Near Silanus, Sardinia
An hour later
There were three men in the rented Mercedes that had pulled off the ferry two hours ago. The face of one of the men in the rear seat was partially covered by a large eye patch. One cheek displayed scars that were angry red, as though recently inflicted. All four wore the loose blouse and baggy pants of the local farmers for whom they easily could have mistaken.
Sardinian farmers, however, would have been unlikely to drive such a car. It was equally doubtful locals would drive through the night to a simple farmhouse, one where a thorough search demonstrated that the normal occupants were still not in residence and had not been for several days.
The refrigerator had a sour smell about it, containing only an open canister of milk long gone rancid. The source of the house's electricity, wherever it was, had been turned off, and flashlight beams revealed that a light patina of dust had begun to collect on flat surfaces. There was nothing remarkable in the house. A few inexpensive oils hung on the walls and a huge sword over the fireplace-a sword, though effective in its time, that would be no match for the weapons these men carried.
One of the men turned to the one with the eye patch, speaking in Russian. "You are certain the Scotsman and the American will return?"
The man with one eye nodded. "And with the woman. We will wait."