'What?'
'Give me the handkerchief. Now.' I felt the hard, cold barrel of his automatic pistol press against my neck.
'What's got into you?' Panic fluttered in my chest.
'Never mind. Give me the handkerchief and get lost. I don't want to shoot you but if I have to, I will.'
'What did you do to Harry?' I was trying to buy time.
'I sent him to watch for the contact. Give it to me now,' he ordered. He made his point by pressing the tip of the automatic harder against my neck, so hard I could feel the front sight dig into my skin.
'OK, OK,' I said. 'I don't want to get shot over a piece of silk.'
I felt him relax. But the automatic was resting on my shoulder, still pointing at my neck.
'I'm sorry, Billy, I have to have it.'
'OK, stay calm. It's in my jacket pocket.' I thrust my hand into my jacket. As I did, I swung away from the pistol and smashed him with my elbow in the back of his neck. He went down with a grunt, but the automatic went off. The sound echoed off the temple walls, and I heard the zing of a ricochet.
'No, no!' Nick coughed up the words as he struggled to get up, one hand on his neck and the other clutching the automatic.
I drew my. 45 and aimed it at his head. I heard footsteps running toward us and tried to comprehend Nick's actions. Had he gone mad? He seemed determined and anguished at the same time.
'Nick, drop your weapon.'
He held onto the automatic, grasping it loosely in his hand as he rose to his knees. 'I need the handkerchief,' was all he said, his eyes cast down to the stone floor of the temple.
'What's this?' Harry said, stepping carefully around a column, pressing his back to it and keeping both of us covered with his Italian Beretta submachine gun.
'I need the handkerchief,' Nick repeated, as if that explained everything.
Harry and I exchanged dumbfounded glances. Nick, with his Sicilian connections, was the key to this mission. We needed him, but it occurred to me that except for the handkerchief, he didn't need us.
Nick stood, placing his body between Harry and me. He didn't drop his weapon. He held my eyes and it seemed he was searching for something, an answer to an unfathomable question.
'Give it to me, Billy, and go hide out somewhere, both of you. I'll take it from here.'
'I can't-'
He turned and squeezed off two shots, aiming high, over Harry's head, but close enough to drive him back under cover. He judged me right. I couldn't shoot him, not in the back anyway. He ran from me while angling away from the column Harry had hidden behind. I fired, high too, wanting to let him know I meant business but reluctant to hit him. He disappeared behind rows of columns and I followed, darting between the stone pillars, listening, trying to stay close but not too close.
I heard footsteps again, heavy this time, not like Harry's stealthy approach. I tried to see beyond the outer row of columns but it was too dark.
'Chi va?' The voice was demanding something, and more boots tramped the ground outside the temple. A single shot sounded in response, and I figured that Nick was about to make his break, covered by a hail of gunfire. It was risky, but he probably figured every nervous Italian soldier standing in the open would keep his eyes on the temple as he blasted away.
He was right. Shots rang out, bright flashes sparkling in a rough line that slowly moved closer. The soldiers were yelling, firing, advancing. I backed into the interior temple, hoping to find Harry and escape before they pulled the ring tighter. I made it to the rear corner of the temple and hid behind a wall that gave me a view along the perimeter of the colonnade.
More shouts from inside the temple, one voice, probably an officer, rising above the others. I couldn't understand but I was sure the words meant Come out with your hands up!
Boots scraped against the hard floor, moving in my direction. I needed to do something, to take the initiative away from them. I pulled a grenade from one of the big side pockets of my jacket. I holstered my. 45 so I'd have both hands free and looked down the shorter row of columns that ran along the rear of the temple. It was clear. I stepped out and pulled the pin of the grenade, holding the safety lever down. I judged the distance and figured I could roll the grenade halfway down the length of the corridor formed by the two rows of columns. The explosion would distract the soldiers and force them to take cover, giving me a chance to beat feet out of there.
I stood exposed between two pillars, listening for the bootsteps to get closer. They were behind me. It was time. I let go of the lever and it sprang away, bouncing off the stone with a metallic twang. I threw underhanded, rolling the grenade perfectly, watching it bounce on the uneven paving and come to rest. I had about two seconds left.
I saw Harry. He came from behind a column, just a few feet forward of the grenade. I opened my mouth to warn him, but before I could make a sound, something hard hit me in the head and a blinding flash of pain sent me to my knees. I tried to shout, to warn Harry, but I couldn't fight through the sharp electric stabbing sensation in my skull. My hand went to my holster, there was a rapid babble of Italian, more pain, then an explosion, right where Harry had been.
I opened my eyes and saw the Temple of Concordia. GIs wandered around it craning their necks and gawking at the ancient columns. Did they wonder at the bloodstained floor inside? The stonework glowed softly golden in the bright sun. It was beautiful in the daylight, not at all the place of dark shadows from my memory. I saw one officer focusing his camera on it, a tourist in dogshit brown, snapping photos to impress the folks back home while other soldiers fought house to house less than a mile away. The temple receded from view as the little Fiat sped down the road, churning up dust behind us, obscuring the brightness and leaving me with my memories of betrayal and death in the night.
My right hand shook as I recalled the feel of that grenade in my hand, the grooved case iron cold against my palm. My heart was thumping to beat the band and I glanced at Sciafani to see if he'd noticed. It was hard to believe everything I remembered hadn't just happened. Sciafani's head was slumped against the window as he stared at something very, very far away, clutching the burlap bag to his chest. I relaxed and shut my eyes again, wishing for oblivion, clasping my left hand over my right to hide its trembling, hoping the visions wouldn't return. Thanks for the memories.
So what did this tell me? Nick had betrayed us, demanding the handkerchief for his own purposes. That was important, but there was something else equally important. He had been desperate and anguished. Not cold and calculating. He wanted the handkerchief; no, he needed the handkerchief. That meant he was under pressure to get it, the kind of pressure that makes a man turn a gun on his friend and beg him to give him what he wants and then leave. He'd gotten away, that much Tommy the C had confirmed. Too bad Sciafani had killed Tommy. I would have liked to ask him a few more questions, like who we were supposed to meet and how they had eluded the Italian soldiers. He'd said their officer was killed in a grenade blast, and then some of them deserted. That had to have been my grenade. With their officer dead, the Italians must have lost interest and gone their separate ways, some back to their unit, one to report to the caporegime at the cathedral, the rest headed for the hills. Except for Roberto.
Now it came to me. The cut on my arm had been from a bayonet. One of the soldiers had stabbed at me when I tried to unholster my. 45. It had been Roberto. It was a halfhearted stab, more of a push to dissuade me from shooting. His officer had stepped in front of us, his pistol raised. If Roberto hadn't stopped me, he would have had plenty of time to plug me. Roberto had saved my life.
Wait a minute. The Italian officer had stepped in front of us. The grenade was a few yards behind him, then there was a couple of yards more to where Harry stood. Would Harry have stayed rooted to the spot, out in the open, with an enemy officer yards away? Maybe yes. He might have advanced, to take him out before he could shoot. Maybe no. He might have ducked behind a column to take cover. Which was it?
'Enrico,' I said, nudging Sciafani in the ribs.
'What?' He turned away from the window and answered, like a drunk at a bar who only wants to stare into his glass. His eyelids were lowered, half hiding the redness of his eyes.
'Ask the driver if he was the one who was to meet me and two others at the Temple of Concordia.' He did, and the driver shook his head.
'It was not him,' Sciafani said. 'It was his brother.'
