you, but you could be threatened. Please translate,” he said.
Cienna bent over and whispered in Bruno’s ear, at which Bruno turned and stared at the two of them, his eyes wide.
“Remember tell no one, not even your boss. Anyone can be killed. This never happened. I was never here, capisce? Arrivederci e grazie,” Scorpion said and started to leave.
“I’ll walk you out,” Cienna said, and accompanied him out to the reception area. “How do I get in touch with you again?” she said, glancing around to make sure they weren’t overheard.
“You can’t.”
“Suppose we see him again in another video?”
“It won’t matter. Ciao, bella signora,” he said and felt her watching him as he left, his mind in a whirl. He had to talk to Rabinowich, and wondered if he should risk sharing it with Moretti. Once again there were things that made no sense on this mission. A single question churned in his mind: Why would the Palestinian risk his entire operation just to participate in a public demonstration?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Campo dei Fiori, Rome, Italy
The Palestinian woke in a sweat, not knowing where he was. He hadn’t had the nightmare in a long time but it never seemed so real.
In the dream he was a child and they were coming for him. He was hiding in a closet, the heat unbearable, and even though it was night, the flashes of light from the window that filtered through the cracks in the closet door were intensely bright. The sound of explosions and gunfire kept coming closer, and the smell was like nothing he’d ever smelled before. He heard men crashing into the room and shooting, his mother screaming, and he wanted to scream but he was so frightened he wet his pants. They ripped the closet door open and grabbed him, and now they had the faces of boys who had taunted him at Grundschule: Aksel, his red face contorted, yelling, “Leck mich am arsch, Turkisch schwuchtl,” and fat Dolph, and Geert, kicking him while he was squirming on the ground, laughing at the “Blodes arschloch” as he tried to protect his privates where fat Dolph had grabbed his testicles and squeezed till he screamed, telling him he didn’t need them, “Sie brauchen diese nicht, mutterficker!”
And then he was awake, his heart pounding, and he realized that Liz was gone.
They had worked late into the night, he, Mourad, Jamal, and Hicham. Earlier in the evening, he had sent the others back to Turin, either by car or by the Metro to the Stazione Termini to catch the train. After they had left with calls of “Ma’a salaama” and “Allahu akhbar,” the four of them finished packing everything into the UniMOG, filling it to the roof with just enough room left for the four of them to sit in it. They ran into a snag then. Mourad noticed that the license plates given to them by the Camorra didn’t begin with the correct lettering.
“Did they do this on purpose?” he asked.
“With the Camorra, nothing is an accident,” Hicham said. “They wanted us to be caught.”
“Why? We could inform on them,” Jamal said.
“None of us would ever live to inform if we were in prison,” Hicham said. “Il silenzio o la morte.”
“They did not want it to come back on them. Ma’alesh,” the Palestinian shrugged. “Just make sure the UniMOG runs when we need it.”
“It’s good. I checked it myself again this morning,” Mourad said. “What about the license plate?”
Finally, Hicham came up with the solution. They forged white metal with the correct red letters and glued them over that portion of the license plate. It wouldn’t bear close inspection, but the Palestinian thought they could get away with it on a moving vehicle while other things were going on. Although it was past three in the morning by then, they went over their roles again, rehearsed what they were to do and how to deploy and rehearsed their answers to questions that might be asked.
The Palestinian, still known to the others by his cover name, Mejdan, looked at his watch. It was almost eleven in the morning, and although he got up and walked around the warehouse to look for Liz, he knew she wasn’t there.
“The woman, Liz is gone,” Mourad said, looking up from making coffee in the makeshift kitchen. “Your English sharmuta whore will destroy everything.”
“I’ll take care of it,” the Palestinian said.
“Why did you bring her? Just because you had to have English koos?” Mourad asked, using the Arabic vulgarity for the female sex organ.
“I needed Liz to get to the English demonstrators. It was part of the plan,” he said. “We have one more day. Check all the cell phone batteries, but don’t touch the detonators. I’ll take care of the Englishwoman.”
“It would have been better not to bring her,” Mourad said, not looking at him.
“Khalli baalak,” the Palestinian said. Be careful. “We will soon all of us be shaheedin martyrs. We should not go to Allah with words we should not have said.”
He went to the hotel near the Stazione Termini, but the room was locked, and when he asked at the desk, he was told that Alicia had checked out.
“When?” he asked the desk clerk.
“Mezz’ora, maybe.” Half an hour. The desk clerk shrugged. “Is curious. That signorina, she look like la donna inglese on the televisione.”
“Not at all. Maybe a little, but it wasn’t her. Was my ragazza, Liz, you know, her English friend, with her?”
“Si. Also her italiano boyfriend with the hair long, like a girl. They all go.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“They did not say, but I think the aeroporto. They have all their baggages and they talk about London.”
“Grazie,” he said, and ran to the Stazione Termini. He raced through the station, hoping against hope they hadn’t left yet. With relief, he saw Liz, Cristiano, and Alicia waiting on the platform of the express train to Fiumicino Airport. To avoid being recognized, Alicia had dyed her hair blond and wore large sunglasses under a Burberry bucket hat. When they saw him, the three of them started to move away, then Liz stopped.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” he said.
“I can’t do this,” she said, taking off her sunglasses. She was back to wearing a Hermes scarf and Jimmy Choos, but her eyes were glistening, he noticed. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Children are dying.”
“I know,” she said miserably.
“What have you told them?” he asked, indicating Cristiano and Alicia.
“Just that we had a fight.”
“Liz, nothing happened between Mejdan and me, did it?” Alicia said, looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” Cristiano said in his clumsy English, patting the Palestinian on the shoulder. “Alicia want to go back to London too. She afraid the paparazzi find her and she will be exposed for liar.”
“I understand. Can I talk to you alone?” the Palestinian asked Liz. “It’s important.”
She looked at her friends and nodded. He drew her to one side of the platform. Looking beyond her, he could see the train coming.
“You left your things at the apartment,” he said.
“Just send them to me,” she said.
“I won’t have time. We can’t leave evidence behind. Please, come back to the apartment with me. Just you and me, the way it was supposed to be. I need you.”
“I can’t help it,” she said, her eyes glistening in the sunlight reflected off the rails. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“One last time,” he pleaded. “It’ll be like Mykonos. You owe me that.”
“Why? Why do I owe you?”
“Because by this time tomorrow I’ll probably be dead. Don’t let it end like this. You can catch a later flight. I can do what I have to if I know you’re away and safe.” His last words were nearly lost in the sound of the train pulling in.
