"You better believe it."
"Well, I see your point, but—"
"Look, there was a back road we took today, coming in from the airport. A few years ago there used to be this gang, like pirates. They worked the road late at night. They used two cars with walkie-talkies, one at either end, and when they got a lone car, they'd head it off and block it from in front and behind at this narrow bridge, to rob it. Sometimes they killed the passengers. It went on for months; nobody could do anything."
"What about the police?"
"Come on, the Catanian polizia are something else. The only thing that made any difference was when a few people got together and went to the Mafia, to those guys sitting right there. There was no protection fee involved, you understand, no subscription, no Mafia interest. But the gang was giving the area a bad name, and people just expected the Mafia to do something about it."
"And?"
"And a few mornings later they found the cars the gang was using, burned to crisps near the bridge. Three bodies inside, likewise fried. And that was the end of that. I'm telling you, when these guys go after you, you can forget it."
"Oh, wonderful. Did I tell you Colonel Antuono thinks it's the Mafia that's trying to kill me?"
She blinked at me. "The . . . oh, piffle, why would—"
At that moment Ugo returned, flushed and pleased with himself. "I told them all about you," he said proudly. "They were tremendously interested."
"I'll bet," I muttered. "They probably loved finding out I was still in one piece."
He looked at me peculiarly. "What?"
"I'll explain later, Ugo."
"They invite you to their table," he said. "They would like to meet you." He put a hand on my forearm. "It's an honor, Cristoforo."
"Well, I'd like to meet them, too," I said, pushing my chair out from the table.
The dark secretary was standing right behind me, smooth and snaky. "I am Basilio," he said in English. "When they sit down, you sit, too. When they stand up, you go. You are to ask them nothing, only answer. This is understood?"
Basilio, it seemed, was not only secretary but protocol chief, too. He waited, blocking my way until I nodded, then turned and led me to their table.
The two men rose. There were smiles and handshakes and friendly noises. If they were annoyed to find me still breathing, they didn't show it.
The older man with the graceful fingers was mild and courtly. "Benvenuto a Catania, dottore," he said. He smelled of soap and cologne.
It occurred to me that I might fare better if they thought I didn't understand Italian. "Molte grazie," I said haltingly. "Mi dispiace, io non parlo bene l'italiano. " I tried to make it sound as if I'd memorized it out of Berlitz.
Both men laughed pleasantly. The white-haired one waved me politely to a chair and we all sat. I accepted a small glass of dark, sweet wine. The pudgy one spoke quietly over his shoulder to Basilio, who stood at his side.
"They say," Basilio translated, "how long do you stay in Catania?"
"Only four days, unfortunately." It was actually only two days, but I'd learned my lesson: I wasn't going to start advertising my departure time again.
The information was conveyed by Basilio, who was given a second message, this time from the white-haired man. "They ask, what is your special competence, your expertise?"
"The Renaissance and Baroque periods."
This seemed to interest them, especially the older man.
"They say," Basilio said, "have you familiarity with Sicilian artists of the time?"
"Of course. Montorsoli, Pietro Novelli—they're known throughout the world." Not household names, perhaps, but why quibble? And oddly enough, I found myself wanting to please the older man.
He was pleased. He chuckled and nodded at me. "Known throughout the world," I heard him repeat in Italian.
For a while the three of us sipped and smiled at each other. I was conscious of envious stares from other tables. People were coveting my time with them, fretting that their own turns might be bypassed. Not that mine was doing me much good. For all the information that my clever no-spikka-da-Italian ploy had produced, I might have dispensed with it. There had been no muttered byplay in Italian about bombs or loot or anything else.
I decided to take hold of matters. "I had an interesting flight here today," I said.
Basilio translated.
"Ah?" said the pudgy one politely. Either his attention was beginning to wander or he was craftier than I thought. No doubt the latter.
"Yes," I said, "I was almost killed by a bomb."
With a quick stab of his cold eyes Basilio advised me against the propriety of this I repeated it.
Basilio shrugged. "He says," he told them in Italian, "that he encountered many difficulties and delays on his flight."
There were murmurs of sympathy, bland and perfunctory; nothing more. Something was peculiar here. Even with no more than Basilio's bowdlerized version to go on, their ears should have pricked at mention of the flight, but there had been nothing. Was Antuono wrong? Despite his "skilled undercover agents" and their months of information-gathering, had he come to the wrong conclusion about who was at the bottom of it all? Or—a fresh, unsettling possibility—had he been purposely misleading me? But why?"
The bald one said something to Basilio.
"They say, where you are from in America?"
"I was born in California."
This produced the first real show of interest in a while. "They say, you know of Sylvester Stallone the actor?"
"What? Yes. "
"Cugino!" the bald man exclaimed.
"Cousin," Basilio translated dutifully. "A distant cousin. His people come from nearby."
The bald man nodded vigorously, "Sí! " he said. "Sí!"
"Ah," I said. The conversation had edged over into the surreal. "Very interesting. Molto interessante."
More smiles, and the white-haired man stood up and held out his hand. Basilio looked meaningfully at me. I got up, too. There were bows and handshakes all around.
"Good-bye," said the white-haired man in labored, almost impenetrable English, "and good luck."
Half an hour later, as Ugo, Mary, and I were leaving, Ugo was summoned briefly back to their table. He joined us outside, all smiles.
"They liked you," he told me blissfully. "The insurance is arranged, the customs are taken care of."
I stared at him. "You mean those are the officials you were talking about? It's the Mafia that's helping me get that picture to The Hague?"
"Sure," he said. "Who else?"
Possibly it's occurred to you to wonder why I was so willing to personally convey a suspect painting to The Hague (even, as it now appeared, under the dubious sponsorship of the Mafia). Why not simply have it shipped there for van de Graaf's inspection? There was plenty of time, after all; Northerners in Italy was still months from opening. Why complicate my life?
If, however, you know your European geography, then all is clear. The Hague is even closer to Amsterdam than Rotterdam is; a mere nine miles, with fast, frequent trains between the two. This isn't to say that! manufactured an excuse to go there. Everything I'd told Ugo about the painting and about van de Graaf was true. All the same, my scrupulous if malleable conscience was not displeased at having a justifiable, work-related reason for a diversion to the west coast of Holland. I would fly there directly from Sicily,
From Ugo's I checked with Alitalia to make sure there was an early Monday morning flight with seats available. There was. I thanked the clerk without making a reservation; this time I would do my booking just before I boarded. Then I called van de Graaf to set up a 10:30 meeting at the Mauritshuis. And finally, saving the best for last, I called Anne to ask her to meet me at The Hague museum at noon.