of the room.
'Truly alert you are, laddie,' he gloated to Jason. 'Coulda killed you a dozen times. Ye're na' payin' attention t'er surroundin's.' He pointed to the half-eaten pear. 'Or too busy wid the forbidden fruit in this garden.'
The SAS man was right: Jason had given scant notice to the other diners, any one of whom could have been Eglov himself hiding behind a copy of la Republica. He had felt so good, so happy as a result of last night's lovemaking, he had momentarily forgotten a darker world where inattention was frequently a capital offense.
As Adrian planted an avuncular kiss on Maria's cheek, Jason dared envision, just for a second, a life where it wasn't necessary to get neck cramps looking over your shoulder. A life… well, a life pretty much like what he and Laurin had planned before she was taken from him.
The reflections shattered like crystal dropped on bricks when Jason realized Adrian was asking questions.
'Was Professor Calligini helpful? Be we off, then? Where to? Baia? Will we be needin' special kit?'
It was the latter question that had brought Jason back to reality. 'According to the last explorer, the gas wasn't a problem. Still, I asked Maria to request air tanks so we won't be taking the risk. They should be waiting when we get there.'
'And where would 'there' be?' Adrian wanted to know.
'Naples. We can be there in a few hours.'
As they left the room, Jason looked back to where the Herald Tribune lay in the chair he had occupied. There was something about that meeting in Washington that he knew without being aware of his knowledge, something… Past experience told him the thought was not yet ripe enough to fall into his full conscious. It would become clear in its own good time.
He only hoped that would be soon enough for… what?
Chapter Thirty-three
114 Taylor Street
Queens, New York
The same day
Rassavitch had no trouble blending into the enclave of Russian emigrants. Every evening and twice on Sunday he attended the concrete-block building that had begun life as a grocery store and now served as an Orthodox church. It still had a faint odor of spoiled fruit. He was a religious man, a man convinced he had survived the communists to serve God by restoring the Master's will on earth.
He did God's will, and he had been called here by like- thinkers to make certain others did, too. At the moment, God was displeased with the use being made of the Earth, the despoliation of His greatest gift to man. It was far past time someone, some group, wreaked vengeance on those who defiled the Earth.
Rassavitch had finally found just such an organization. That was God's will, too.
If there was one thing distinctly Russian, it was a peasant's love for the land, a commodity for centuries owned exclusively by the State, by the Czars, then the Party. Now, at least in theory, any Russian could own a few hectares. The catch-and in Russia there was always a catch-was that only the wealthy could afford to buy, the very people who raped the earth with poisonous fertilizers, who polluted the rivers with chemicals and defiled even the air all had to breathe.
The injustice of it made Rassavitch grind his teeth.
But the Russians here didn't seem to care. Oh, a few of the old babushka tended thumbnail-sized patches of sickly vegetables, but most of the populace had no interest in the land that had been the sustenance of the Russian people since before the czars. Instead, the young people would rather work at jobs in the city and spend their leisure time wearing American blue jeans, the dye from which Rassavitch was sure polluted some stream, and listening to the noise they called music.
At first, he worried his fellow Russians who had shed the old ways might notice him, perhaps report him to the authorities. Then it dawned upon him that nobody cared. In America, everyone was far too busy making a dollar and watching television to be interested in what someone else did.
Including defiling the earth, the water, the air.
Soon, very soon, Americans would realize the earth could and would strike back.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Via Delia Dataria
Rome
That afternoon
Unlike most Romans, Inspectore Santi Guiellmo did not leave work between one and four o'clock, the hours when offices, museums, shops, and even churches were closed for employees to enjoy a long lunch and, perhaps, a restorative nap. A crisp salad brought to his desk to eat while he scanned the day's headlines was all the break he required from routine. The lengthy recess in the city gave him time to think. It silenced the disruptive telephone and halted the parade of subordinates seeking answers to questions they were too lazy to find for themselves.
Even had the Chief been in the habit of taking the allowed time off, he would not have done so today.
This morning, Dr. Maria Bergenghetti had surfaced. Well, perhaps not surfaced, exactly. She had telephoned a coworker at the Bureau of Geological Studies, requesting certain equipment: six air tanks with three regulators and backpacks, as well as spelunking gear such as miners' helmets, harness, and rope. She also wanted some scientific apparatus, the function of which was unclear, something the names indicated had to do with detecting, analyzing, or measuring gases.
Guiellmo stared at the inventory as though ordering it to give up its secret. The volcanologist was going to explore the crater of a volcano or a deep cave. Unfortunately, Italy was riddled with both. Since no fire retardant clothing had been requisitioned, it was a safe bet the woman and her companions were not headed for the caldera of an active volcano. Yet why else would she want a source of breathable, air?
If she was, in fact, in the company of this American, Peters, what interest did he have in caves, volcanoes, or gases? It was not likely he would find more Russians to kill in such places.
Not that Guiellmo was particularly sympathetic to Russians. Their national image since the fall of communism was one of lawlessness, of crime, corruption, and violence that made the old American West look tame. Although many people decried stereotypes as based on prejudice, Guiellmo saw them as based on observation. And observation of crime in Russia was not encouraging for law enforcement.
But Italy was not going to tolerate its soil being used to stage an open season on Russians or anybody else, lawless or not.
He stood and went to look down on the Piazza del Quirinale, now empty other than the presidential guards, still as statues, and the resident pigeons, busily searching for the last crumb of pizza crust dropped by the morning's horde of tourists.
Breathable air in a cave? Unlikely it would be needed. That left extinct volcanoes. The most obvious was Vesuvius, killer of Pompeii and Herculaneum, inactive since 1944. Was it considered extinct?
He returned to his desk and sat heavily. No matter. Bergenghetti had requested the equipment be assembled at the old Vesuvius Observatory, the nineteenth-century structure that served as a base for recording data, the research facilities having moved to Naples. A good choice. The building was known by few, and there would be only one or two technicians present.
As usual, Guiellmo preferred the involvement of as few people as possible in an investigation.
Chapter Thirty-five
