am hoping to understand why Dumas would choose that locale. Perhaps he thinks Adami would not dare to send a car in to do a hit in full view of the public.”
“I think he underestimates Adami. His men are good, they’ll utilize any weakness to their advantage. You know the place, what would that weakness be?” he asked, eyeing the piazza, trying to determine it for himself. The area began filling with tourists and locals alike, enjoying the view, or strolling through the park.
“Since I do not have the advantage of your view, it would be difficult to say.”
“For Christ’s sake, tell me what you know about the place, besides there being too many tourists and a thousand busts lining the street, therefore a thousand places to hide.”
“Of course! It is almost mezzogiorno.”
“Thank you. Something more besides it being noon.”
“No. Every day at noon, there is a cannon blast.”
“Damn it,” he said, glancing at his watch. So much for worrying about Dumas and any cover he might be using. He got back in the van, hit the gas, and drove around the statue, as close to the wall as he could, his wheels screeching as he skidded to a stop. Two girls close to the street screamed. Dumas and the two women looked up in alarm, and Griffin leaned over, threw open the door. “Get in!” he shouted.
Fitzpatrick rose, had the sense to drag the professor with her. “It’s Griffin. Hurry.”
Francesca looked shaken, glanced back toward the priest, who finally roused himself and started toward the van. Griffin looked up, saw the gray car speeding toward them. “Move!”
Fitzpatrick opened the side door, shoved the woman in. She followed after her, and Dumas hustled into the front seat, just as a tremendous blast shattered the November air. The cannon.
“Get down!” Griffin shouted.
The gray car raced toward them, and Griffin saw a gun come out the open passenger window. He slammed the throttle, the van lurched forward. He heard the first shot, then the peal of bells from every nearby tower. The perfect cover for a shooting.
He glanced in his mirror, saw the car skid as it rounded the Garibaldi statue after them. As the mounted carabinieri spurred their horses, the crowd was just becoming aware that something was amiss, that there was more than just the bells tolling the hour.
Griffin stabbed the gas, careened around the hairpin turns down the hill. The gray car was still on them. He made a diversionary cross of the Tiber River on the Principe Amedeo Bridge. Their only hope was to lose the car in the maze of Renaissance streets.
Tunisia
Marc heard the guard’s footsteps as he closed in on the hiding place beneath the desk. Kill or be killed. He braced his knife on his thigh, heard the phone ringing, the damned phone that was likely to ruin an entire operation. Unless Rafiq or Lisette could figure something out—the heart attack scenario wasn’t flying. He heard Lisette calling out that her husband needed help. The faltering footstep of the guard, weighing duty over honor.
And then Marc’s gaze caught on the phone cord draped down the side of the desk…
Hell. How’d he not think of that?
He reached behind him, unplugged the damned phone. Silence. The guard stopped midstep, mumbled something, then turned back the way he’d come. Through the one-way glass, Marc could see Lisette hovering over Rafiq, playing the panicked helpless woman to the hilt. The guard came out, and together they assisted Rafiq to the passenger side of the car, Marc’s cue to leave once he photographed the schedule and returned it to the cabinet.
And he was just about to make his exit when he saw something in the monitor, the top left quarter that flashed on the interior of a warehouse on the premises. It was there and gone, its image replaced by another location, and he had to wait until it cycled back to the warehouse to see if he’d really seen what he’d thought was there.
Or was it his imagination?
Definitely not his imagination. The very sight drenched him with sweat. That was the warehouse they were blowing to smithereens. It took him a moment to rouse himself, realize that nothing was happening if he didn’t get his ass out of there so they could figure out what to do next.
But as he slipped out of the guard shack, then on past the cement barricade, he couldn’t shake the image from his mind.
That of a man heaped on a pallet, his face