Howell watched Grimaldi slip his way around the tables and out the door, he noticed a pair of men sitting at one of the smaller tables near the bar. They were dressed like locals, but their bodybuilder physiques and close-cropped haircuts betrayed their true identities. Soldiers.
Howell was familiar with the big American base outside Palermo. During his days with the SAS he'd had occasion to use it as a staging ground for joint operations with U.S. Navy SEALs. For security reasons, most of the personnel stayed within the base perimeter. When they ventured out, it was usually in groups of six or more, and then only to the popular clubs and restaurants. There was no reason for these strapping specimens to be here unless...
C-12.
The explosives used to kill the Rocca brothers were an American creation. Tightly controlled. But certainly available at one of the largest U.S. bases in Southern Europe.
Had the Roccas' paymaster--- possibly the individual who had hired them to kill Danko--- also been the one to booby-trap the gondola?
As he rose from the table, Howell took another look at the two Americans.
Or had it been a soldier's mission from the very beginning?
Just before midnight, the penzione's sleepy porter knocked on Peter Howell's door to inform him that he had a phone call. He was surprised to discover that his guest was dressed as though ready to go out.
Howell spoke briefly on the phone, tipped the porter, and disappeared into the night. The moon rode high in the sky, illuminating the shuttered shops of the Vuccira market. Howell crossed the empty square to the Piazza Bellini, then drifted along the Via Vittorio Emannuele, the city's major thoroughfare. At the Corso Calatofini, he turned right, now just a hundred yards shy of his destination.
Dominating the Via Pindemonte is the Convento dei Cappuccini--- the Convent of the Capuchins. While a striking example of Middle Ages architecture, the monastery's real attraction lies below ground. In the catacombs that surround the convento are buried over eight thousand bodies, belonging to both lay and religious persons. Preserved through various chemical processes, they are placed in the niches along the corridors, and are dressed in the clothes the interred themselves had provided prior to their death. Those bodies that aren't lined up along the cold, sweating limestone walls rest in glass coffins, stacked floor to ceiling.
Although open to the public during the day, the catacombs had been a favorite hiding place of smugglers for centuries. There were a dozen ways in and out, and Peter Howell, who had studied the catacombs carefully, knew them all.
As he approached the gates that fronted the parklike entrance to the monastery, Howell heard a low whistle. He pretended not to notice Grimaldi slip out of the shadows until the smuggler was only a few steps away. The moonlight created dancing pinpricks of light in Grimaldi's gray eyes.
"What have you found out?" Howell demanded.
"Something worth getting out of bed for," the smuggler replied. "The name of the man who hired the Roccas. He's frightened. He thinks that after the Roccas, he's next. He wants money to get off the island and hide on the mainland."
Howell nodded. "Money isn't a problem. Where is he?"
Grimaldi motioned the Englishman to follow him. They skirted the tall wrought-iron fence, moving into the shadows created by the monastery's high walls. The smuggler slowed, then crouched by a small gate cut into the fence. His fingers were busy working the lock when Howell spotted the anomaly.
The lock was already open!
Howell moved like a wraith. As soon as Grimaldi pushed open the gate, he delivered a blow meant to stun, not kill, to the side of the head. Grimaldi let out a soft sigh and dropped, unconscious.
Howell didn't pause. Slipping through the gate, he made his way along the hedgerow that formed a corridor to the entrance of the catacombs. He spotted nothing, which meant---
The trap was outside the perimeter, not inside!
Just as he whirled around, Howell heard the creak of the gate's hinge. Two shadows hurtled toward him. In the split-second that the moonlight caught their faces, he recognized the soldiers from the tavern.
Instantly the knife appeared in his hand. Howell held his ground until the last possible second, then, like a matador, pivoted to allow the first soldier to rush past him. He swung the blade up and across, its cutting edge drawing across the man's midsection.
Howell didn't wait to see the killer drop. Feigning right, he moved left, but that didn't fool the second