Another pause.
'I'm not sure I understand.'
'The gas, ethylene, will make everyone-delegates to the meeting, security, everyone-both drowsy and delusional, but it won't kill them. That's the beauty of it. While everyone's on a high, someone will slip into the room from outside, slit a few throats, and disappear while the Secret Service guys are on the nod. No one to yell, cause a ruckus till it's too late. Or, maybe one or more of the Eco people'll have a breathing device concealed on him. When the gas dissipates, no one knows what happened. People have been murdered literally in front of their security and no one knows anything. The Earth will have claimed some sort of revenge with its natural products, the plant and the gas.'
'My God, the president is planning to attend!'
'I suggest he make other plans.'
'You can document this?'
'Not by tomorrow morning.'
Another pause before Mama's rich Creole voice said, 'This conference is important. He thinks he can become the person history will record as dedicating his life to reconciling industrialists and conservationists.'
'He will. Just not the way he'd planned.'
'We'll look like idiots if you're wrong.'
'How will you look if I'm not?'
'I see what you mean. Tell you what: I'm passin' this along to the CIA. They're our client and can do what they want.'
In Washington, the buck never really stopped; it was in perpetual motion.
Chapter Fifty
Near Silanus, Sardinia
An hour later
There were three men in the rented Mercedes that had pulled off the ferry two hours ago. The face of one of the men in the rear seat was partially covered by a large eye patch. One cheek displayed scars that were angry red, as though recently inflicted. All four wore the loose blouse and baggy pants of the local farmers for whom they easily could have mistaken.
Sardinian farmers, however, would have been unlikely to drive such a car. It was equally doubtful locals would drive through the night to a simple farmhouse, one where a thorough search demonstrated that the normal occupants were still not in residence and had not been for several days.
The refrigerator had a sour smell about it, containing only an open canister of milk long gone rancid. The source of the house's electricity, wherever it was, had been turned off, and flashlight beams revealed that a light patina of dust had begun to collect on flat surfaces. There was nothing remarkable in the house. A few inexpensive oils hung on the walls and a huge sword over the fireplace-a sword, though effective in its time, that would be no match for the weapons these men carried.
One of the men turned to the one with the eye patch, speaking in Russian. 'You are certain the Scotsman and the American will return?'
The man with one eye nodded. 'And with the woman. We will wait.'
Chapter Fifty-one
Cagliari, Sardinia
The next morning
Jason was careful he was not observed as he dropped the stolen cell phone overboard before being one of the first to disembark from the ferry. A quick survey of the harbor revealed fishing craft, private sailboats, a few motor launches, and no place to rent a car. Adrian had omitted that factoid, he thought sourly.
Taxis, though, were plentiful. He took one to the airport.
The ride through town began as one of no particular interest. Apartment houses of undistinguished architecture and recent vintage shouldered one another for room, screening the view of the ocean. The churches gave some small clue as to the island's multicultural history. Graceful Moorish facades were only blocks from chunky Romanesque fronts left by conquering Normans and Spanish. The ebullience of Italian Gothic, unlike any other of the period, was equally represented. It looked like every second street corner hosted an outdoor market.
The airport was featureless modern. Jason paid the driver and went inside the terminal, where boutiques, tour guide offices, and duty-free shops outnumbered the two ticket counters. Turning to his left to follow the signs, he crossed a neatly groomed patch of ground to another building housing rental car offices. There were no lines in front of any of them.
The Rugger passport had been left at the pensione in hopes of convincing the authorities that Jason had perished at Baia. He pulled a leather pouch from a jacket pocket and examined the other two IDs Mama had sent him before he left the Dominican Republic. The pictures on both driver's licenses and passports were the same. He selected the documents and cards in the name of Andrew Forest Stroud of New York City. He looked at the address. East Seventy-second Street.
Jason hoped he looked like someone from the tony Upper East Side. But then, New York's wealthy made a practice of shabby dress.
Eurocar had a selection varying from the largest Mercedes to the tiniest Smart Car, also by DaimlerChrysler, though the manufacturer was understandably ashamed to adorn it with the three-pointed star. Jason chose a four- door Peugeot, something that would attract as little attention as possible.
The drive back to town was unremarkable, other than the normal frustration of finding a parking space. Jason felt truly blessed when he pulled in behind a departing Opel only six blocks from the harbor.
From his table outside a waterside trattoria, Jason watched the ferry dock. As the cars drove off, the few pedestrian passengers disembarked. The bright colors of Maria's gold-and-blue scarf were visible all the way across the quay. Jason could only marvel how the woman always managed to come up with a different one. He had little doubt she could find a Hermes shop in the middle of the Sahara Desert.
Women possessed some sort of internal navigational system for such things. Laurin could detect the proximity of a shoe store in cities she had never visited. Once in Paris…
He pushed the thought aside, surprised at how easy it was becoming to dismiss his former wife. He watched Maria seat herself at a table identical to his but on the other side of the small harbor. The plan called for her to have a cup of coffee and remain where she was until Jason verified that she was not being followed or observed.
Unlike their American counterparts, Italian, and most European trattorias, bistros, or whatever considered the price of a single beverage to be a ticket to occupy a table as long as the customer wished. In fact, the national pastime in many large cities was to order a sole glass of wine and spend the afternoon watching the passing crowds from the same table.
After forty minutes, the only interest in Maria that Jason noted was the openly admiring glances for which Italian men were notorious. He was amused by the persistence of one who had tried to share her table and finally admitted defeat after ten minutes of being intensely ignored.
He stood, reluctant to leave the pleasant morning sun, and walked casually along the edge of the port, feigning interest in first one sailboat, then another. He barely gave Maria a glance as he passed within ten feet of her and sauntered on. Without looking back, he turned away from the water's edge and strolled up one of the two streets that dead-ended into the harbor. He paused in front of a gelaterie, seeming to marvel at the variety of flavors of ice cream the small shop displayed. In the glass of the adjacent store's display window, he saw Maria turn the corner and enter the same street.
She stopped, distracted by the size of the prawns on ice under a sign proclaiming FRUTTI DI MARE. Although
