The sea was like a pool of crude oil and the bow cut through in darkness leaving only tranquil, flowing swells in its wake.
Flight operations had subsided for the evening, but a third of the ship's crew worked on through the night.
Kurt Lamar had left Leo Birdsong below decks with the intention of going to midnight chow. Kurt wanted to check on the Bingo King's flight records. He knew the Ready Room would be nearly empty by now.
Inside the Ready Room only a young sailor sat reclined in a high-back pilot's chair on his four-hour fire watch. He didn't even question Kurt when he came in through the metal hatch as if he owned the place, pulled the flight logs from under the counter, and flipped through them as if he'd been doing it all his life.
"So, you've got the watch, eh," Kurt said. "I used to hate this watch. The only thing that kept me awake was reading crotch novels. And then I'd get so horny I'd want to whack the weasel."
The sailor looked like he was right out of boot camp. He couldn't have been nineteen.
"I read MAD Magazine," the sailor said, not even looking up. "The parodies are totally excellent."
Kurt found what he was looking for. With a quick glance, he memorized all the dates and locations that Lt. Budd, the Bingo King, had flown. Could that be right? He flipped through a few other records. Leo had been right. Lt. Budd did divert a lot. He closed the files and headed toward the hatch.
"Hey, take it easy," Kurt said as he left.
The sailor just laughed and took a bite from a Snickers bar.
The late evening sky had cleared and the generous stars would have brought tears to Galileo's eyes. The faint headlights of a lone Fiat Uno sped down the Autostrada and exited at the Porto turn off. The street lights were blinking yellow, taunting the driver to maintain his speed. But the driver knew the Polizia would question the contents of the bag in his trunk, so he slowed his car to the speed limit.
He turned north along the seawall and marina, past the large shipping docks, to the fishing boats in a haggard part of town. He got out, put on a peacoat and a watch cap, and retrieved the bag from the trunk and started walking down the pier. A large rat scurried in front of him. Undaunted, he swung with his right foot to kick it. The rat simply dodged and burrowed under a stack of nets along the edge of the pier.
In the second to last slip, a three-man crew was making last minute preparations to shove off a small fishing boat from its moorings. The man with the bag hopped aboard without skill or grace and entered the small cabin.
The Italian-flagged Bella Donna departed on schedule as it did every morning. It slowly worked its way out of the port and past the break water as did scores of similar fishing boats working the Northern Adriatic waters of Italy and Slovenia. They all left with high hopes and returned with luck for some and barroom stories for others. The conflict of war over the years had hindered but never stopped the age-old fishing life.
The Bella Donna chugged slowly through the darkness, and the smooth water barely rippled past its stern. The sun was still a few hours away from appearing over the limestone hills. After about fifty minutes, the engine stopped and the inertia with it. The boat slackened to a halt and rocked for a minute before standing nearly dead in the water.
Within a few minutes, the red and green running lights of another fishing boat approached the Bella Donna from the southeast. Its engines slowed and it gingerly slid by within three feet. The man with the bag timed his jump just right, but landed wrong in the Slovenian-flagged fishing boat, and twisted his ankle-falling to the wooden deck in a bundle and with profuse swearing.
The Bella Donna continued on to its fishing waters. The Slovenian boat picked up speed and began its return trip to the port of Koper, Slovenia.
The large carrier came to a tired halt and dropped both anchors nearly a mile from the city of Genoa.
A few hours later, a small backpack over his shoulder, Kurt got onto a liberty launch and went ashore.
Once ashore, Kurt found the nearest cab, a yellow Fiat. "Parlare Inglese?" he asked the driver.
"Si, a little," the cabby said. "Where you go?"
"Christopher Columbus statue," Kurt said.
The cab jerked away from the curb and the cabby quickly flipped through the gears. Kurt wanted to tell the driver in his most pure Italian that he'd like to leave Italy in one piece.
He gazed at palm-lined boulevards passing by. Parks and gardens were more green than he remembered.
The cab weaved in and out of traffic at a relentless pace. Kurt found himself holding on tightly to the door's arm rest and wondering why he hadn't remembered the crazy drivers.
The cab pulled up across the street from the statue of Genoa's hero and America's discoverer. Kurt paid the man and headed for the closest espresso bar. The streets were crowded with Saturday drivers, the sidewalks lined with afternoon shoppers. The sun was as high and bright as it could possibly be for that time of year. Kurt wished he had brought sunglasses. The night shift had sensitized his eyes to light.
The sun had also warmed Genoa to nearly forty-five degrees. Kurt sat at an outside table with coffee. He was nearly a half-hour early. It would give him time to observe the area, think, and develop his plan of action.
He tried to remember every word his boss had told him. His only written instructions were in case of a dire emergency-he would hand them over to the commanding officer. Even those instructions were ambiguous. They consisted only of a name and a number in the Washington, D.C. area, but looked official with the government seal. Kurt had tried the number himself before the Roosevelt had left Mayport, Florida. His boss answered with a simple hello. Kurt returned the hello, and they both laughed. His boss said he would have done the same thing-any good special agent would.
The oral instructions had become more uncertain with time. Kurt continually ran them through his mind to keep from losing the slightest detail. His shipboard duties were clear-review documents and question sailors. Those duties had led him to at least one guilty sailor named Shelby, and probably a squeamish pilot who was only buying time before jumping ship to a lucrative airline job. Well, Kurt would change his plans. He'd make sure the guy would become the friend of some huge Marine at Leavenworth.
His investigations ashore were to be even more intense than aboard the ship. That was unfortunate, for he really wanted to enjoy himself once in a while. The women were beautiful and the wine superb, and Kurt knew he would find little time for either. In Genoa his contact would be an American.
Kurt spotted a man with blue Levis, untied Nike basketball shoes, and enough camera equipment to drown him if he fell in water over three-feet deep, walking up the sidewalk. He began firing off shot-after-shot of the Columbus statue. He fit the description.
Kurt finished his espresso and scooted between traffic. He walked up to within five feet of the camera-happy man and looked up at the stone face of Columbus.
"Do you think he was the first to discover America?" Kurt asked, not looking at the man.
The man continued to focus his zoom lens on Christopher's face. "No! The Vikings had him beat by a long shot," came a soft woman's voice with an Italian accent.
Kurt quickly turned to take a closer look at his contact, and sure enough she was a woman. And not just a woman, but an extremely attractive woman with her hair tucked up under a dark blue beret. Kurt moved closer, and the woman handed him one of her cameras and kissed him on both cheeks. They both started walking down the sidewalk.
"Kurt?" the woman asked.
"Yes…Kurt Lamar."
"I'm Toni Contardo."
Kurt didn't know what to think of this woman. She sounded more Italian than American.