WAIT REPLACEMENT TELEGRAPH/POSTAL OFFICE CALABRIA STOP JASON
Fairly transparent, but it was unlikely the other side would ever guess something as primitive as a transoceanic telegraph would be used. Additionally, since the nearly ancient Atlantic cable carried the few messages that still were exchanged in this manner, no one had bothered to develop the technology to monitor such messages. Satellites could not intercept messages on landlines.
Like most European countries, Italy's telephone and telegraph functions were operated by the postal service. Jason left the post office, checked on Maria (still asleep), had lunch, and took in the few sights Calabria had to offer, then spent the one-o'clock-to-four-o'clock siesta sipping espresso and reading a two-day-old International Herald Tribune at an outdoor table at a small trattoria.
His patience was rewarded in the late afternoon when he returned to the post office. A courier from the American attache in Naples had delivered a plain brown paper package.
Back at the hotel, Jason hurriedly unwrapped the parcel, removing a United States passport jacket for Ms. Sarah Rugger of Tampa, Florida, presumably the wife of William Rugger, the name and residence on Jason's second set of identification. Also there was an appropriate Florida driver's permit blank, Visa and American Express cards, a small digital camera, a gadget similar to one used to impress notary or corporate seals on documents, and another BlackBerry.
Why Florida? he wondered. Nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to vote there.
A note from Mama cautioned more care in the future.
Slowly waking to Jason's persuasion, Maria needed no encouragement to apply makeup and brush her hair once she saw the camera. Jason took two pictures of her, being certain the background was different in each.
Down the street, he found a UPS business center, where he had the pictures printed. Back in the room, he glued the pictures onto the passport and used the press to apply a reasonable facsimile of the U.S. seal. There was little he could do with the driver's license other than make sure the application of the photo was smooth and hope that the holograms would pass muster. It was the passport that got the closest scrutiny anyway, he told himself.
Finished, he had gone back outside and deposited camera and seal in different trash bins before finding an Alitalia office and booking two tickets to Rome the next day.
If Eco hacked into the reservation system, they would find of interest any American couple and would have someone watching the airport to make a positive sighting.
This morning they had indeed driven to the small airport and parked the Explorer in a conspicuous place in the lot. Jason had then signaled a cab for the short ride to other side of the field, where the five- or six-plane general aviation fleet was based.
After some discussion with the field's only charter service, they boarded a DeHaviland Twin Otter, a high- wing, fixed-gear twin designed for takeoff and landing on short, rugged terrain. Jason had patiently explained that he was interested in being transported to a specific location that was unlikely to have an airstrip.
Language was only a minor barrier, since English was the international language of aviation. A Russian Aeroflot pilot approaching Hong Kong International Airport would speak English with the Chinese air traffic controller. The only exception was France and spheres of French influence, where the sanctity of the French language was deemed a greater priority than air safety.
For that matter, the French deemed it a greater priority than anything Jason could think of, with the posible exceptions of wine and sex.
Luckily, he was not dealing with the French, a fact for which he was always grateful.
Maria was asleep before the tires left the ground.
The jaw-jarring return to earth gave truth to the hoary pilots' axiom that a landing was only a controlled crash. Had he not tightened Maria's seat belt, she would have been thrown to the floor.
From the window, Jason could see nothing but dust swirling from the field in which they had landed. The right engine shut down, the plane pivoted, and one of the two crew members came back from the cockpit to open the door.
'These es eet,' he said in accented English. 'Th' coordinates you wanted.'
The jolt of the landing had Maria wide awake. 'This is no airport,' she observed, sitting up straight and peering out the window. 'This is some sort of a farm.'
The dust had almost settled when they reached the bottom of the aircraft's three steps. They had no sooner put both feet on the ground than the door retracted while the pilot restarted the right engine, taxied downwind, and took off almost straight up. Both Jason and Maria closed their eyes against a cloud of flying grit of Saharan proportions.
When they finally dared open dirt-encrusted eyes, they were facing a man standing in front of a battered Volvo. He was perhaps six feet tall with a huge white walrus mustache. Silver hair was visible underneath a tweed cap he wore despite the season. The headgear was the same color as his jacket. A dress shirt, complete with tie, was stuffed into corduroy pants, which, in turn, were bloused over the tops of knee boots, the rubber sort the English called wellies.
As the last of the dust settled, he used both hands to brush himself off and approach. When he got within handshaking distance, his blue eyes twinkled as though with a wry story he was impatient to tell.
Instead of shaking, he embraced Jason with a squeeze any grizzly bear might envy. 'Jason, lad!,' he exclaimed. 'It's been too long! Welcome to Silanus.'
The accent was guttural, yet musical, the sound of his hereditary Gaelic, a language common in Europe half a millennium before Rome existed, now clinging tenuously to the continent's westernmost fringes. The tongue was fading but, for the time being, secure in his native Scottish Highlands.
Jason managed to extricate himself and turned to Maria. 'Adrian, this is Maria Bergenghetti. Or should I say Dr. Maria Bergenghetti?'
Maria involuntarily flinched as the Scot approached, fearful she, too, would receive a suffocating hug.
Instead he bowed from the waist, extending a hand. 'A pleasure, lassie. Welcome to you also. The lout ye're with's too uncivilized for a proper introduction. I'm Adrian Graham, major, Her Majesty's First Grenadiers, retired.' He winked at Jason. 'I'd be pleased if you'd just call me Adrian.'
Maria seemed uncertain whether her hand would be shaken or kissed. She held it out nonetheless, showing relief at the conventional shake.
'Adrian's an old, er, business associate,' Jason added. 'Retired here to Sardinia.'
Actually, Adrian's affiliation with the grenadiers, Her Majesty's or otherwise, had been extraordinarily brief. He had hardly finished basic training when his fierce competitiveness and total lack of fear of any man (or rank) had brought him to the attention of Special Air Services, SAS, a semiclandestine, small-unit combat force generally considered to be made up of the best commandos in the world. The service had a lot more to do with special than air, the name dating back to World War II, when its men were usually parachuted behind enemy lines to perform the service's raison d'etre: murder, arson, and general mayhem.
In large part the American Special Forces, the parent of Delta Force, had been patterned after SAS.
Jason and Adrian had met during the chaos of the Bosnian Conflict, when both English and American 'peacekeepers' were taking fire from both sides, Muslim and Christian, each intent on exterminating the other.
That day both men had been separated from their individual units and from their communication equipment.
By pure circumstance, each was being pursued by Bosnian rebels intent on driving foreign powers from the area to be able to ethnically cleanse Muslims at their leisure. By even more extraordinary circumstance, each man had chosen the same wooded crest of a small hill as a likely place to make a stand.
Each was delighted to discover the other and that their defense had just increased by one hundred percent.
'Jason Peters, Delta Force,' were the first words Jason had spoken.
'Adrian Graham, SAS.'
They glanced at each other with the admiration elite forces share for one another.
'Say, mon, how many of yon blokes're after your scalp?' Adrian had asked, looking over Jason's shoulder.
'No more than ten or so,' Jason had said calmly. 'And you?'
' 'Bout the same,' Adrian had said. 'We'd best not let them see we've joined up until they're in range.'
