Thus Billy-O’s income resembled the GNP of a small hot country, even though he personally had more fun than a small hot country. In his public life, he played the part of a white working-class rocker-rapper up against the establishment, and his music matched that image. The truth was, he was a spoiled kid from the New York suburbs. Sammy Newman was his real name. He was a young man who dragged three broken marriages behind him, dozens of affairs, and a couple of attaché cases filled with lawsuits. But he still was one of the great lotharios of his generation. The man was a known bad boy; no one ever came out of a relationship with him better off than they’d gone in. But women couldn’t resist him. Sophie was his latest. They had met in the clothing shop, and now she had taken a few vacation days to spend a long weekend with il cretino, as Rizzo thought of him, in Monte Carlo.
So much for the lot of a career policeman when some Hollywood music Adonis rolled into Rome and started to flash a limitless bankroll.
All of this left Rizzo in a thoroughly rotten mood as summer finally arrived in Rome and the month of July progressed. It also gave him more than a bit of a rotten attitude. So when his captain phoned him on a Monday in the middle of the month and requested that he assemble all the papers and documents he had on the two abandoned murder cases, he met the request with a subservient growl. Rizzo was to assemble all his information and prepare for a meeting with some law-enforcement agents of another nation.
When he learned through the grapevine that the agents he would meet with were American, he pondered the possibilities and complications before him.
He wondered, in his best passive-aggressive manner, how he could make the most of what was obviously a wonderful opportunity.
He looked at the calendar. Two weeks till retirement. Well, he would do some administrative finagling and maybe push back retirement for another sixty days. There were some strings that needed to be pulled, some contacts who needed to take care of a few things. The Roman police were understaffed right now anyway. No one would mind much if he remained on to take care of some pressing open cases.
Mimi and Enrico, he mused to himself as he assembled everything on the four murders. Sophie and Billy-O. What was the world coming to?
SEVENTY-TWO
Alex lay perfectly still in the underbrush, feeling the insects in a cloud around her face, feeling the humidity of the jungle drench her clothing. She had maintained her position for several hours.
She lay low on her right side against a small embankment of rocks, a tangle of branches and leaves pulled over her to conceal her. Her bare legs extended into the tall grass for cover. She was dripping with sweat, lying on her side, listening carefully to hear if any of the enemy assassins were near. Twice they had passed within ten feet of her. She had kept her pistol raised and even had one of the men in her sights. But they hadn’t seen her. So she hadn’t betrayed her position by firing.
She tried to separate the sounds of the jungle from the sounds of human pursuers. She listened for voices. She heard none. She had put the weapon away. Then she heard movement somewhere.
She moved her hand to her weapon and again pulled the Beretta from her holster. She positioned the weapon close to her, leaning on one elbow, keeping both hands on the gun. Her heart started to race again. Almost every sound seemed like the enemy. Who were these people and why would they have attacked peaceful missionaries and an isolated village? Yet in the forefront of her mind, all she could think of was her own survival.
At this point, it was defend yourself or be killed.
Just like Kiev.
She wished the world weren’t like this, but it was. Nervous tic time again. As she leaned on one elbow, one hand strayed from the pistol and went to her neck. Instead of finding the little gold cross that she had felt there for twenty years, she found the pendant Paulina had made for her. She messaged it. It felt cool and reassuring in her hand. Somehow it made her feel better.
She could still hear her own heart pounding. She tried to pace her breathing to let things settle. The underbrush that concealed her was settling around her. Her bare legs stung where they had picked up some scrapes and small cuts. She would soon have to clean the cuts and apply a strong disinfectant, but how?
Blood poisoning in this part of the world could be instant and horrific. It could paralyze a man or woman with a systemic infection within two or three days. It could kill a person in four. She would need water soon, too. Her mouth was parched. She knew where the streams sliced through the jungle, but it would have to be safe before she could move. No point taking a bullet in the back, even though water meant survival.
She reckoned that she was positioned about five hundred yards from the village. She had carefully noted the position of the sun as she had moved to one point of concealment after another, and she also had her compass.
She hatched out a plan. She would move at dusk, she reasoned, and try to find water. Then she would hide again overnight and try to creep back toward the village near dawn. She guessed that the raid on the village was a hit and run. But she was guessing.
Something in the tall grass shifted, underbrush she guessed, near the lower part of her body. Whatever it was, it pressed against her leg.
Look out for tarantulas, she reminded herself. She moved her legs slightly. Well, too big for a giant spider. It wasn’t small and crawly whatever was pressing against her. It felt like a branch or a vine.
Her heart settled slightly. She heard no voices pursuing, though she knew her pursuers would be quiet. Her heart settled more.
Time passed interminably. The tedium alone, combined with the building thirst, was enough to kill a woman.
Then she felt the pressure on her leg. The “vine” was moving, sliding. Then she felt it slide itself across her legs. At the same time she heard a distinctive rattle. The snake was already upon her bare skin, exploring.
Every instinct within her told her to jerk her leg away. But simultaneously, she knew she was dead if she moved. The snake had already entwined her. If she budged, it would strike. If it struck, she was dead.
The sweat rolled off her with a new fury. She heard the rattle again and felt the body of the rattlesnake coiled itself in a tightening grip around her leg. She had a knife but couldn’t reach for it.
She moved her head slowly. The serpent was firmly around her calf now and working its way up her leg. Then it was past the knee. Then it was on her thigh a few inches above her right knee.
If she fired a shot, she would draw the attention of her attackers. But at least she would be alive to fight. She would have to kill the snake within the next minute before it sank its fangs into the flesh of her bare thigh.
She couldn’t even see it yet. The tall grass hid it. She moved her gun slowly, positioning its nose in the direction of the snake. She would have one shot to try to save her life, but if the bullet from her own gun blew her foot off, that would be akin to a death sentence out here, too.
A prayer kept repeating itself in her mind.
Oh, my Lord. Oh, my Lord. Protect me now if you ever have before! She was in tall grass so thick that she couldn’t see past her waist. A little breeze rustled the grass. The snake was still climbing her, staking her out, claiming her.
Alex guessed it might be four feet long because it was coiled around her from her ankle till past her knee, and she couldn’t feel the head or neck of it.
Then the grass moved slightly, and like a small dark ghost emerging from a pale green cloud, the head of the snake poked through, skin glimmering with scales, its small black eyes alive with menace, small black bifurcated tongue flickering in and out.