehouse in the misty light; the barrel reached the edge of the dock. It struck one of the pilings. Oh, Christ! Then it spun and plunged over. The sound of the splash below was loud; the two men shouted at each other and raced to the edge.
Now!
Havelock rose to his feet and ran out of the shadows, his hands extended, shoulders and arms battering rams. He forced his unsteady legs to respond, each racing step painful but calculated, sure. He made contact. First the man on the right, pummeling him with both outstretched hands; then the Italian on his left, crashing his shoulder into the small of the man’s back.
A deafening blast from the Teresa’s funnels covered the screams of the two men as they plummeted into the water below. Michael swung to his left and hobbled back toward the comer of the warehouse; he would go out onto the deserted pier and face the once obsequious guard and the elegantly dressed man. Time elapsed: another minute. Less than three remained at most.
He ran unsteadily out onto the vast expanse of the pier with its fog-laden pools of floodlights and immobile machinery. Pitching his voice at the edge of hysteria, he shouted in broken Italian: “Help me! Help them! It’s crazy! I’m hurt. Two men came to help me. As they drew near there were gunshots! Three gunshots! From the next pier. I could hardly hear them because of the freighter, but I did hear them! Gunshots! Quickly! They’re wounded. One dead, I think! Oh, Christ, hurry!”
The exchange between the two men was verbal chaos. As Havelock staggered erratically toward the gate he could see that the guard’s automatic was drawn, but it was not the same guard; he was shorter, stockier, older. The guard’s broad face was full of resentment, in contrast to that of the civilian—in his mid-thirties, tanned, suave—which was cold and without expression. The man in the overcoat was ordering the guard to investigate; the guard was shouting that he would not leave his post, not for 20,000 lire! The capo regime could look into his own garbage: he was no frightened bambino of the docks. The capo could buy a few hours of his time, his disappearance, but not more!
A setup. From the beginning, a charade,
“Andate voi stessi!” yelled the guard.
Swearing, the civilian started toward the warehouse and broke into a run, the abruptly slowing his pace he cautiously approached the corner of the building.
The guard was now in front of the glass booth, his gun leveled at Michael. “You! Walk to the fence,” he shouted in Italian. “Raise your hands above you and grab the wire as high as you can! Do not turn around! I’ll fire into your head if you do!”
Barely two minutes left; if it was going to work, it would happen now.
“Oh, Jesus!” Havelock screamed as he gripped his chest and fell.
The guard rushed forward; Michael remained motionless in a fetal position, dead weight on the damp, hard surface. “Get up!” commanded the uniformed man. “Get to your feet!”
The guard reached down and grabbed Havelock’s shoulder. It was the movement Michael had been waiting for. He spun off the ground, clasping the weapon above his head, and gripped the wrist at his shoulder, wrenching it clockwise as he rose and hammering his knee into the falling guard’s throat. The gun barrel was in his hand; he swung it down, crashing it into the base of the Italian’s skull. The man collapsed. Havelock dragged him into the shadows of the booth, then raced out of the open gate, jamming the weapon into his jacket pocket.
A prolonged, belching sound came from the distance, followed by four hysterically pitched screeches. The Teresa was about to slip away from its berth! Michael felt a sickening sense of futility sweeping over him as he ran breathlessly down the wide avenue, his legs barely able to carry him, his feet swerving, slapping the pavement. When he reached the Teresa’s pier, the guard—the same guard—was inside his glass booth, once again on the telephone, nodding his outsized head, his dull eyes accepting other lies.
There was now a chain stretched across the open gate—only an official hindrance, not a prohibition. Havelock grabbed the hook and yanked it out of its cemented base; the chain curled snakelike into the air and clattered to the ground.
“Che cosa? Fermati!”
Michael raced—his legs in agony—down the long stretch of the pier, through the circular pools of floodlights, past immobile machinery, toward the freighter outlined in the swirling mists at the end of the dock. His right leg collapsed; his hands broke the fall but not the impact, his right shoulder sliding across the moist surface. He grabbed his leg, forcing himself up, and propelled himself along the planks until he could work up the momentum to run again.
Gasping for air as he ran, he finally reached the end of the pier.
The futility was complete: the freighter Santa Teresa was floating thirty feet beyond the pilings; the giant hawsers slithered over the dark waters as they were hauled in by men who looked down at him through the shadows.
“Jenna!” he screamed. “Jenna! Jenna!”
He fell to the wet wood of the pier, arms and legs throbbing, chest in spasms, his head splitting as if cracked open with an ax. He … had … lost her.… A small boat could drop her off at any of a thousand unpatrolled stretches of coastline in the Mediterranean; she was gone. The only person on earth he cared about was gone forever. Nothing was his, and he was nothing.
He heard the shouts behind him, then the hammering of racing feet. And as he heard the sounds he was reminded of other sounds, other feet … another pier. From where the Cristóvão had sailed!
There was a man in an overcoat who had ordered other men to come after him; they, too, had run across a deserted pier through shimmering pools of floodlights and the mist. If he could find that man! If he found him he would peel the suntanned flesh from the face until he was told what he had to know.
He got to his feet and began limping rapidly toward the guard who was running at him, weapon extended.
“Fermati! Alza le mani!”
“Un errore!” Havelock shouted back, his voice both aggressive and apologetic; he had to get by the man, not be detained. He took several bills from his pocket, holding them in front of him so they could be seen in the spill of the floodlights. “What can I tell you?” he continued in Italian. “I made a mistake—which benefits you, doesn’t it? You and I, we spoke before, remember?” He pressed the money into the guard’s hand while slapping him on the back. “Come on, put that thing away. I’m your friend, remember? What harm is there? Except I’m a little poorer and you’re a little richer. Also, I’ve had too much wine.”
“I thought it was you!” said the guard grudgingly, taking the bills and ramming them into his pocket, his eyes darting about. “You’re crazy in the head! You could have been shot. For what?”
“You told me the Teresa wasn’t sailing for hours.”
“It’s what I was told! They’re bastards, all bastards! They’re crazy too! They don’t know what they’re doing.”
“They know exactly what they’re doing,” said Michael quietly. “I’ve got to get along now. Thanks for your help.” Before the angry guard could answer, Havelock started forward rapidly, wincing in pain as he tried to control his throbbing legs and aching chest. For God’s sake, hurry!
He reached the stretch of fence that enclosed the Cristóvão’s pier, his hand now in his pocket, grateful for the weapon. The unconscious guard was still on the ground in the lower shadows of the glass booth. He had neither moved nor been moved in the five minutes, perhaps six, that he had lain there. Was the man in the overcoat still on the pier? The odds favored it; logic dictated that he would have looked for the guard because he did not see him in the booth and, when he found him, would have questioned the fallen man. In doing so, some part of the unconscious body would have been moved; it had not been.
But why would the capo regime remain on the pier for so long? The answer came from the sea through the fog and the wind. Shouts, questions, followed by commands and further questions. The man in the overcoat was still on the pier, his gorillas screaming from the waters below.
Michael clenched his teeth, forcing the pain from his mind. He slid along the side wall of the warehouse, past the door from which the blond decoy had emerged, to the corner of the building. The morning light was growing brighter, the mists rising, the absence of the freighter permitting the early rays of the sun to spread over the dock. In the distance, on the water, another ship was steaming slowly toward the harbor of Civitavecchia; it might well be heading for the berth recently vacated by the Cristóvão. If so, there was very little time remaining before the shape-up crews arrived. He had to move swiftly, act effectively, and he was not at all sure he was capable of doing either.
A stretch of unpatrolled coastline. Did the man only yards away from him now know which? He must find out. He had to be capable.
He rounded the corner, holding the weapon against the cloth of his jacket. He could not use it, he understood that; it would serve no purpose because it would only eliminate his source and draw attention to the pier. But the threat had to be conveyed as genuine; his anger had to seem desperate. He was capable of that.
He stared through the rising mist. The man in the overcoat was at the edge of the dock, excitedly barking instructions in a low voice; he, too, was obviously afraid of drawing attention from stray crewmen who might be loitering on the adjacent pier. The effect was comic. From what Michael could gather, one of the men below was hanging on to a piling strut, reluctant to let go because he apparently couldn’t swim. The negotiator was ordering the second man to support his companion and the man was apparently refusing, concerned that he might be pulled under by his incompetent associate.
“Don’t talk anymore!” Havelock said sharply in Italian, the words clear if not precise, his voice commanding though not loud.
The startled man spun around, his right hand reaching under his overcoat.
“If I see a gun,” continued Michael, moving closer, “you’ll be dead and in the water before you can raise it. Move away from there. Walk toward me. Now to your left. Over to the wall. Move! Don’t stop!”
The man lurched forward. “I could have had you killed, signore. I did not Surely, that is worth something to you.”
“It is—obviously. I thank you.”
“Nor was anything on your person taken, I assume you are aware of that. My orders were clear.”
“I’m aware. Now tell me why. On both counts.”
“I am neither a killer nor a thief, signore.”
“Not good enough. Raise your hands! Lean against the wall and spread your legs!” The Italian complied; it was not the first time such orders had been given him. Havelock came up behind him, kicking the man’s right calf as he whipped his hand around the capo regime’s waist, pulling the gun from the Italian’s belt. He glanced at it, impressed. The weapon was a Spanish automatic, a Llama .38 caliber, with grip and manual safeties. A quality gun, undoubtedly less expensive on the waterfront. He shoved it into his own belt “Tell me about the girl. Quickly!”
“I was paid. What more can I tell you?”
“A great deal.” Michael reached up and grabbed the man’s left hand; it was soft. The negotiator was not a violent man, the term capo regime, which the guard had used, was misapplied. This Italian was no part of the Mafia; a mafioso at his age would have come up through violent ranks and would not have soft hands.
A sudden cacophony of ship’s whistles erupted from the harbor. They were joined by panicked shouts from the lone man in the slapping waters below the pier. Taking advantage of the sounds, Michael rammed the pistol into the negotiator’s kidney. The man screamed. Then Havelock crashed the handle into the side of the Italian’s neck and there was another scream, which was followed by a series of whimpering pleas. “Signore … signore! You are American; we speak American! Do not do this to me! I saved your life-my word on it!”
“We’ll get to that. The girl! Tell me about the girl! Quickly!”
“I do favors around the docks. Everyone knows that! She needed a favor. She paid!”
“To get out of Italy?”
“What else?”
“She paid for a lot more than that! How many did you pay? For the setup.”
“Che cosa vuol dire? Set … up?”
“That show you put on! The pig who walked out of that door over there!” Havelock gripped the Italian by the shoulder and spun him around, slamming him back into the wall. “Right around that corner,” he added, gesturing. “What was that all about? Tell me! She paid for that, too. Why?”
“As you say, signore. She paid. Spiegazioni … explanations … were not required.”
Michael jammed the barrel of the pistol deep into the man’s stomach. “Not good enough. Tell me!”
“She said she had to know,” the negotiator spat out, doubling over.
“Know what?” Havelock slapped the man’s hat off and, grabbing him by the hair, crashed his head into the wall. “Know what?”
“What you would do!”
“How did she know I’d follow her here?”
“She did not!”
“Then why?”.
“She said you might do so! You were … ingegnoso … a resourceful man. You’ve hunted other men; you have means at your disposal. Contacts, sources.”
“That’s too loose! How?” Michael bunched the Italian’s hair in his fist, pulling it half out of its roots.
“Signore … she said she spoke to three drivers on the piattaforma before she found a taxi to take her to Civitavecchia! She was afraid!”
It made sense. It had not occurred to him to look for a taxi ramp at the Ostia; taxis were not in oversupply in Rome. In truth, he had simply not been thinking; he had been bent only on moving.
“Per favore! Aiuto! Mio Dio!” The screams came from the water below.
The ships in the harbor were beginning to fill the air with whistles and vapor. There was so little time left; soon the crews would come, men and machinery crawling all over the pier. He had to learn exactly what the negotiator had sold; he gripped the man’s throat with his left hand.
“She’s on the Teresa, isn’t she?”
“Sì!”
Havelock recalled the words of Il Tritone’s owner: the Teresa sailed to Marseilles. “How is she to be taken off the ship?”
The Italian did not answer; Michael plunged his fingers deeper into the man’s throat, choking him. He went on: “Understand me, and understand me well. If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you now. And if you lie, and she gets past me in Marseilles, I’ll come back for you. She was right, I’m resourceful and I’ve hunted a great many men. I’ll find you.”
The negotiator went into a spasm, his mouth gaping as he tried to speak. Havelock reduced the pressure on the man’s neck. The Italian coughed violently, grabbing his throat, and said, “What’s it to me, anyway, so I’ll tell you. I don’t want afflizione with the likes of you, signore! I should have known better. I should have listened better!”
“Go on.”
“Not Marseilles. San Remo. The Teresa stops at San Remo. How or where she is to be brought ashore, I do not know—my word on it! She buys her way to Paris. She’s to be taken across the border at Col des Moulinets. When, I do not know—my word! From there to Paris. I swear on the blood of Christ!”
The negotiator did not have to swear he was telling the truth; his terrified eyes proved it. He was being honest out of fear, extraordinary fear. What had Jenna told him? Why hadn’t the man ordered him killed? Also, why had nothing been stolen? Michael released his grip on the Italian’s neck.
He spoke quietly. “You said you could have had me killed, but you didn’t. Now tell me why.”
“No, signore, I will not say it,” whispered the man. “In the name of God, you’ll never see me again! I say nothing, know nothing!”
Havelock raised the pistol slowly, resting the point of the barrel on the man’s left eye. “Say it,” he said.
“Signore, I have a small, profitable business here, but I have never once—never—involved myself with political activities! Or anything remotely connected to such things. I swear on the tears of the Madonna! I thought she was lying, appealing to me with lies! I never once believed her!”
“But I wasn’t killed, nothing on my person taken, I think you said.” Michael paused, then shouted as he jammed the barrel into the Italian’s eye. “Why?”
The man screamed, spitting out the words. “She said you were an American working with the comunisti! With the Soviets. I did not believe her! I know nothing of such things! But caution would naturally call for—caution. In Civitavecchia we are outside of such wars. They are too … internazionali for people like us who make our few unimportant lire on the docks. These things mean nothing to us—my word on it! We wish no trouble from you, any of you! … Signore, you can understand. You attacked a woman—a puttana, to be certain, but a woman—on the pier. Men stopped you, pulled you away, but when I saw, I stopped them! I told them we should be cautious. We had to think …”
The frightened man continued to babble, but Havelock was not listening. What he had heard stunned him beyond anything he imagined he might hear. An American working with the Soviets. Jenna had said this? It was insane!
Had she tried to appeal to the man with a lie, only to instill a very real fear in the small-time operator after the fact, after the trap? The Italian had not equivocated; he had repeated her story out of fear. He had not lied.
Did she believe it? Was that what he had seen in her eyes on the platform at the Ostia station? Did she really believe it—just as he had believed beyond any doubt in his mind that she was a deep-cover officer for the Voennaya?
Oh, Christ! Each turned against the other with the same maneuver! Had the evidence against him been as airtight as the evidence against her? It had to have been; that was also in her eyes. Fear, hurt … pain. There was no one she could trust, not now, not for a while, perhaps not ever. She could only run—as he had kept running. God! What had they done?
Why?
She was on her way to Paris. He would find her in Paris. Or fly to San Remo or Col des Moulinets and intercept her at one or the other. He had the advantage of fast transport; she was on an old freighter plodding across the water and he would be flying. He had time.
He would use that time. There was an intelligence officer at the embassy in Rome who was about to know the depth of his anger. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown was going to supply answers or all the exposés of Washington’s clandestine activities would be seen as mere footnotes compared with what he would reveal: the incompetences, the illegalities, the miscalculations and errors costing the lives of thousands the world over every year.
He would start with a blade diplomat in Rome who funneled secret orders to American agents throughout Italy and the western Mediterranean.
“Capisce? You do understand, signore?” The Italian was pleading, buying time, his eyes glancing furtively to the right. Across on the second pier three men were walking through the early light toward the far pilings; two blasts of a ship’s whistle told why. The freighter steaming into port was to be tied up at the Elba’s berth. In moments additional crews would arrive. “We are cautious … naturalmente, but we know nothing of such things! We are men of the docks, nothing more.”
“I understand,” said Michael, touching the man’s shoulder and turning him around. “Walk to the edge,” he ordered quietly.
“Signore, please! I beg you!”
“Just do as I say. Now.”
“I swear on the patron saint of mercy Himself! On the blood of Christ, on the tears of the Holy Mother!” The Italian was weeping, his voice rising. “I am an insignificant merchant, signore! I know nothing! Say nothing!”
As they reached the edge of the pier, Havelock said, “Jump,” and pushed the negotiator over the side.
“Mio Dio! Aiuto!” screamed the henchman below as his employer joined him in the water.
Michael tamed and hobbled back to the corner of the warehouse wall. The dock was still deserted, but the guard was beginning to move, shaking his head, trying to pull himself up in the shadows of the booth. Havelock slapped open the cylinder of the pistol and shook the bullets out of their tracks; they clattered onto the dock. He hurried toward the gate, and when he reached the door of the glass booth, he threw the weapon inside. He ran as fast as he was capable of running through the gate, toward the rented car.
Rome. There would be answers in Rome.