The Amalfi Coast, Ravello
Hotel Palumbo
Two days later
Most of the roads carved into the mountains of Italy's Amalfi Coast are one and a half car widths wide, a measurement dating back to a time when bicycles were the norm and tiny, shoebox-sized automobiles navigated the hairpin turns with a sense of adventure, if not complacency. Today, buses crammed with increasing numbers of tourists stretch from the stone walls on the seaward side of the road to the sheer rock on the other. Other traffic seeks such nooks and crannies as they can find until the behemoths squeeze past with a cheery honk of the horn and a puff of foul-smelling diesel smoke.
The few streets in Ravello are too narrow even for this accommodation. Anything larger than a compact risks leaving body parts in front of someone's door.
That was why Lang had chosen this place. There was nothing remarkable about the old stone buildings along the Via S. Giovanni del Toro other than interesting examples of Moorish influence in the Mediterranean. The sign announcing the hotel was small, evidencing management's hopes that only those aware of its presence would notice; that new, possibly American, clientele would seek the hospitality of the other hotel, the one that catered to American film and TV stars, on the hill on the other side of town.
That, of course, was exactly why Lang had chosen the Palumbo.
Unimpressive if not downright plain from the street, the lobby usually caused first-time visitors (if they could not be encouraged to go elsewhere) to stop, stare, and mutter whatever translated as 'My God!' in their native language.
Two stories of glass looked straight across a gorge at the misty cliffs that lined a golden beach hundreds of feet below. In the distance, fishing boats bobbed in cobalt-blue waters like so many gaily colored corks. The staff was quiet, unobtrusive, and usually invisible unless summoned.
Lang had reserved a room just off the lobby with much the same view. He and Gurt lapsed into a routine of early-morning walks, midday swims in the hotel's infinity-edged pool, lunch at one of the town's one or two trattoria, and frantic lovemaking in the afternoons before a nap.
Eschewing the hotel's barrel-vaulted, frescoed dining room, each evening they dined at a small ristorante on one of the two narrow streets that forked off the one in front of the church. Like most such establishments, the place was lit like a surgical theater. Lang theorized that Italians liked to make sure they got what they paid for rather than risk less expensive substitution in a dimmer, more romantically lighted place. Gurt suggested the unfortunate medieval habit of disposing of one's dinner guests by poison was the source of the custom.
Either way, the place was run by an elderly woman who commanded her eatery like the captain of a ship. Each night, shoeless, she circulated among her guests, demanding an explanation for any remaining scrap.
After the third dinner there, Lang and Gurt were walking up an incline made steeper by the Fiori di Zucca e Carciofi Fritti he had had along with his Saltimbocca alia Romana in his stomach.
He stopped on the piazza, a small square with a gelaterie and a seller of dubious antiques on one side, the church adjoining on the other, and two sides open. 'Okay, how did you know?'
The events in the necropolis had not been discussed, but had been avoided like an unpleasant subject everyone knows will have to be thrashed out at some point
Gurt, in the pencil-legged leather pants and peasant blouse favored by younger Italian women, thought a moment. Then she took his arm and guided him back uphill toward the hotel. She told him what had happened, or what she remembered of it, of the hospital and her memory and hearing loss.
'It was the piece of torn-off ticket…'
'Stub,' he said, 'a ticket stub.'
'The ticket stub, then,' she said. 'It brought it all back: being in Frankfurt, the Agency. Also, if this man who tried to kill me had such a ticket from the Frankfurt U-Bahn, he had been in Frankfurt. If he had come out of there, the chances were the Agency was somehow mixed in it. Why would anyone else want me dead? I would have called to warn you, but my Agency phone was lost in the explosion. Besides, if the Agency was involved, they would be listening to any conversation you had.'
Lang pulled open the door to the hotel to let her enter. 'Good thing. What the bastard gave me wasn't just a secure phone, it was a tracking device.'
'And I suppose that if I had called Sara…'
'That line was probably bugged.'
She looked at him curiously. 'Like the roaches we see in Atlanta?'
'It had a listening device. They would have heard anything you said.'
He stopped, looking back down the hill. The piazza was obscured by treetops. 'What about Die Spinne, some organization to protect old Nazis? Did you ever consider that?'
She pulled him forward. 'You were the only one who ever saw Nazis on every bed.'
'Under every bed. You're right. You and Blucher didn't think much of my theory.'
This time it was Gurt who stopped. Even in the dim light from the lobby, he could see her exaggerated expression of surprise. ''Ach! The dumb woman has right once?''
He grinned good-naturedly. 'The dumb woman who saved my ass again.' She winked mischievously. 'It is not your ass I wish to save.'
They crossed the threshold and started toward their room, in silence for a moment before he asked, 'The necropolis under the Vatican-how did you know?'
She thought for a moment, either trying to get the English phraseology right or deciding exactly what to say. By now, they were outside the room.
He put the key in the lock but blocked her entrance.
'Well?'
Again the sly smile. 'Would you believe women's intuition?'
'No.'
She sighed theatrically. 'Very well, deprive from me the illus… illus…'
'Illusion?'
'Illusion of feminine mystery.'
He was still holding the door open, standing in her path. 'Gurt
…'
She shook her head. 'I heard you tell Reavers how you thought it out, bow you had guessed that Skorzeny was one of the Germans the Americans brought over after the war and that man Straight was the son of Skorzeny. If you can pull that hare out of your cap, you tell me how I knew.'
Lang stepped back outside to join her in the narrow hall. This wasn't a conversation he wanted overheard. He pulled her inside and shut the door. They sat on the bed.
'Okay. I'd guess it went something like this.' He thought for a second, arranging his suppositions in much the same way he had lined up theorems in high school geometry. 'You knew I was trying to track down whatever Skorzeny took from Montsegur. The only clue we had before that helicopter showed up was Julian's inscription, the one about the palace of the single god.'
She ruffled his hair with her fingers. 'So far, so bad. Just before the helicopter flew over us, you were talking about Julian and a palace of some sort.'
He shrugged. 'Okay, so tell me.'
''You will not like what you hear.'
'I can stand it.'
This time it was Gurt who shrugged. ' 'Palace of the one god.' What could that be but the Vatican?'
It took a moment to sink in. 'Palace of the sale god and you immediately knew what Julian meant?'
'I was there, was I not?'
He nodded slowly, absorbed by what she was saying. 'It took Francis and me a while to be certain that was what was meant. You figured it out in minutes.'
She grinned, fishing in her bag for a cigarette. Just before she lit it, she chuckled. 'I told you, you would not like it. I called a friend in the Rome station.'
'A friend posted with the Agency? You knew the lines would be secure.'
