Rome
Ponte San Angelo
A few minutes later
As Lang started over the sluggish green Tiber, the Vatican was on his right, its dome a dark silhouette against a fiery setting sun. Closed to vehicular traffic, the bridge was a prime location for African street vendors of everything from knockoff designer purses to primitive carvings with enormous breasts or penises. Behind him, the massive Castel Sant' Angelo contemplated centuries past in which its circular wall had enclosed the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian, papal refuge, fortress, palace, and prison. The center of the bridge was an ideal place for tourists to have their pictures made with a choice of impressive backgrounds.
A group of Japanese were taking turns immortalizing themselves on film in front of monuments to a history as foreign to them as No or Kabuki theater was to westerners. It was when they parted like a human Red Sea to let Lang pass that he saw the man.
On one level, Lang had been examining and discarding methods of getting into the necropolis unobserved. On another, years of training made him alert to his surroundings, so much so that his jaw was beginning to ache from the smiles he had felt compelled to return from Italians obligated to at least nod to a priest. When the Japanese tourists had stood aside, he became suddenly aware of two things: Approaching directly in his path was a young man with studs in his lips, eyebrows, nostrils, and ears, more apertures than your average clarinet. He not only wore a denim jacket, superfluous in the warmth of the day, but both hands were in the pockets instead of swinging freely as a normal stroller would do.
Second, the afternoon sun cast shadows from the right rear, and one of them was closing quickly.
Lang recognized the maneuver: Two or more operatives approach the subject from opposite directions in a confined space where lateral movement is impractical or impossible. If adept enough at his trade, either or both would swipe a deadly blade almost quicker than the casual observer would notice. There would be no attention getting shots. If done properly, the victim would be dead or mortally wounded before he could cry out. Nothing would seem out of the ordinary until the prey collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
Real danger or only perception?
Lang didn't have a lot of time to decide.
Stud Face was less than two steps away, his hands sliding out of his pockets. Lang caught the briefest reflection of light on metal. He would have to be handled before his confederate behind Lang could help.
The knife, metal, whatever it was, was in the youth's right hand. Lang feinted to the potential attacker's left. If the guy meant Lang harm, he would have to commit himself by moving to block his intended quarry.
He would also be off balance for a right-handed attack. The assassin countered Lang's move, a stiletto not entirely concealed by his hand.
Lang dodged back to his own left, at the same time taking a step forward. Stud Face followed, the blade coming up for a mortal slice.
Lang took another step, this one toward his assailant and slamming a foot on the other man's most distant shoe, firmly anchoring him to the spot. At the same time, Lang fastened both his hands on the other's right wrist, pulling down hard and accelerating the move the knife-wielding attacker had initiated. Inertia brought the free foot against Lang's leg, causing the man to stumble forward as Lang snatched down hard on the wrist.
Lang was the beneficiary of unforeseen circumstance. He had planned on the man smashing into the low wall that lined each side of the bridge. Instead, his momentum threw him into the wall waist high. His body jackknifed and flipped over.
There was a scream and a loud splash.
The herd of Japanese, cameras momentarily forgotten, rushed to the edge to look down. Lang turned, but the man behind was indistinguishable from anyone else on the bridge, all now surging to look down into the Tiber.
No one seemed to have noticed that the man thrashing in the water had been thrown there by a priest.
Before they did, Lang departed as hastily as possible without drawing attention. Many Japanese were taking pictures of the man thrashing in the water below.
It was dark by the time he crossed the Piazza Navona, Spotlights shone through the fountains with wavering light that made Bernini's sculptures seem to move. The oval was full of the laughter of those dining at tables outside dozens of trattoria. He toyed with the idea of stopping for dinner. A couple of the establishments had been recommended by Food and Wine magazine. He decided against it. There was still at least one person out there he had not dealt with, a person who, presumably, wanted to stick a knife into him as much as Stud Face had. Better to dine at his hotel. The food wasn't the greatest, but he wasn't going to get stabbed between the antipasto and the platte primo, either.
The editors of Food and Wine magazine probably never had to make that sort of choice.
He walked north on the Via Guistiniani, still making a mental to-do list when a cat arched its back in a doorway. Rome has at least as many felines as people. The animals are all sleek and fat because neighborhoods feed them without regard to ownership, if indeed anyone truly owns a cat. Dogs are welcome in tavernare, trattoria, and cafe alike, but if the city had an animal as its true symbol, it would be a cat.
Lang stopped to watch it, a tabby that must have weighed twenty pounds, lazily stretch before setting out on a night's prowl.
Then it registered in Lang's mind, something missing. Sound. Something he had heard a moment ago was absent. Footsteps. There had been the sound of footsteps on the pavement behind him. Hardly sinister on a warm Roman evening.
But the footsteps had stopped just as he had.
Paranoia, a survival tool for anyone in Lang's former line of work, took over. After all, has anyone ever been killed by caution?
He walked purposefully, stopping suddenly in the middle of the block while he pretended to examine a doorway. One, two steps from behind. Then no sound.. He was being stalked. The back of his neck tingled, as it did every time he anticipated action..
When he had the time to anticipate.
He turned, more a man getting different lighting on the doorway's carvings than an alerted target looking behind. He swallowed hard when he saw no one, his first impression confirmed. A person out for a late-evening stroll would hardly hide in the nest of shadows that darkened windows spawned between blocks. Neither would someone who had any idea how to follow someone. Ducking out of sight would be more likely to alert a subject than being seen, something a professional wouldn't do.
The clumsiness of the effort suggested an amateur, a mugger. What were the chances of an attempted robbery less than an hour after an attempted murder?
Lang's mind went into automatic drive, the lessons of years of experience, a computer pouring forth a printout. Whoever was trailing him would likely act before reaching the Corso del Rinascimento, a couple of blocks ahead. That comparatively wide boulevard would be well lit by streetlights and evening traffic heading to fashionable restaurants.
He could simply throw his wallet onto the street and run for it. The contents would more than sate the appetite of whoever was following. Lang could make it to the lights ahead before his potential assailant checked the extent of his windfall. He could, but he knew he wasn't going to. Lang would be damned if he would knuckle under to a simple street criminal, particularly in Europe, where the odds were small the robber would be carrying a gun. He had seen all the action he wanted for the day, but surrender was too distasteful to contemplate.
Apparently satisfied with his inspection of the doorway, Lang walked leisurely ahead. Attuned to what he was listening for, he could hear steps matching his own. With a slow step, Lang turned a corner into an unnamed, unlit alley and flattened himself against stones still warm from the day's heat. Almost instantly, a form was limned against the alley's entrance. It held something bulky, something that reflected the light behind.
Lang wasn't going to get a better chance. He pushed off from the wall. With all the force he could put behind it, he swung a fist.
"Signor!"
Lang stumbled as he pulled the blow up short. Even in the miserable light he could see the shawl-covered head, the shabby ankle-length skirt. He was facing a female, her eyes wide with terror. A Zingara, an old Gypsy woman, a bag full of bottles in her hand.
Its proximity to Eastern Europe makes Italy a prime destination for those perpetual tourists, the Gypsies. They seem to live by begging, rummaging through trash cans, and, many say, stealing. Apparently, the lure of collecting bottles for resale was enough for her to ignore whatever custom usually kept the women off the streets after dark.
Lang leaned against the wall for support. He was trembling with the thought of what had nearly happened. She had a justifiable fear someone would chase her away, a common practice among those Romans who see Gypsies as professional thieves. Of course, the old woman had used the shadows to remain invisible. She recovered from shock before Lang did. She reached for his hand, mumbling the incantation preparatory to reading his palm, another Gypsy avocation.
He backed away. "Non no soldi spielioli, I have no coins," he said, using one of the Italian phrases he knew, before hurrying down the street.
He heard her wailing behind him, no doubt casting a curse on him, his family, and his genitals. Another Gypsy specialty.
He stopped when he reached the Spanish Steps, well within view of his hotel. Only then did he realize he was trembling. Had he landed the punch he had intended, the old woman's jaw would likely have been broken. Or her head snapped so viciously as to break a neck brittle with age.
The picture of the terror on the old woman's face made his stomach heave. This wasn't the lawyer Dawn had married. Not even the retired agent Gurt knew, although he suspected a little bit of violence would not have disturbed her. What had he become? Since responding to Don Huff's daughter, he had been exposed to more savagery than during all the time he had spent at an agency where murder and mayhem were often tools of the trade.
You asked for it, a voice within himself noted. No one made you go trotting off to Spain. Now you are no closer to Don Huff's killer than you were, and Gurt's dead because you weren't content to practice law and manage the foundation you set up. Why not go home before you succeed in getting yourself killed, too?
He began to climb the steps, unaware he was speaking aloud. "Quit? Maybe. But not until I find who killed Gurt."
By the time he reached the top, he realized he was no longer hungry.