Chapter 35
LAURA OFFERED, somewhat grudgingly, to drive Marco back to his new apartment in the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore. She was obviously still in a bad mood as she braked violently outside the large front door. Her driving was as volatile as her temper.
As she hauled up the handbrake, Marco said coldly, "I can't believe you, Laura. There's no way Riccardo Fermi is coming with us to Paris."
"I found the letters." Laura glared at him. "I've already phoned Riccardo. He wants to go with me to Paris. He won't want you with us, but if you insist on coming, okay -- but you don't dictate the terms."
He opened the car door. "I suppose you know Riccardo's mixed up with the neo-Nazis?"
"And what about your old priest?" retorted Laura. "Papal Representative? That man's up to something but you can't see it. There's a Vatican conspiracy in this. Remember how my father was afraid of Augusto Giorgio? So don't start telling anyone at the Vatican about Paris, or they'll stop us going."
He paused with the car door partly open. "Okay, but I still think Riccardo Fermi was mixed up with the deaths in Rome."
"We're journalists, and that's all."
"I trust Father Josef more than I trust Riccardo." He thought about it for a moment. "Don't worry, I'm not going to contact the old priest. I'll go on your terms."
Laura wagged a finger in his face. "Riccardo will be mad about it, so don't blame me if he doesn't speak to you. I'm going over there to park while you get your things. That stupid coach is right behind us and the driver won't pull round."
The coach driver leaned on his horn.
Laura wound her window down. "All right, all right!" she screamed in exasperation.
Marco went inside to pack an overnight bag. At times there seemed to be two different Lauras.
ALERTED BY THE coach horn, Karl raised himself in the driving seat of the Fiat. He was just in time to see the woman wave to the Priester, a half-hearted wave, before driving further down the piazza to park. He slipped discretely from his car and made his way across the street on foot, keeping in the shelter of the sightseers. A man on a white scooter squeaked the hooter and swerved expertly. Karl made an obscene gesture. The man squeaked his hooter again: an act he probably repeated a hundred times a day.
The woman stayed in her car, making a call on her cell phone. She looked at her watch before unfolding a map with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the cover. Karl felt conspicuous hovering close by. The window was down, but it was difficult to hear the Italian conversation, let alone understand it. The woman kept her finger on part of the map while chattering excitedly about someone or something called Parigi, one of the words on the cover.
Parigi could be anything, but the name Paris was also there, and the map was obviously a street plan.
The little Fiat was full of petrol. Now that he had stupidly tried to contact Phönix, Herr Kessel's credit card would soon be cancelled. The accountants in the ADR were not stupid. They would get Herr Kessel's bank to run a check, then they would notice where the card was being used.
Paris.
He must get cash. Cash could never be traced. There was a large bank with an ATM across the street. The stradale had gone and the woman was still making her call.
The machine accepted the number and the monitor lit up, asking what language he wanted to use. Karl smiled as he pressed the German key and was told that money could be withdrawn. He tried for the maximum indicated, listening anxiously to the whirring sound inside the machine. Within seconds he was pulling a wad of the new euro notes from the delivery slot. Better than Italian lira, these could be used anywhere in Western Europe. Even better, he still had the card. One day the leaders of Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung would be grateful for his resourcefulness. He returned to his car.
Sartini appeared on the doorstep and signaled to the woman who had finished her call. A squeal of tires and the silver Alfa reversed all the way back to him. The Priester got in and with another shriek of rubber the car joined the traffic. Karl allowed another car to pass before he followed. He had been spotted once before, but this time he would stay with them all the way to France if necessary -- without being seen. Whatever lay in Paris must be worth the journey. The woman had looked so excited as she held the map.
The Alfa halted without a signal by a smart apartment block on the west side of the city. The couple went inside and closed the door.
"Is this your place, pretty lady? The more I see of you, the more I want you. I would have paid you a visit one dark night if I'd known where you lived. But it doesn't matter, because you and your Priester friend will soon be dead."
A dark blue Peugeot drove up. A man got out and walked over to the Alfa carrying a small overnight case which he threw into the back of the woman's Alfa. This was the Italian who had tried to attack him with the knife at the Colosseum yesterday. Sartini was not just a simple priest after all. He was mixed up with criminals.
MARCO WAS IN the front passenger seat, studying Laura's map and a guidebook of Paris.
"I don't think we should stay in the center," he said. "If the gendarmes or anyone from the Vatican come looking for us we'll be harder to find in the suburbs. I know a couple of hotels near La Porte de la Chapelle where I used to stay with … where I used to stay sometimes. That's near enough to Montmartre."
The other two agreed, telling him to work out the route. He drew a circle on the map to mark the cemetery and noted the best way off the northern section of the Périphérique. Putting the map and guidebook away he looked out at the countryside. There were amazing hilltop villages and monasteries perched high above the autostrada. Presumably the SS would have raided all these during the war. From time to time he turned to look out of the back. Only later did he become aware of the little red car keeping its distance a long way behind.
"That red Fiat's been with us for ages. It's like the one yesterday in Rome." He had no intention of causing alarm, but they definitely didn't want anyone following them to Paris.
Laura in the driving seat shrugged her shoulders. "It drops back from time to time, but it never goes past."
Riccardo turned round quickly in the back. "You stupid cow, Laura, we're being followed. Now what do we do?"
Marco flinched at Riccardo's words and suggested they stop as soon as possible for a coffee. Riccardo's attitude to Laura was objectionable. She should never have let him come. When the next area di servizio came in sight Laura signaled right -- and the Fiat continued on its way.
The crowded bar served dry rolls filled with thin slices of dark, tasteless prosciutto. Marco disliked the hard bread of northern Italy, but the choice of prepared food here was extremely limited. When they returned to the car Laura said she weren't going to travel through the night. She needed to look for a motel. Marco reckoned that in two hours they would reach Aosta near the French border, which would split the journey to Paris roughly into half.
Laura turned to speak to Riccardo who was now stretched out on the back seat. "Is your paper still planning to run Bruno's series on the war? Only I wondered, with Bruno dead."
Marco was taking his turn at driving. The 16-valve Alfa felt competent on the autostrada, but high revs were needed for overtaking. "Series on the war?" he asked.
"Laura was talking to me," snapped Riccardo. "Anyway, the answer's yes. We found Bruno's work on his computer. It's going to cause one hell of a stir. There are pics of guilty men and women in his files, and I mean good pics. The roll of negatives he brought back from the Bayer's house in Germany the other day shows scenes that have never been published before." His voice rose in pitch and volume. "My paper is going to expose the fascist innocenti. Bruno's been busy for the past twelve months taking close-ups of every one of them -- without them knowing of course."
"Should be interesting." Marco checked the rear-view mirror for the red car.
"There are some foul people around, my friend." Riccardo sounded calmer now. "Not that you'd know anything about it. You're a priest; I expect yo
u've lived a sheltered life."
Marco said nothing. He kept his speed down as they entered a succession of tunnels. The carabinieri were often ready to pounce on speeding cars at the exits.
Riccardo broke the silence he had started. "The Nazis were scum."
The car went quiet, leaving Marco to concentrate on the road and think about Riccardo's accusation. His life had definitely not been as sheltered as Riccardo seemed to imply, although the Sartini family had escaped almost unscathed from the war. These last few days had brought about an introduction to a hatred that still simmered dangerously in many lives. He was also becoming aware of the bitterness still filling his own life -- hatred still for the drunken gang who had killed Anna. He should have dealt with it a long time ago. He even felt hatred for the killers of Canon Angelo, and for the young driver of the rusty Alfa who'd smashed into Old Savio in the Piazza Venezia.
Perhaps the pain of losing Anna would never die.
For such a flavorless ham, the prosciutto was leaving a remarkably strong taste of stale fat in his mouth.
They continued in silence with Marco driving, until he said, "I think it's time we stopped for the night." He was already looking out for a service area with a hotel. Aosta was only a few miles ahead. "Okay?"
Laura agreed.
Riccardo, half asleep on the back seat, didn't answer.
Laura said that anywhere with a bed would suit her, and Riccardo mumbled something that was probably a yes. In the rear-view mirror Marco saw a small red Fiat. He pulled over to the emergency shoulder and came almost to a halt. The red Fiat slowed, and then speeded up to go past, disappearing into the evening haze now settling over the autostrada. Marco had time to notice the driver, a large man with a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
"Right," he said, "we're definitely stopping at the next service area -- while that Fiat is still ahead. It had Roma plates."