“Yeah. I’m kind of liberal that way,” Pearce said. He tossed the colonel’s antique pistol into the unflushed toilet, splashing slop onto the linoleum. “But I’m working on it.”
The colonel’s skull flushed red. “My granddaddy carried that Colt from Bastogne to the Remagen bridge.”
“Like I give a shit. Next time, pick up a fucking phone and call somebody before you decide to slaughter an entire village, especially a friendly one.”
Pearce backed out of the door and disappeared into the night without being followed by the colonel, still cursing in his bungalow. That completed his first big idea.
His second big idea was going to be a whole lot more interesting.
24
Lake Como, Italy
11 January
The second big idea Pearce had the night he left Kabul was definitely better than the first.
It took him two days to make the haul from Khost to Islamabad, where he boarded a Qatar Airlines flight to Milan. He slept for the entire thirteen-hour flight, even during the layover in Dohar.
He was awake and refreshed when he deplaned at one o’clock in the afternoon at Aeroporto Milano Malpensa. To his surprise, Pearce was greeted at the gate by name by a short, barrel-chested man in a turtleneck and sport coat too small for his bulging arms and shoulders. His bald scalp, broad nose, and deep-set eyes reminded him of the famous Italian dictator—if Mussolini had been a cage fighter.
“Welcome to Italia, Mr. Pearce. My name is Renzo Sforza.” The man shook Pearce’s hand. “I am the Paolini estate manager. Ms. Paolini has put you in my care.”
Judging by the crushing grip, Pearce thought maybe “custody” was a better word than “care.”
Sforza escorted Pearce to a waiting convoy of three silver Maserati Levante SUVs. Three men stood by each of the vehicles, chiseled and handsome as fashion models in après-ski jackets and cargo pants. Relaxed and smiling, Pearce thought they looked like they were posing for a sports magazine cover photo rather than conducting a security transport operation. Only the Beretta pistols tucked into their shoulder harnesses suggested otherwise.
When Pearce approached the lead vehicle, he was greeted with the affable swagger of fellow operators—friendly, confident, and lethal. He offered his backpack for inspection, but it was declined with a smile. He climbed into the rear passenger compartment and the mini convoy sped north on the Strada Provinciale 52 to begin the journey to Lake Como.
The window separating the driver’s compartment from his lowered and Sforza handed Pearce a cell phone. The window slid back up, and a moment later it rang.
“I wasn’t expecting a reception,” Pearce said.
“I couldn’t take any chances,” Cella said. “How was your flight?”
“How did you know I was coming?”
She laughed.
“I mean, how did you know what flight I would be on?” Pearce asked.
“We have computers in Italy, too.”
“Exactly where are you taking me?”
“We have an old family villa at the lake. Just a little place for you to rest and recuperate. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me, too. Unfortunately, I won’t be there when you arrive.”
The convoy whisked along State Road 583 up into the mountains past Como, winding along the steep grade through a dozen postcard villages and towns perched on the mountain or swooping toward the water. Pearce marveled at the deep-blue color of the lake and the giant snowcapped peaks towering over it. Even taller mountains in the Swiss Alps loomed in the distance. The Maseratis made their way along the narrow lane, which seemed barely able to accommodate two cars, particularly in the little towns. An hour and a half later, Pearce’s vehicle came to the town of Bellagio, sitting at the end of a point of land that bisected this end of the lake. Pearce checked his Google maps. It looked like the Bellagio peninsula pointed at the crotch of a running woman, the lake forming two legs running down either side of the peninsula, with the much broader trunk of the northern lake forming her torso.
The SUVs climbed up the hill toward a massive stone-walled villa occupying the top of the wooded hill at the farther point on the peninsula.
That’s when he knew Cella had lied to him.
Just a little place for you to rest and recuperate, she had said, Pearce reminded himself.
The big iron gates at the end of the winding driveway opened electronically and the three-vehicle convoy sped into a courtyard, where they were greeted by uniformed house servants and more bodyguards.
Sforza opened Pearce’s door. Pearce got out, stretched.
“Welcome to Villa Paolini, Mr. Pearce. Let me show you to your room. Any special requests?”
“Hot shower. And I might toss my clothes into a washer. Long trip.”
“Very good. Follow me, please.” Sforza motioned for Pearce to follow as he pulled out a cell phone and barked an order.
Sforza marched up the grand marble staircase and opened the broad wooden double doors at the top of the landing, pointing Pearce the way in. The room was actually a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and a stunning 270-degree view of the deep-blue lakes and towering mountains. It looked more like an IMAX theater screen than an actual room with a view. The room itself was easy on the eyes, too, featuring polished white marble, granite, and light wood complementing the natural view. Pearce could hardly take it in.
“I trust you find the room acceptable, signore,” Sforza grunted.
“If this is all you have, I suppose it will do.” Pearce scratched his ratty beard. “I didn’t bring my GPS. You wanna point me in the direction of the bathroom?”
“Of course.”
Sforza led him to a marble quarry posing as a bathroom. Larger than many homes he’d stood in, the bathroom was a vast expanse of stone, glass, and silver fixtures, but it was the antique barber’s chair and the sturdy woman in a white barber’s coat that caught his attention. She was mercilessly beating a cup of shaving soap into a frothy lather with a badger hair brush. Pearce unconsciously tugged on his beard.
“Perhaps you require a shave, signore?” the woman asked. Her accent was Italian, but her blue eyes and sharp features were definitely Germanic. Pearce knew far northern Italy had been Austrian territory before the First World War.
“Yeah, maybe so.”
“Call if you need anything else, signore,” Sforza said, turned on his heel, and left.
Pearce enjoyed the best shave of his life as the barber deftly removed his beard, yielding a baby-bottom-smooth finish with a pearl-handled straight razor and generous helpings of eucalyptus-scented lather.
Pearce took a long shower in a huge walk-in enclosure with six showerheads that also featured a view of the lake. When he emerged from the shower, open suitcases of new clothes were already laid out on the king-sized bed, all in his size, of course. He feasted on a platter of antipasto, cheeses and fruit, and washed it all down with a bottle of Pellegrino sparkling water. He pulled on casual clothes, a vest, and hiking boots and made his way outside. The air was crystal clear and fragrant with pine. The sun was out, and the air was relatively warm despite the higher altitude—certainly nothing like Afghanistan, which, he could hardly believe, was just a few days behind him. He’d stepped out of hell and fallen into heaven in such a short period of time that he felt disoriented.
Under Sforza’s watchful eye, Pearce toured the grounds around the villa and took in the stunning views of the mountains and lake all over again. The clean air alone was enough to revive his spirits, and the gentle hiking was working out all of the kinks in his muscles after so many hours of sitting on planes and in cars. But another wave of fatigue washed over him and he headed back to his suite. He called down for beer and soon received a dozen bottles of chilled Tipo Pils in a silver champagne bucket brimming with ice. The tasty local craft beer brewed in Como was citrusy and sweet. Pearce downed two while watching a stunning sunset purple a jagged mountain sky, and he was suddenly homesick for the Rockies, the first time in years. He shrugged off a wave of bad childhood memories about his father that suddenly flooded in, brushed his teeth, and hit the sack. He passed out almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.