flight-and her daughter showed her out the window how the little electric carts were loading the baggage into the plane. Strangest of luck, they even saw her very own wheelchair itself being loaded into the plane. The old woman settled back restlessly, leaned forward several times to check the progress of the loading, and, finally, resigned herself to having to trust the blind promises of absolute strangers.
There was a thunderstorm on the flight to London. Twice the passengers all gasped in unison as the plane dropped suddenly into the rainy darkness. The old woman and her daughter grasped each other’s hands in the dim cabin gloom, staring unblinkingly at the flight attendants, who had strapped themselves into their tiny seats against the back wall of the cockpit.
The Alitalia flight finally landed at London Heathrow, the last flight from Italy for the night. The daughter followed meekly as the old woman was wheeled off the plane and was put on one of the courtesy trams. Together they rode swiftly through the concourse, the tram beeping to part the crowds as they sped past the fluorescent- lighted gift shops, through the invisible but distinct odors of the quick-food eateries, past the lounges and the pubs and the gateway waiting areas filled with bleary-eyed travelers.
The tram waited until their wheelchair arrived on the conveyor, and the old woman was helped into it and her daughter pushed her along the way to the customs stations. Their papers were examined, and they were questioned. Two customs officers came out of a back room and told the daughter, who spoke a modest amount of heavily accented English, that they would have to ask her mother to sit in the waiting area for a few moments while they examined her wheelchair.
Once again she was helped into one of the chairs to one side in the waiting area. She watched as the two customs officers examined her wheelchair in detail, using an odd kind of metal rod to tap-tap-tap on every inch of the tubular steel frame. They pulled off the cushions and put them through the X-ray machines. They unscrewed the black plastic armrests, looked at them, and put them back again.
They tested the wheelchair’s motor. Why wouldn’t it work?
The daughter explained.
The two officers unscrewed the battery from its brackets and took it off the wheelchair. They told the daughter they were sorry, but they would have to keep the battery. Her eyes grew large, and the old woman began to protest.
Please, please understand, the officer said. Electrical batteries were lined with lead and could not be X-rayed to check for explosives. To make sure there was nothing in it, they would have to dismantle it, which would ruin it. The old woman began to tell them that the French doctor had given it to her. She said she would not be able to get around, couldn’t shop, couldn’t go to the market without her wheelchair. She waved her arms, protesting vociferously to her daughter.
The daughter tried to placate her, but she began to wail. The English were ruining her French wheelchair. Finally one of the officers left and returned with a piece of paper that he called a voucher, a check for the approximate amount of the cost of a new battery. They were sorry, but this would have to do. It would be quite easy to get a new battery in the morning.
The daughter comforted the old woman and helped her back into her French wheelchair. The customs officers put the battery on a cart and took it away to be dismantled.
The old woman was finally able to lie down on a lumpy, swaybacked bed in a dowdy flat on the outer edges of Basildon on London’s east side. She was asleep in moments. Her daughter made a telephone call.
At two o’clock the old woman was awakened. Her daughter told her that the people had come for the package.
The old woman pulled herself up on one elbow and looked at the young woman with wiry red hair who was standing at the foot of the bed.
“We’ll just have a look, ma’am,” the girl said.
The old woman said something to her daughter. The daughter looked at the redheaded girl.
“She wants her money first.”
The redheaded girl smiled and took a small bundle out of her purse. She gave it to the old woman. The old woman gave it to her daughter, who unwrapped it and counted the money. The daughter nodded, said it was the right amount, and then gave it back to the old woman. The old woman eyed the redheaded girl, put the money in her lap, and raised her dress on one side, exposing the stump of her leg.
The girl sat on the edge of the bed and pulled an elastic stocking off the leg. A cotton sock covered the stump. The girl removed the sock, revealing a packet attached to the stump by wide bands of a flesh-colored adhesive. The packet was the same diameter as the stump and molded to appear to be the end part of it. It added about ten centimeters to the length of the stump.
The girl began undoing the adhesive and in just a few moments removed the packet, which was wrapped in heavy plastic. The material in the packet was dense, doughy.
“Thank you very much,” the redheaded girl said.
The old woman nodded and lay back on the lumpy bed, looking at the girl with uncaring eyes, clutching the bundle of bank notes to her stomach.
The redheaded girl took the packet and left.
CHAPTER 27
Mara walked up one of the narrow streets that led into the village, its steep grade pulling at the muscles in the backs of her legs. She wore a light sweater thrown over her shoulders, for it was still early enough in the morning that the air had a lingering sense of dampness to it. She carried one of her large sketchpads and a packet of pencils. The sun had not yet cleared the low eastern ranges, and the shadows in the small serpentine streets were still tinged with purple. She met only an occasional solitary figure, though the shop owners in some of the lanes were beginning to stir, their subdued morning voices punctuated by the sharp rattle of an iron grille rolling up to open the front of a shop.
She made several more turns, entering an even narrower lane, and loosened the button at the neck of her sweater. Even in the cool of the morning she was growing warm from the effort of walking on the continuous incline. She came to the walled grounds of a private estate and soon to its double-winged wrought-iron gates, which were locked. To one side was another iron gate, a pedestrian entry. She turned the latch and went through, closing it behind her.
Following a winding cinder path, she continued under old cypresses and linden trees to a small chapel on a promontory overlooking the lakes. In front of the chapel facing the lake was a stone courtyard flanked by hedges and terra-cotta urns filled with bright, orange red geraniums.
On a stone bench to one side of the chapel door a man was waiting, his legs crossed at the knee, a thermos sitting next to him with two coffee cups.
As she approached him he stood, but she gave him no opening to make a gesture of greeting before she sat down.
He hesitated only slightly, as if deciding not to say anything, and sat down again beside her.
Mara leaned her sketchpad against the bench, poured herself a cup of coffee, and picked up the cup. She looked at him.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” she said.
Bill Howard’s face was heavy with the strain of the past week. He looked tired. She had no idea how much trouble it had taken him to get here, and she didn’t care.
“How did you manage to leave him?” he asked
“He had to go down to Como. I told him I’d walk up the hill to sketch.”
“What’s he doing in Como?”
“I don’t know.”
Howard’s mouth tightened with impatience. “What’s he been doing?”
“He’s been on the Internet. He’s got the information Alain Darras gave him. He’s contacting somebody, or several somebodies, in that file.”
“You still haven’t looked at that?”
