"Hey, Phil, how's business?"
"Mongo," Phil growled, "you turn up in the damndest places."
"I got a call from Roscoe; he said there was trouble, so I flew over. You can see how much help I've been."
Phil made a sound deep in his throat. "If I ever get out of here I'm going to kill a few sons-of-bitches," he said evenly. He might have been talking about buying a new car.
"Phil, Roscoe's dead."
Something passed over Phil's face. He rose slowly and turned away, but not before I caught the glint of tears in his eyes.
Now I could see the rest of the room; it bore a close resemblance to a dungeon. There was a single window with a clear view of nothing but sky, which explained why it was unbarred.
The man standing next to the window had the soft, handsome features of a San Marinese. He had a good deal of stubble on his face, but his dress was still impeccable. He still wore a suit jacket, and his tie was neatly knotted. His gaze was a mixture of curiosity and dignity in the midst of adversity; the whole impression added up to a man used to holding public office.
"Arturo Bonatelli, I presume?"
The man smiled. Ciao," he said, then added in English: "Pleased to meet you."
Phil eyed the two of us. "You two know each other?"
"Only by reputation," I said. "This is a strange place to take a vacation, Mr. Bonatelli."
Bonatelli grinned wryly. "Is that what they say?"
"That's what they say." I grimaced against the pain, rose and shook Bonatelli's hand. "I'm Robert Frederickson, Mr. Bonatelli. What's happening here?"
Anger glinted in Bonatelli's eyes. The emotion seemed out of place on his features, like an ink smear on a fine painting. "A man is trying to take over my country."
"I know that. Fordamp. Why?"
"I think he intends to turn it into a sanctuary for international criminals."
Things were beginning to fall into place; I kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier.
"Fordamp told us that he only wanted to use San Marino for a little while," Bonatelli continued, "long enough to make plans for getting Luciano Petrocelli out of Europe. Petrocelli has paid Fordamp a lot of money. But if it works once, why should it not work many times?"
"That's why you're here?"
"Yes."
"What about the circus?" Phil said. "There ain't no money in the circus."
"The circus is his transportation vehicle," I said. "Hiding a man in San Marino is one thing; getting him in and out is something else again. It won't work forever, but it will work long enough to make Fordamp a tidy profit. At least Fordamp thinks so." I turned to Bonatelli. "Why didn't the others resist?"
"It isn't because they are cowards," the Regent said quickly. "It is because they fear for their country, and I did not agree with them on which was the best way to meet the threat. You see, despite the plastic souvenirs, San Marino itself is an authentic medieval treasure house. Most of the buildings are irreplaceable, and they contain countless art masterpieces. Without our churches, our art and our castles, we would be nothing more than a joke on a mountain.
"In addition, tourists would no longer come, and our economy would be crippled. Victor Fordamp has placed dynamite charges in many of our buildings, including the castles. He carries an electronic detonator in a vest that he wears, and he has threatened to blow up everything we hold dear if we resist. If you've met him, you know that he always has two armed guards with him. It is impossible to take him by surprise."
Bonatelli was flushed with anger, pacing back and forth in front of the window. "I, too, love everything that is San Marino," he continued. "But I do not believe we can allow ourselves to be blackmailed. Besides, I think Fordamp will blow up everything when he is finished with us anyway; such men cannot abide beauty. I argued that we had to find a way to resist. My opposition was reported to Fordamp, and I was locked up here with Mr. Statler, who refused to sell his circus."
I nodded and walked over to the window. As I'd suspected, we were locked up in one of the castles. I leaned out the window and looked down; the tops of a grove of pine trees were a hundred feet below. As I watched, a thrush winged her way to a nest built in the crevices between the stones that comprised the tower. I tried not to think of the fact that we were sitting on a charge of dynamite that could probably blow us all over the mountainside.
"Why do you suppose they haven't killed the two of you?"
"I'm not sure," Bonatelli said.
"I'm thinking he hasn't gotten around to it," Phil said around his cigar. "Besides, having us locked up here gives him a little added insurance in case he has to start threatening again."
I turned back to Phil and the Regent. "Assuming one of us could get out of here, what do you think would happen to the other two?"
Phil shrugged. "Things could get hairy, I suppose, but it would still be better to have one of us on the outside with a shot at Fordamp. As it is, we're simply sitting here waiting for the place to blow."
"That's obvious," Bonatelli said. There was a trace of impatience in his voice. "But the discussion is academic."
Phil removed the cigar from his mouth and spat into a corner. "Nothing's academic with Mongo."
"The door is two feet thick, and it's bolted. We are more than a hundred feet off the ground. How-"
"I think I can get out of here," I said. "Down the wall. But I'll be wasting my time unless there's some way I can convince the Italian authorities that we need them. Mr. Bonatelli, do you have anything I could show them as proof that I've been in contact with you?"
"I have my Regent's ring," Bonatelli said. "They would recognize that I suppose, but you couldn't possibly climb down that wall. You'd fall to your death."
"He might make it," Phil said, eyeing me. He sounded as if he might be auditioning new talent. "I've seen him do even more amazing things in his act."
"Act?"
"Forget it," I said curtly. "Mr. Bonatelli, may I have your ring?"
The Regent slipped a gold, crested ring off his right hand and handed it to me. His hand trembled, and he had the air of an inexperienced prison warden giving a condemned man his last meal. I put the ring in my pocket, went to the window and climbed out.
Balance and timing, two skills that I had once had in abundance, were essential for the descent I planned to make; I hoped they hadn't atrophied in the five years I'd spent away from the circus.
A cold breeze was blowing off the top of the mountain, drying the rivulets of sweat that had already broken out on my body. I kept my head level, staring straight ahead at the niches in the rocks where I gripped with my fingers as I groped below me with my feet for the next toehold. Finding it, I would brace, then bring one hand down the wall until I found another handhold.
The thrush exploded in a whir of wings somewhere below and to my right. My peripheral vision caught the faces of Phil and Bonatelli at the window above me; Bonatelli was bone white, his mouth gaping open as if the air at the top of the castle was too thin for him; Phil had the calmer expression of a man who has lived with the risks of death and maiming for a long time.
"Take it easy, Mongo," Phil growled softly. "There ain't no net under you."
"Wait until you get my bill for this exercise," I said without looking up. I'll be able to buy a dozen nets, all fine-spun gold."
"You got a blank check, Mongo. A blank check. Just don't forget that I don't owe you nothin' if you get killed."
I cut the banter short; I was going to need my breath. I was barely a quarter of the way down and already the pain was spreading from the small of my back, around my rib cage through my arms and fingers, numbing them. I'd gashed my right hand, and the blood was welling between my fingers.