The Sixth Station(120)

Pantera’s not dead.

Then he continued: “International law-enforcement sources have confirmed to the BBC that it was Forsythe who had escaped yesterday after the shootout that left three Interpol agents dead at the castle keep atop Montségur in France.”

He is dead.

“Michael Forsythe was wanted for multiple counts of murder, forgery, impersonating an officer of the French armed services, aiding and abetting a terrorist group, gun running, kidnapping, and bank fraud. He is credited with funneling nearly one billion pounds sterling into the terrorist group Fratele Meu Iubit, which has ties to Al Okhowa Al Hamima.”

Trust no one.

“It is also reported that yesterday’s shootout may have involved Alessandra Russo, a former New York Standard reporter who was traveling with Forsythe after escaping a warrant for the murder of a Catholic priest, Father Eugene Sadowski, in New York City. Russo’s identification was obtained from fingerprints on a gun recovered at the scene.”

Toss the gun. Damn, what a sucker! The son of a bitch set me up! But why? Never trust a man who gives you a gun. Why didn’t my mother ever teach me that lesson?

“Witnesses say Russo, a petite brunette in her late thirties or early forties, now has short, very bright red hair. It is believed that she is traveling in France or Italy and is considered armed and very dangerous. Her photo is available at BBC.com. This is Andrew Jennings reporting.”

I caught my breath and pulled off the next exit. It was a typical small Italian town, and I was lucky to find a farmacia just opening up after the noonday siesta. I slipped on the terrible pink sweatshirt I’d bought back on the New York Thruway and put the hood up.

I searched through the store’s very limited selection of hair coloring and found one that looked to be an ash-blond shade. Good enough.

I found an outdoor kiosk and bought a black baseball cap with ROMA scrawled on the front in gray. I then drove through the back streets until I found a motel-type inn a few towns away, and checked in with the cap on my head.

I took the tiny two-person rickety lift to the fourth floor, opened the door of the room, locked it behind me with the giant skeleton key, and walked into the mini room. I opened the shutters a bit and looked down. No cars.

Calm down. You were practically alone on the highway. Any other cars passed you at 140 km because you couldn’t go faster than 85 km. No one exited off the highway behind you, and no one parked near you at the farmacia. OK, you’re safe for the minute. Concentrate on the task at hand.

I began to attempt to strip the red color out of my hair. When I rinsed the peroxide out, however, what remained was a mess of dull yellow strings. Worse—it was even more of a bull’s-eye than the red hair had been. I applied the second part, the ash-blond color mixture, and prayed I’d look something like Madonna circa 1987. I waited a half hour, stood under the shower, stepped out, and dried my hair with a towel. I was now prematurely gray. Perfect.

Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for international terrorist and legendary actress Jamie Lee Curtis!

I plopped down on the bed and put my head in my hands.

I looked out the window again by opening the shutter slats. My car was still sitting alone in the little parking lot. I closed the window and the shutters tightly, throwing the room into darkness, and turned on the small table lamp.

You’re no good if you’re a wreck. You’re safe for the minute, safe for the minute, safe for the minute.…

The old-fashioned room phone blasted me out of my momentary sense of safety.





37





Who the hell found you? Don’t pick it up. No, pick it up. The jig is up. No. Do not pick it up!

After four attempts, the ringing stopped. My heart was racing. I opened the slats of the shutters and tried to look down again. I could only see that there was no way out other than to jump straight down into the parking lot.

Take a shot and call the front desk. If you’re trapped, it can’t get worse. The desk clerk picked right up.

“Pronto.”

“Buon pomeriggio, signore. Ci sono dei messaggi per me? Numero venti?” I hoped I was making sense, but the man at the desk seemed to understand.

“Sì, signora.”

“Chi?”

“La suora. Mow-reena.”

“Mi scusi?”

“How you say? Yes, la sister…” He pulled the phone away and to his chest to ask a question of someone there.

“Sì, signora. Suora. She is the non.”

“A nun?”

“Sì! Sì. A non.”

Is it the nun from the Manoppello? A trick? What?

“Did she leave a phone number?” My Italian was completely gone from me now.

Again, the desk clerk put the phone down, and I heard him talking to someone before he handed it over to his “translator.”