“Did you see any of it?”
“About the first half-hour. Then, since I could not leave the plane, I fell asleep.”
“Wasn’t it awful?” In an attempt to render his breath acceptable, Koesler swirled orange juice around his mouth.
“If there is an award that is the antithesis of the Oscar, that movie deserves it.”
“You’re absolutely right. We were both actually portrayed in that movie and neither of us could stay awake long enough to see how we did.”
The 707 touched down smoothly and began taxiing toward the terminal.
“For your safety, Captain Kamego requests that you remain seated with your seat belt fastened until he has turned off the seat belt sign. That will be your signal that we have arrived at the gate and that it is safe to move about.”
Koesler peeked around Koznicki. “Yes, I know, Wanda: Now that we’re on the ground we start the most dangerous part of our journey.”
The three chuckled.
“Ladies and gentlemen; our aircraft has now parked at the gate and we will be deplaning through the forward cabin door.”
Koesler lifted himself partially out of his seat. He could see into the first class compartment. Archbishop Boyle was standing, putting on his suit coat. Boyle, his close relatives and some of the more important diocesan personages had enjoyed the precious extra space provided in first class. Koesler envied them their unrumpled clothing and limber limbs.
Everyone passed through the passport check and customs uneventfully.
“By the way, Father, speaking of the ‘dangerous’ drive ahead, would you care to accompany Wanda and me? We are going to take a taxi to the hotel.”
Koesler gave the invitation a few moments’ thought. “Thanks just the same, Inspector, but I’d better take the chartered bus. I told Father Brandon I’d ride into Rome with him and I think he’s already aboard. I’ll see you later at the hotel.”
Brandon, head of the Archdiocesan Department of Education, was, indeed, on the bus. His short fuse was already burning. His furrowed brow resembled lowering clouds.
“Hey, why so glum?” Koesler lowered himself into the seat next to Brandon. “Look at all this sunshine! It’s just a beautiful spring day in sunny Italy.”
Brandon did not reply. He merely and significantly tapped his watch, making sure Koesler could see the dial. It read 3:25. Apparently, Brandon figured it should be self-evident that 3:25 in the morning was no time for banter, no matter how brightly the sun was shining.
Actually, Koesler felt no better about his compressed night than Brandon. Neither had slept well or long. Both wanted nothing more than to reach their hotel and relieve their jet lag with at least a nap.
After the luggage had been stowed aboard, the driver swung into his seat and the bus chugged off reluctantly. The driver said nothing, so it remained unclear whether he spoke English.
Koesler felt Brandon’s body began to slump in the next seat. He glanced over. Brandon’s chin neared his chest. He was falling asleep.
The bus came to a fork in the road. One signboard, pointing left, read Roma. The other, pointing right, read Castel Gondolfo. The bus turned right.
Koesler nudged Brandon.
“Huh?” Brandon mumbled, head slowly coming erect.
“Hey, Stew, this is interesting. We just turned down the road to Castel Gondolfo, the Pope’s summer residence. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Mmmmpf . . .”
Brandon had returned to sleep. Koesler, interest aroused, rubbernecked from his bus seat.
There it was: The entrance to Castel Gondolfo loomed just ahead.
“Hey, Stew, we’re here. It’s Castel Gondolfo!”
“Huh?” Brandon shook his head and peered through the window. If it was important enough to be awakened twice, he might just as well look at it.
“Hey, look at all those armed guards!” Koesler reached across Brandon, pointing.
“Security.”
“Security?”
“Yeah,” Brandon explained. “You know, it was after those attempts on the Pope’s life last year. They beefed up security. You must have heard about it.”
“Well, of course I did. But I had no idea the security was so intense. He must be in residence now. That’s a small army outside the gate. And armed to the teeth! Nobody could get through that.”
“That’s the idea.” Brandon slumped again and tugged the brim of his hat down, trying to shut out the sun.
Because he was napping, Brandon missed the next questionable turn. The bus circled Lake Albano and began transversing the paved layers of roadbed slowly ascending Monte Cavo on the opposite shore from Castel Gondolfo.
Koesler watched mesmerized as the bus drove back and forth, even higher up the mountain. He was convinced he was viewing Castel Gondolfo from every possible vantage. He was also convinced that he was seeing more of the palace than he cared to see. Especially since with each passing moment he longed more and more for a toothbrush, a shower, and a bed.
The bus finally left the mountain and the Castel and drove off. Despite his exhaustion, Koesler was enjoying the beautiful rural scenery and the tree-shaded roads.
Another fork in the road. Another signboard pointing left to Roma; another signboard pointing right to Marino. The bus turned right.
Koesler looked around the bus. No one else seemed to have noticed that while they were theoretically headed for Rome, they were consistently turning away from it. He decided, for the common good, that action was called for.
He rose and approached the driver. It was not an easy jaunt. The bus was swaying like a camel.
“Excuse me.” Koesler tapped the driver’s shoulder. The man gave no indication he was aware of Koesler’s presence. “Excuse me, but aren’t we going the wrong way? I mean, every time we see a road sign pointing toward Rome, we turn in the opposite direction. You see? Aren’t we going the wrong way?”
“No spika.”
“What?”
“No spika.”
“Oh.”
Feeling ineffectual, Koesler returned to his seat. He could not help thinking of the Koznickis’ offer of a taxi into Rome. They probably were comfortably asleep by now. He, too, could have been. But no, he had to accompany Father Brandon—who, like the Koznickis, was off in dreamland.
Up ahead was another fork. Koesler wondered if he dared hope for an end to this odyssey.
The sign pointing left read, Roma. The sign pointing right read, Grottaferrata. The bus turned right.
If he had not known better, Koesler would have sworn they were being shanghaied. Although recent news events made it not inconceivable that the Red Brigade—no, he shook his head; it couldn’t be. In any event, they might just as well be being shanghaied. They were captives on a bus in a foreign land traveling in the opposite direction from their destination, with a driver who could not—or would not—speak English.
The bus rolled slowly into a village so picturesque it almost seemed to be a picture postcard come to life.
They circled the town’s piazza, then slowly jolted to a stop near a curb. The driver turned off the engine, pulled on the emergency brake, opened the doors, stood, walked down the steps, halted outside the door, and lit a cigarette.
“What? What?” Father Brandon adjusted his hat and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we? Are we here?”
“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say so,” Koesler replied.
“Where are we?” A sense of panic began intruding on Brandon’s consciousness. “This isn’t Rome!”
