The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, “Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m.”
“Thanks,” Robert said hurriedly.
He was out of the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Steps. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it. “Via Monte Grappa.”
He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They’re not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He’s dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.
Robert said to the taxi driver, “Roma Termini.” They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.
The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, “Stazione Termini, signore.”
“Let’s just wait here a minute.” Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and departing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking zone. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked directly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Robert said to the driver. “Via Veneto 110/A.” It was the last place anyone would look for him.
The American Embassy and consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it. The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty-four-hour basis, to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.
The marine looked up as Robert approached. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Robert said. “I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost mine.”
“Are you an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
The marine indicated an office at the far end. “They’ll take care of you in there, sir. Last door.”
“Thank you.”
There were half a dozen people in the room applying for passports, reporting lost passports, and getting renewals and visas.
“Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives there …”
“I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane to catch …”
“I don’t know what happened to it. I must have left it in Milan …”
“They grabbed my passport right out of my purse …”
Robert stood there, listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage industry in Italy. Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head of the line was a well-dressed, middle-aged man being handed an American passport.
“Here is your new passport, Mr Cowan. I’m sorry you had such a bad experience. I’m afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in Rome.”
“I’ll sure see to it that they don’t get hold of this one,” Cowan said.
“You do that, sir.”
Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket and turn to leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed by, Robert lunged into Cowan, as though he had been pushed, almost knocking him down.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Robert apologized. He leaned over and straightened the man’s jacket for him.
“No problem,” Cowan said.
Robert turned and walked into the public men’s room down the hall, the stranger’s passport in his pocket. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the razor blade and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very carefully, he slit the top of the plastic and removed Cowan’s photograph. Next, he inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He glued the top of the plastic slot closed, and examined his handiwork. Perfect. He was now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the Via Veneto, getting into a taxi. “Leonardo da Vinci.”
It was twelve thirty when Robert arrived at the airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual. On the surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police cars, no suspicious-looking men. Robert entered the terminal, and stopped just inside the door. There were various airline counters scattered around the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering or hiding behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not explain it, even to himself, but somehow, everything seemed too normal.
Across the room was an Air France counter. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m. Robert walked past the counter and approached a woman in uniform behind the Alitalia counter. “Good evening.”
“Good evening. Can I help you, signore?”
“Yes,” Robert said. “Would you please page Commander Robert Bellamy to come to the courtesy telephone?”
“Certainly,” she said. She picked up a microphone.
A few feet away, a fat middle-aged woman was checking a number of suitcases, heatedly arguing with an airline attendant about overweight fees. “In America, they never charged me for overweight.”
“I’m sorry, madam. But if you wish all these bags to go on, you must pay for excess baggage.”
Robert moved closer. He heard the attendant’s voice over the loudspeaker. “Will Commander Robert Bellamy please come to the white courtesy telephone. Commander Robert Bellamy, please come to the white courtesy telephone.” The announcement echoed throughout the airport.
A man holding a carry-on bag was walking past Robert. “Excuse me …” Robert said.
The man turned. “Yes?”
“I hear my wife paging me but …” he indicated the woman’s bags, “I can’t leave my luggage.” He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the man. “Would you please go over to that white telephone and tell her I’ll pick her up at our hotel in an hour? I’d really appreciate it.”
The man looked at the ten-dollar bill in his hand. “Sure.”
Robert watched him walk over to the courtesy telephone and pick it up. He held the receiver to his ear and said, “Hello … hello …?”
The next moment, four large men in black suits appeared from nowhere and closed in, pinning the hapless man to the wall.
“Hey! What is this?”
“Let’s do this quietly,” one of the men said.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off me!”
“Don’t make a fuss, Commander. There’s no point …”
“Commander? You’ve got the wrong man! My name is Melvyn Davis. I’m from Omaha!”
“Let’s not play games.”