The Sixth Station(111)

Fiumicino Airport is not my favorite place in Italy—or anywhere, actually. But thanks to the European union  , however, I didn’t have to go through the dreaded customs, which was more of a blessing than getting blessed by the pope himself.

Now what? Wait for Pantera?

I took a cab to the Atlante Garden Hotel, which was located right near the Vatican. The restaurant overlooked the Vatican and was literally a stone’s throw away. I ordered a cappuccino and turned on Sadowski’s cell. There was a voice-mail message.

“My dear, did I not warn you to trust no one?”

Maureen!

“Naive? I’m very surprised. How can you not know that Pantera—who clearly is not dead—is more dangerous than you seem to comprehend? He is an assassin—a paid killer for one of the most radical groups on the planet. Worse, he’s a true believer. Nothing more dangerous.

“Do not ever forget that he was part of the team responsible for the monstrous cloning of a child. Really, I thought you had more grit and more wisdom.”

You thought wrong.

“He will use you to find the source blood, and then you, my innocent girl, will be history. I hope you did not give him anything that you may have uncovered, because if you did, he’ll take off and you’ll never see him again. You will probably think he’s dead. They are very, very good at that, as I know all too well. Get away from him any way you can.”

Too late for that.

“I just hope you get this message and that you have escaped with your life. Believe me, if you never believe another thing, believe this: He is your sworn enemy. He will charm and disarm you, and then he will disappear again. It’s seduce and abandon on a global scale. Just hold on to every bit of evidence you have amassed and let nothing out of your sight or you are doomed.

“He will find you when he needs to. I just hope you see him first.”

Oh, shit. The scarf! She can’t be right. You’re not some babe in the woods who can’t tell the truth from a lie. You’re a reporter, for God’s sake! But seriously, the fact that he’s not here is not good.

I began sweating.

I downed the cappuccino and ordered a cold double espresso. The TV at the bar was tuned to the local news. After the weather—clear and sunny—came the news. A reporter was standing outside a tunnel and was reporting on a horrible smashup. The burned-out wreckage of a car being towed away on the autostrade made my blood run cold. The reporter said that the driver of the car, a man, driving alone, had died on impact, after his car had crashed into the walls and flipped over in one of the tunnels dotting the roads in, around, and outside of Rome.

I could see it was a Citroën. But it was so charred I couldn’t make out the color.

Don’t panic. Every other car in Europe looks like that.

The announcer then said in Italian, “The man’s car was caught on surveillance video when it crossed the border from France into Italy earlier today. It was registered to one Edward Gibbon of Carcassonne, France.”

Oh, God. They got him. Or did he get me?





35





I watched the rest of the newscast with my hand stuffed into my mouth to keep from screaming. The body bag was placed on the stretcher, and the ambulance drove off with all the bells and whistles blaring.

“I’ll meet you there. Trust me on that. I’m not done with you yet. I may never be done with you.”

I was torn between anger and tears, hope and fear. Had he simply arranged an accident in order to disappear with my DNA-loaded scarf? Was he really dead? Or possibly had he directed me to a restaurant because he somehow knew they’d have the news on? He was, after all, very good at arranging accidents. That I knew from firsthand experience. But last night had not been arranged; it had been from some deeper place. Sure.

Can any man fake it like that? Answer: You’re kidding—right?

And so I just sat there not comprehending what the hell had just happened. I was playing a rough game in a playground not of my own making, against a team of bullies who all had bats, while I was alone and armed with just a keyboard.

The word may be mightier than the sword, but except for the s they are pretty much the same. Both are used to kill—and to save.

And both were out of my reach right now. Use the word and get nailed on my location. Use the sword and be outgunned.

If Pantera was really dead, the other side wouldn’t have made it such a spectacular event, I thought. Then I remembered Princess Diana and all those death-by-tunnel conspiracies.

If he wasn’t dead, then he’d just screwed me over—literally and figuratively. I was back where I started, almost. I had more information, but I didn’t know what to do with it or where to go next. Tears, nausea, disgust, hope, and misery hit me all at once.