Outside, Kharon was looking up the address of the next place on his smart phone when a man yelled to him.
“Signor—you need help, yes?”
The man had been in the shop, standing near the magazines. He was in his early twenties, dressed in new jeans and well-tailored sport coat. The odor of his cologne was strong enough to fight its way through the cloud of diesel smoke nearby.
“I need documents,” said Kharon.
“Why?” asked the man.
He seemed too young to be a policeman. But Kharon hesitated. The man’s English was very good, the accent more American than British.
Just the sort of slick operator he needed. If he trusted him.
Am I doing this?
Yes, finally. I am moving ahead after all these years of planning. It is time.
“I need to buy a gun,” Kharon said.
“That’s a very expensive problem,” said the man.
“Not from what I’ve heard.”
“Come on and have a coffee,” said the man, pointing to an espresso bar across the street. “We will talk.”
In the end, Kharon purchased a Glock 17. The pistol was an older version, the type before the accessory rail was added, but the gun itself was in excellent shape. Kharon field-stripped it for inspection in a small room at the back of the coffee shop the man had taken him to. Before he had it back together, his “friend” appeared with a driver’s license and an EU passport. He took a photo, and within ten minutes Kharon was an Italian citizen.
Amazing what five thousand euros could do.
The gun didn’t come with a holster, and Kharon knew better than to try and carry it bare in his belt. He went back to the legitimate gun store and purchased a holster. The whole time, he expected the clerk to say something, perhaps even refuse to deal with him, but the man didn’t even indicate he knew him, or glance suspiciously at the wrapped-up bag Kharon carried with him.
He stopped at another store and bought himself a jacket for two hundred euros. It was a little big, and the shop owner gave him a hard time, insisting that he have it altered, a process that would take a few days. Kharon had to practically shout at the man to get him to sell it as it was.
It was easier to buy illegal documents and a gun in Italy than an ill-fitting jacket.
Better equipped, he filled the tank on the rental car, then set out on the autostrada for the eastern end of the island.
Soon, he thought to himself, he would see Rubeo.
10
Turk’s five minutes playing with the i ragazzi turned into roughly a half hour, and certainly would have lasted longer had the teacher not finally declared it was time for the children to eat lunch.
The kids demanded that he return. He promised he would come back in two days — a vow the teacher made a big deal of, even writing it on the class calendar.
The game vanquished Turk’s hangover, or whatever physical funk he had been in. It also left him hungry, so he walked over to the cafeteria and got himself lunch — a warm octopus salad with red and blue potatoes and the mandatory side of pasta.
He was just about done when he realized he hadn’t checked his phone for messages. There were a stack of them, including two from Ginella: Shooter Squadron was having a pilots’ meeting at 1500, and she hoped he’d be available.
It sounded like a voluntary request, and while the military wasn’t exactly known for volunteerism, Turk decided he would interpret it that way. He also decided he would head toward Catania, a city on the coast about eleven miles north of the base. He hadn’t been there since arriving, and from what he’d heard, it would be the perfect place to let his mind wander while he took a mental breather.
A public bus ran from the base up to the city. Turk hopped on it, and after a confused negotiation with the driver — who finally made it clear that he didn’t have to pay, grazie—he settled into a seat near the back and watched the countryside. Sicily was basically a volcano in the shallow Mediterranean, and the focal point of that volcano — Mount Etna — rose beyond the window as they rode. Despite the early spring heat, the top of the mountain was white-capped. A dim layer of mist rose from the peak; it was a benign presence this afternoon, barely hinting at its power to reshape the lives of the people in the area as well as the landscape.
Turk got out near the city square, or piazza. He walked around for a while, looking at the buildings and the people, his mind wandering. Finally he took a seat at an outdoor café at one side of the square, ordered a wine, then got the menu and had a plate of pasta and a second wine.
A succession of pretty women passed nearby en route to the tourist spots or somewhere to shop. He started to think he might like the idea of touring the country alone.
Few people came close to him, though occasionally he got a smile when his eyes met a stranger’s. Probably this was a function of the flight suit, he realized. He should have dressed in civilian clothes — he was the only serviceman around, American or otherwise, and it seemed to strike an odd note with the tourists who wandered by.
He was just about to pay his bill when his cell phone rang. Taking it from his pocket, he glanced at the number. It wasn’t one he recognized, but he answered it anyway.
“Turk, are you making our meeting?” asked Ginella as he said hello.
“Oh, Colonel, hey,” said Turk. “Meeting?”
“We’re planning the next few sorties,” she said. Her voice was pleasant but businesslike. There was no hint that they had been together the night before. “I was hoping to see you.”
“I got stuck with a few things,” he said. It wasn’t a direct lie, he thought; more like a slight disarray of information. “I didn’t think you guys needed me.”
“The flu has knocked us down badly,” she said. “I’d like to be able to count on you tomorrow.”
“Well—”
“We’ll brief the mission at 0600,” she said, her voice growing more officious. “I am counting on you. I did speak to Operations. And to your colonel.”
“Yes.” Turk wasn’t sure what to say. He did want to fly — he was developing a definite taste for the Warthog. It was just the situation with Ginella that was awkward.
Maybe this was her way of removing that. She was being completely official — yes, he thought, she’s trying to make it easy for me.
Great.
“If I’m not needed by the Tigershark people, I’ll definitely be there,” he told her.
“At 0600,” she told him.
“Got it.”
Turk spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the city. Around six he decided he would head back to the hotel and get changed before finding a place to eat. He thought it might be a good idea to find a dining companion.
Li came to mind. But he had no way of getting hold of her — he didn’t know if she even had a phone.
Maybe, he thought, he could just call her hotel and have the desk connect him to her room.
He couldn’t remember the name of her hotel. His description of it didn’t help the concierge downstairs at his hotel.
“Mi dispiace, Captain,” said the man. “But you have described nearly every hotel in Sicily. It even sounds a little like ours, though maybe not so close to the sea.”
“True,” agreed Turk. “How about a nice place for dinner, not too fancy?” he asked.
“I know just the place. Very quiet and out of the way.”