It was just before noon when Harvath and Alcott, dressed in the new clothes they had purchased before leaving Milan, drove into the lakeside town of Como and abandoned Khalild Alomari’s black BMW on a quiet side street. From here on out, Ozan Kalachka would be handling their transportation.
Harvath had been to Como only once before. He and Meg had stayed at the famous Villa d’Este for an entire week. It had been one of the most extravagant vacations he had ever taken. As he and Jillian now killed time strolling the lakeshore, admiring the lavish villas and lush bougainvillea, he couldn’t help but remember the time he had spent there with Meg.
Shortly before their appointed rendezvous with Kalachka’s man, Harvath entered the tiny café overlooking the water and conducted a quick security sweep. He didn’t like to walk into any place he didn’t know how to walk out of. Once he was convinced everything was okay, he signaled Jillian and she came inside and joined him at a table. Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged Italian with a pencil-thin mustache and a copy of the International Herald Tribune tucked under his right arm entered the café and looked around.
Kalachka’s description of Harvath must have been very good, as the Italian zeroed right in on him. So much for Harvath’s copy of the International Herald Tribune which he had folded open at the sports section and left in a predetermined corner of the table. Judging from the man’s white linen blazer and pastel-colored silk trousers, subtlety was not one of his strong suits. At least the man stuck to the script Harvath had established with Kalachka when he approached their table and said in slightly accented English, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but didn’t we meet last summer in Tremezzo? You and your wife were staying at the Grand Hotel, no?”
“Actually, we were at the San Giorgio.”
“Ah sì, it was the San Giorgio,” said the man as he motioned to one of the empty chairs and Harvath invited him to sit down. Once the waiter had taken his order and disappeared, the Italian introduced himself. “My name is Marco, “He said as he extended his hand and shook both Harvath’s and Aloctt’s. “I am at your disposal.”
Harvath got right to the point. “Our mutual friend explained what we need?”
“Of course, and it’s no problem,” replied Marco, waving his hand dismissively.
The man was a little too relaxed for Harvath’s taste. Leaning across the table and fixing him with his eyes, he said, “This is serious. I expect it to go off without a hitch. No problems at all. Do you understand?’
“Sì, sì. This is why I said no problem. Getting out of Italy is much easier than getting in. If your trip was reversed, then I would be concerned.”
Somehow, Harvath had trouble believing that. “Why is that?”
“Because you are crossing over into the Swiss province of Ticino, and Ticino has legalized marijuana. It’s the new Amsterdam. Many Americans haven’t heard of it, but it is well known by the Italians. Not only is cannabis legal in Ticino, but it is also much higher quality than what can be found throughout this country. Call it reefer madness, but everyone who smokes wants their marijuana from Ticino. The Italian border guards have their hands full trying to search as many cars and motor scooters as possible coming back into Italy via our local border crossing with Switzerland.”
“What about Swiss border guards and going in?”
Again, the Italian waved his hand in the air. “We never see them, except at the crossing itself. There’s about fifteen kilometers of chain-link fence defining the border between Italy and Switzerland with holes cut through it all along. I could drop you at the edge of the forest and you would actually be able to find arrows spray-painted on the trees to lead you in the right direction.”
“So the drug trade in this part of Europe must be very lucrative then.”
“It is what I hear, but I’m not in the drug business. I am an importer of strictly legal goods.”
“Really?” said Harvath, skeptical. “Such as?”
“Gold, furs, jewelry, watches, cigarettes-you name it,” said Marco. “As long as the taxes on these items are lower in Switzerland, there will be importers, like me, bringing them into Italy.”
The man was a criminal, there was no doubt, but Harvath had to admire his entrepreneurial spirit. “How do you plan on getting us across? Through the fence?”
Stirring his Campari and soda, the Italian reflected for a moment and then said, “We are flying you over the border in a kite, my friend.”
Ten minutes later, as Harvath paid the check and he and Jillian followed the man out of the café, Harvath wondered what the hell they were getting themselves into.