“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Yea,” she said softly.
JUST BEFORE DAWN. ALWAYS the best time for an attack. Kyle threaded the little rental car through the curving mountain roads, little more than farming trails, outside of the mountain village of Pienza.
“Just ahead on the right, there’s a small road leading to the north,” Lauren said, using a small flashlight to illuminate the map. “If I remember right, that’s the corner of the vineyard, and there is a water-pumping apparatus sticking out of the ground.”
“Got it,” replied Kyle, turning into the narrow driveway that unspooled down the hillside. The metal tanks in the backseat clanked together with dull thumps. In about a half mile they rolled onto the flat plateau, and he shut off the lights.
The old stone building had been around since the sixteenth century, beginning as a serf’s cottage and growing, layer by layer, into a sturdy home with accompanying outbuildings to shelter farming equipment. Jim Hall owned the place through a false business name and leased the surrounding land, which was thick with neat rows of a vineyard that yielded fat purple grapes that were turned into a delicious wine. The entire place was dark.
They got out of the car, and Lauren walked purposefully up the steps, moved aside a pot of flowers on a ledge, and found the key to the front door. Without knocking, she opened the lock and went inside. “Nobody stays here but Jim, and a housekeeper comes in twice a week. Bastard likes to play lord of the feudal manor.” She went from room to room, switching on lights, and the darkness gave way to light gold colors and white walls. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the time she had spent here as his lover. He had completely fooled and used her.
Kyle moved through the place to give it a quick search and clear. It was spacious and comfortable, with thick rugs on the floors and heavy European furniture. When he reached the rear bedroom, he saw Lauren furiously stripping black silk sheets from the king-sized bed, and then he silently followed her out into the backyard.
Without speaking, she flung the sheets over a clothesline and anchored them with a row of wooden pins. She stalked back to the house and snatched a large, sharp butcher’s knife from the kitchen. Swanson stood aside and let her work, seeing her cheeks wet with tears of fury. Moonlight glinted on the knife blade as she plunged and stabbed and sliced through the soft cloth, ripping it to shreds until she ran out of breath and stood facing the tattered sheets, exhausted, breathing in big gulps. She dropped the knife, and ribbons of silk sheets flapped in a gentle predawn breeze.
By the time she turned around, Swanson was already lugging the heavy dark blue tanks of propane gas into the house. They had purchased the five ButanGas canisters over the past few days from different stores while still in Umbria, explaining that they were about to christen their new Spiedino stainless steel grill with some outdoor cooking at a picnic for friends.
Kyle found an expensive tie, a muted diamond design on lilac, on a closet rack, and a bottle of 80 proof brandy among the cluster of bottles on the marble-topped bar in the living room. He opened the bottle and stuffed the necktie deep inside, letting the rich alcoholic drink wick into the material. “Ready?” he asked.
She picked up a bottle of olive oil and threw it against the wall of the living room, then sailed a second one into the bathroom, where it shattered in the large multiple-head shower. Her face was red with anger. “You bet.”
Swanson went to the bedroom of the villa and twisted the valve of the propane gas cylinder fully open, sniffing the air for the telltale odor. Lauren was doing the same thing in the second bedroom, and he leapfrogged into the hallway and opened the third of the bottles, each of which carried the emblem of a rearing white dragon on a blue shield. Lauren hurried past him to the kitchen and opened the fourth one. They met in the living room, and she opened the final tank.
“Go start the car,” he said, and she dashed into the growing light of day, a smile coming to her face as she slid behind the wheel. Kyle was on the veranda, holding the bottle of brandy high and setting fire to the liquid-soaked tie with his lighter. The flame caught, tiny for only a flickering instant, then began to speed up as it ate into the accelerant. Kyle left the bottle sitting just inside the partially open door, with more of the expensive fuse disappearing every second.
Lauren already had the car turned around and rolling away when he dove inside. She stamped onto the accelerator. The little vehicle seemed to crawl, then gave a lurch, and the tires dug into the gravel.
Behind them, the propane gas had filled the entire house by the time the flaming Piero Tucci tie met the 40 percent alcohol brandy and the house erupted, its heavy stone walls funneling the blast upward in a rolling tower of flame and thunder.
39
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“GUNNERY SERGEANT KYLE SWANSON of the United States Marine Corps is charged with mass murder.” The lawyer, a civilian representing the Central Intelligence Agency, was making a bland statement of fact, reading from a sheet of paper. “Specifically, the accused is to be court-martialed for violating Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, by committing the unpremeditated murder of at least nineteen specific persons in Pakistan. The punishment will be something other than death, as directed by a court-martial, but may include dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and confinement for life.”
“Who?” Major Sybelle Summers gave away nothing. She adjusted the sleeves of her comfortable dark brown suit. The buttons of the jacket were undone to make it roomier for the pistol on her belt while she was seated. A beige blouse and flats and minimal accessories completed the understated outfit. Her black hair was styled short and swept back. Around her slender neck was a chain with various plastic cards that granted her entrance to quiet, private rooms in the Pentagon and other important places, such as this one. She had the highest security clearance possible.
The lawyer, Stephen Swinton, darted his eyes from the papers spread before him to the attractive woman seated across the table. It was difficult not to be impressed. “You are the operations officer of a special unit known as Task Force Trident, are you not, Major?”
“I know of no such organization. I work with the White House Military Office and sometimes carry the football, the briefcase containing nuclear codes the president may need in case of an emergency. I also help with the military side of advance work for presidential trips.”
Swinton was smug, anxious to pierce the screens this woman was throwing up, and he continued his delivery. “And in your capacity as the Trident operations officer, you also were the commanding officer of Gunnery Sergeant Swanson at the time of the action in question, is that not so?”
“Someone has given you faulty information, Mr. Swinton. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was irritatingly precise and icily confident. Her calm, dark eyes betrayed no sign of nervousness.
Swinton, who had been a CIA attorney for three years, had dealt with difficult cases before. They always thought they could outsmart him, despite the knowledge that he had the resources of the entire Central Intelligence Agency to support him and build a case. He decided that an abrupt change of subject, a slightly veiled personal insult, might shake her confidence. “That is a designer suit you are wearing, Major. Very nice. Prada, if I am not mistaken. The shoes are Italian leather, and your purse is a small and stylish Gucci. Rather expensive attire for someone of your pay grade as a mere Marine major.”