Why he'd call a silver tray spit was beyond Shirlee.
Mr. Jimson… Wouldn't he proud, he be 'live? Havin' the president hisse'f come to Hillwood?
The thought was interrupted by two men in dark suits entering the kitchen. Both in their mid-thirties, both with athletic builds. Both with small tubes in their ears and murmuring into the little mikes pinned to their lapels. "Bout the fifth time one of 'em had come through here, lookin' into the oven and microwave like they thought mebbe Shirlee done put a bomb in there.
Them mens were 'bout the politest Shirlee ever seen. Always a smile that look like it be stuck on with glue, always, "Yes, Ms. Atkins, No, Ms. Atkins," when she axed questions. But they be so serious, they scary. But nowhere near as scary as them other fellas, the Russians, the ones that wore what looked like pajamas belted at the waist stuffed into knee boots. They really scary, lookin' around with angry expressions like they done eat a mess o' collards somebody done put too much pepper sauce on. They didn' much care 'bout the house like the mens in suits. 'Stead, they kept lookin' at them whitish-colored rocks and scrawny little bushes right outside the French doors in the dinin' room, doors Shirlee been tolt to open so the room wouldn't get all stuffy during the meetin'. What them Russians think, like mebbe them stones an' plants gonna disappear somehow? An' they didn' care much for women, either, least not Shirlee and Cornicha, the other custodian work there. Ever' time either Shirlee or Cornicha speak to 'em, even a "good mornin'" or somethin', them mens just glare like they angry.
The sound of sirens made her forget the two types of men. She rushed to the front door. Must be the president come a little early.
Chapter Fifty-three
Between Cagliari and Silanus, Sardinia
1340, the same day
As the only one who knew the way, Adrian drove. At a place that qualified as a town only because it had a small piazza, he parked just outside the square.
"Victuals," he explained before either Jason or Maria asked. "Before we left the house, I tossed whatever was perishable." There was no mistaking his remorse for the waste. "The haggis we didn't eat, everything. Y' recall the last thing I did was switch off the ginny motor. No sense wastin' fuel, but no ginny, no electricity an' no refrigeration." He got out of the car. "Also, this is the only place I know of around here that sells dry ice."
"Dry ice?" Jason asked.
"Dry ice. Y' know, carbon dioxide in frozen, solid form. It'll take a bit for the fridge to cool down once it's restarted. Th' dry ice'll preserve what needs to be refrigerated."
Minutes later, all three emerged from the store laden with eggplant that seemed too purple to be real, tomatoes the size of softballs, peppers almost as large as the tomatoes, bread, cheese, and sliced sausage meats. Jason carried a carton of bottled water. When it was all loaded, they set out for Adrian's home, a journey of only a half an hour.
Adrian pulled up in front of the house. Taking the empty pipe out of his mouth, he got out of the car and whistled.
No response.
"Jock! Jock!" he called.
The hills gave him back a faint echo, but there was no sign of the dog.
"You think it was okay to leave him?" Maria asked.
Adrian filled the pipe as his eyes looked around. "Aye. He's not your city-dwelling lapdog. Plenty smart enough to seek sustenance from the neighbors. They'd feed'm, f' sure."
"Maybe they fed him too well," Jason suggested, lifting the carton of water from the trunk. "He's decided to take up with them."
"'Tis possible," Adrian admitted, the levity of the words not matching the. serious scan he was giving the surrounding countryside, "but a dog's not like a person. Y' canna buy his loyalty."
Jason was certain Jock was not what was on Adrian's mind at the moment. He was about to ask what the Scot sensed when he heard grunts from behind the house.
"Jock may be taking time off, but your pigs sound hungry."
"Always are. That's why they're pigs. May have to turn 'em loose to forage f themselves if we canna find slop for 'em.
Adrian's eyes were fixed on the house.
"You're not thinking about the dog or the pigs," Jason said.
"There's somethin' not quite cricket here. I'm tryin' to figger out what."*
In small, highly mobile strike groups like Delta Force or SAS, instincts were sharpened to the level of a sixth sense: a sudden quiet in the clamor of a jungle night, a pebble recently knocked loose from a mountain footpath, an old and battered automobile in a wealthy residential neighborhood. More than once, Jason had saved his own life as well as those of his men by noticing some almost imperceptible incongruity.
He put the carton of water down, freeing a hand to go to the weapon in the small of his back.
"What is the matter?" Maria asked.
Adrian shook his head. "Naught, lassie, jus' an old man's years of paranoia."
Perhaps, but Jason noted that the Sten gun under the seat was the first thing his friend removed from the Peugeot.
Each of the three loaded what they could carry. Adrian used a foot to open the door.
"Unlocked?" Jason asked.
"Aye. Someone come by to be a-borrowin' somethin' an' find th' door locked, I'd be regarded as an inhospitable sod, or, worse, one who dinna trust his neighbors. 'Sides, I dinna recall th' las' time I even saw th' bloody key."
Jason headed for the kitchen. "Where do you want me to put the dry ice?"
"Th' fridge, along with the sausage, cheese, and vegetables. Also the bottled water. It's better cool."
Perhaps the first time Jason had ever heard a native of the British Isles express a preference for chilling any beverage, including beer or drinks the rest of the civilized world served over ice.
Maria came in, her arms full. She leaned over to stock the small refrigerator. When she straightened up, her gaze went to the single window, a view of the rear yard.
"What is that?"
Both men joined her. Just beyond the shadow of the house, a small mound of fresh earth had been piled up.
" 'Twasn't there before," Adrian mused.
Jason was reaching for the back door.
"Please stay where you are, Mr. Peters."
The voice came from the kitchen's entrance to the rest of the house. The doorway was filled by three men, all with shaved heads, two pointing AK-47s. The one in the middle had a patch over one eye and recent scars on his face. Even so, Jason recognized him instantly.
Eglov.
"Please do not make any move I do not request. I would be greatly disappointed if I had to shoot you right here and now." He leered at Maria. "I have much more, er, interesting plans. An eye for an eye, I believe your Bible says."
"The dog," Adrian growled. "You-"
"The filthy mongrel bit one of my men. We could hardly leave him to warn you we were here upon your arrival. For that matter, we would have slaughtered the pigs also, but their absence would have alerted you. Besides, no true lover of the Earth would want to needlessly kill something so nearly feral as those swine. Now, if each of you will assume the position against the wall…"
Adrian leaned against the wall, legs and arms spread-eagled. "It was th' windows, laddie. Th' bloody windows. Since na' person was here, they shoulda been dirty from th' dust that blows aboot, not clean enough to see through."