SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 8:25 A.M.
The fear Pernazzo felt as he ran was physical. An invisible finger was stealing through the air and prodding him gently in the back where he imagined the bullet would enter when the woman with red hair fired. He switched direction rightward, and the finger seemed to follow, now pressing at the back of his neck. Then he rushed parallel to a brick wall for thirty meters and onward, under an aperture in the old Roman fortifications, across a ribbon of grass, past teenagers sprawled on stone seats, and across another avenue, this time with hardly any traffic apart from a tram visible far in the distance. Still no side street offered itself. He crossed two more avenues, both of them leading down to the basilica with the marble statues. If any cars had been called out, they would have no difficulty running him to earth in this area. He continued his beeline flight until finally a side street appeared on his right. He ducked into it, only to find that it led straight back to another broad avenue and afforded little hiding room, but at last the steely fingers receded.
Pernazzo slowed his pace, and, by the time he left the short street to emerge near Santa Croce di Gerusalemme, he was able to affect a casual stroll past a group of clergy gathered outside the basilica. He finally registered that his slippers had fallen off his feet. He stopped at a trash container and, glancing round, pulled out a plastic bag of garbage. It was slimy on the outside, and smelled powerfully of ketchup and cabbage, and he thought he felt something move inside it, but it was only the pulse in his wrist and the sweat running down his arm. Carrying his bag of rubbish, he walked on, keeping his head bent down. As he reached the avenue in front of the church, he saw the first patrol car.
It was eighty meters away and moving in his direction, but traveling too slowly to be responding to a call. Either it was simply cruising or a bulletin had already been issued. He drew level with a green garbage container, and hoisted open the top, obscuring himself from the car, the car from him. He threw in the stinking bag of garbage, wiped his palms on the front of his trousers. The patrol car drove on.
With exaggerated care, Pernazzo crossed the road to reach a bus and tram stop, and stood among a group of university students, who tried to avoid staring at his blackened bare feet. Thirty seconds later, a tram trundled up and they all got on. Two stops later, back roughly in the direction from which he had fled, he got off again. He could hear sirens. They all seemed to be converging on him.
Pernazzo squeezed into a doorway and observed Di Tivoli’s car from a distance. Finally, he moved out of the doorway toward it. His foot slipped on something soft. A few meters later, something sharp inserted itself between the toes of his other foot. He did not look down, but kept his eyes fixed on the car. He made it. He climbed into its safety. He could smell leather, the volatile plastic compounds, his own body. He looked over at his gray backpack, snug on the floor. He switched on the TomTom SatNav device. He keyed in the address of Di Tivoli’s country villa in Amatrice.
Working the control pedals barefoot was uncomfortable and difficult. The clutch was the worst. He passed two police cars going in the opposite direction. Looking through the rear-view mirror, he saw no sign of them slowing down as they passed him. It looked as if no one had discovered Di Tivoli yet. He had time.
The soothing SatNav voice told him he was leaving the city limits by way of Strada dei Parchi. She repeated the name, in case he had missed it. He opened the window to let in the warm smell of petrol and oleander.
He brushed his hand over the steering wheel, and leaned back into the seat. He would get an SUV in Argentina. He would cruise the boulevards of Buenos Aires in his car, living the life Alleva had planned for himself. He had heard it was a city like Paris. He had checked it out on Google Earth, and seen the trees.
The motorway was almost empty, and he gave full rein to the power of Di Tivoli’s engine. He closed the window and brought the car up to 180 kph before starting to slow down. The road looped around the outskirts of L’Aquila. He did not like moving inland like this, away from the sea, but in a few days, he would be standing on the wharves of Buenos Aires watching the ships arrive.
The motorway came to an abrupt end at an intersection designed by an idiot where cars nosed and edged their way into the stream of traffic speeding in the opposite direction. He drove on for two kilometers and, following the gentle advice of the navigator, turned right onto a white gravel road that cut through the fields like a bandage.
The house was four kilometers from the road, and three from the first house he had seen. The land was richer, heavier, and greener than that near Alleva’s hideout. It was cooler, and the cypress trees cast long shadows.
He reached a two-story villa made of brown stone with a red slate roof, and the SatNav assured him he had arrived. He sat there waiting to see if anyone would come out, ask what the hell he thought he was doing. No one did. The place looked empty. It had taken him two hours.
He drove around the house, bumping his way over a patch of field, to park the car out of sight in an overgrown garden, next to a rusted swing. Just as he was about to turn off the engine, he caught a slight flicker of gray movement from the bushes at the far end of a plowed field that started where the garden ended. He instinctively grabbed the steering wheel, then relaxed his grip a little as he recognized the gray outline of a wild boar, which turned and trotted away into a thicket.
He cracked open the car door, put one foot on the grass, and checked for any other wild animals that might be about. He could hear scuffling and crackles in the thickets, whispers in the trees, and the wash of riverwater over gravel, but nothing human disturbed him. He looked down the field toward the area where he had seen the piggy eyes looking at him a few moments before. He got out. The grass felt good on his aching insteps.
Staying at the back of the house, keeping his head slightly down all the time, he crept up to a window and peered in. He could make out heavy rustic furniture, an old rug on a red floor. He moved over to a back door, tried it. It was locked. The next window was small, frosted. It would lead into a bathroom. He stood with his back to it, and hit it with his elbow.
But at the last moment, he pulled his elbow back, afraid of what the shards of exploding glass might do. He located a muddy rock, and hurled it at the glass. He thought he heard a crack, but the rock bounced back. He tried again. This time the window disintegrated. The noise scared him a little, and he stayed still, listening to the trees and fields. Carefully he picked the deadly triangles of glass from the side of the frame, felt around to the latch, opened the window, threw in his bag, then climbed in after. He moved quickly through the house to the entrance hall. He opened the front door, looked out, saw nothing. He double-checked that he had pulled the front door closed. To his right was a small panel of circuit breakers and the main switch for the electricity, which he snapped on.
The living room was large and open-plan, fronted by a broad, crystal-clear rectangular window that looked out over a sloping mound and gave a good view of the sky. It reminded him of the field on the Microsoft desktop. There was a thick and expensive table in the center of the room, magazines and books scattered on it. But the window made him feel too visible, and he crept upstairs.
He found what seemed to be a child’s bedroom at the end of the corridor. He carried his bag over to the corner of the room and dropped it on the bed, over which lay a faded Spiderman bedspread. He lay down on it, and breathed in the earthy smell of mold, liking it. He had lost touch with his sleep schedule, but reckoned he was due for another hypersleep. He closed his eyes.
An hour later, Pernazzo awoke from one of the deepest, most dreamless, and calmest sleeps he had had in years.
He got out of the bed, unzipped the bag, and carefully set out five blank passports: two Italian, one Argentine, one British, and one Greek. He chose the Greek one. He felt around the front cover of the passport until his fingers touched a tiny bump under the cover, the tell-tale sign of an implanted RFID chip. He went downstairs again, moved fast across the open space of the living room, and found the kitchen. He was in luck. Where the kitchen counter made an L-turn away from the sink sat a white microwave, its blue LED flashing 0.00 at him.
He opened the microwave door, popped the passport in, turned the dial to full power, and pressed the on switch. A light came on and the passport started slowly turning on the revolving dish. He left it there for no more than three seconds, then pulled open the door, which pinged at exactly the same moment as a far-away dog barked. He repeated the operation five times, letting the paper cool between each blast. A blank RFID in the passport would trigger an alert at the airport, but a broken one would be ignored.
Back in the bedroom, he searched an old wardrobe. Many of the clothes had black patches of dry rot and damp on them, all of them had a musty odor. But he found an old shirt that fit him. He got down on all fours and hunted around the bottom of the wardrobe, emerging with several pairs of shoes. He found socks. An old-style pair
