little redness on your face for a few days, but don’t worry, no one will see it.’
‘Why are you – ?’
‘Go to Peter.’
She peered into the darkness of the compartment, seeing Peter lying down on a mattress at the other end. She shuffled closer to him and looked back at the man.
Lucille gasped and he swung the van’s rear doors shut, one at a time. She heard a bolt slide into place.
She crawled to where Peter lay, now in complete darkness, and pulled him into a hug. He didn’t stir, his breathing still deep and regular. She held him tightly until she felt the van rock as the blond man climbed into the cab. She realised the floor was soft and spongy. She checked the walls. They were spongy too. She climbed to her feet and banged a fist on one of the rear doors but made no noise. It was the same as the floor and walls. She pushed her fingers against it. They sank into a thick layer of foam rubber.
The engine started and the van pulled away.
Lucille lay down next to Peter and began to cry.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Lazio, Italy
The last time Victor had been in Italy he had been lying low while he recuperated from a bullet that had torn a groove across his right triceps. That injury had not been severe and had healed well, but it had added another scar to the many hidden beneath his clothes that no surgeon in the world could fully remove. The oldest scars were souvenirs of mistakes not to be made again or considerations never to be forgotten. The newer scars were permanent reminders that no matter the considerations he took he could not control every facet of every situation, but that he still had to try.
A chartered yacht had ferried Francesca and Victor across the Mediterranean through the night and by dawn Francesca was driving a dusty Fiat up the coastal roads from Terrancina, seemingly heading to Rome, but veering east into countryside when they passed Latina.
She spoke as she drove, talking about her experiences, her travels, and especially her husbands, and asking no questions in return. Victor was happy to let her talk – it wasn’t the nervous chatter of someone afraid of silence like the last time they had been in a car together.
‘The only thing I’ve learned for certain over two marriages is that all men are pigs.’
‘All men?’
‘All men.’ She gave him a look for emphasis, then a different kind of look. ‘Though I’m always on the hunt for the exception to the rule.’
They drove along winding roads through a rural landscape dotted with medieval villages. Woods of chestnut, hazelnut and oak broke up the vast swathes of vineyards and fields of olive trees. The countryside glowed green under the morning sun.
‘Beautiful scenery,’ Francesca said, glancing across to him.
He nodded. ‘Stunning.’
‘We’re nearly there, by the way.’
She turned off the narrow lane and onto an unlaid track that meandered between fields of olive trees. She drove fast despite the frequent blind corners created by the hedgerows that lined the track. The track’s surface was uneven and rutted. Dust billowed from the vehicle’s tyres.
‘Hope I’m not driving too fast for you?’ she asked, hoping she was.
He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘This is fast?’
She grinned and applied more pressure to the accelerator. She buzzed her window down all the way and rested an elbow on the sill. The draught threw her black hair around and it whipped across her face, but she seemed to like it.
Her carefree attitude to speed told him that the track led only to a place from which no other vehicles would be coming. Their destination. Given the fields of olives it would be an old farmhouse, built on a hill at a time when higher ground was the first and best line of defence.
After another kilometre a small hill in the distance began flashing into view between gaps in the hedgerow and olive trees. Buildings stood on the summit.
Victor pretended not to have seen until it became obvious. The hill was about thirty metres in height and the farmhouse had a sloped roof composed of ochre tiles and walls the colour of sand where the bricks weren’t covered in climbing ivy. He guessed sixteenth century. The barn that stood perpendicular to it was maybe a hundred years old.
‘This is it?’ Victor asked.
Francesca smiled in response.
‘Leeson’s?’
She didn’t answer.
She slowed as the gradient increased. Victor expected to see some kind of gate blocking the road