The master’s phone rang. It was Roderigo. “DeMaj eluded the squadron,” he said. “He’s trying to land at Piazza Umberto.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“Their helicopter is invisible to radar. Plus, he’s a superb pilot, much better than anticipated.” Don VeMeli heard another man in the background. Roderigo continued, “Apparently, they’ve touched down. A woman is exiting the helicopter.”
Don VeMeli grabbed his pilot’s arm. “Reverse course immediately. Head north, toward Piazza Umberto. I’ll finish her myself.” The pilot nodded.
Roderigo asked, “Master, are you sure that’s wise? You’ll be exposed. Hundreds will witness the killing.”
“Obey your orders and leave the rest to me.” Smiling, Don VeMeli glanced down at his attaché case. Unbeknownst to even his closest staff, it contained a powerful shortwave radio transmitter. Once his chopper cleared the area, a simple keystroke would eradicate every living creature within twenty kilometers of the city. The only witnesses to his crime would be piles of irradiated ash.
Speeding past two security guards, Paul and Ava rushed up a flight of stairs and emerged onto the wooden stage, where they surprised four elaborately costumed musicians.
“Who the hell are you?” the guitarist demanded.
“Security!” yelled the drummer.
Just then Bagelton arrived. When he saw Ava, a spark of recognition showed in his eyes. He addressed the band: “Guys, guys, these two are the performers I told you about. The committee invited them to make a brief statement. Why don’t you take five and get some grappa?”
Regarding Ava with interest, the vocalist smiled. “So, baby, what’s your gig?”
Before she erupted, Paul stepped in.
“It’s an avant-garde piece. Spoken word.”
The musician nodded in approval.
Ava ventured toward the stage, but the bass player blocked her path.
“Wait!” he said, breath reeking of marijuana. “What are your politics? This is a grassroots gathering, not a platform for corporate shills.”
Her mind raced. “We’re trying to prevent global warming,” she said.
“And promote nuclear disarmament,” Paul said.
Appeased, the musician moved aside. “Fight the power!”
Once Ava’s path was clear, Paul positioned himself atop the stairwell to prevent anyone from interfering with her performance. He appropriated a microphone stand, inverted it, and balanced it on his shoulder. With a heavy club, recently shaved head, and grim expression, Paul presented an intimidating figure.
Ava took a breath, then marched across the platform to the microphones. Nervous, she tapped one. It was active. Standing alone, center stage, she felt utterly exposed. Seconds passed. The crowd, distracted for a moment by her dramatic entrance, began to grow restless. Someone whistled. Others murmured. Sound techs flashed her the thumbs-up, urging her to speak. Ava’s throat constricted. Her heart pounded. She stole a backward glance. The musicians were loitering nearby, smoking and passing a bottle. Bagelton’s face betrayed equal parts greed and curiosity. And there, standing guard, was loyal Paul. His warm eyes met hers, and he smiled. All her fears vanished. At that moment, Ava realized she was hopelessly in love.
She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and began to speak.
Simon remembered his mother. He was four and she was teaching him to read. He saw her long, elegant finger glide across the yellowed pages of a paperback filched from the used bookstore. When prompted, he tried to pronounce the magical words. She helped him sound out the most difficult. Together they consumed all types of books, but he loved adventure tales the most: The Song of Roland, The Death of Arthur, Robinson Crusoe, Huckleberry Finn; Dumas, Stevenson, Kipling, Tolkien, H. G. Wells, Jules Verne. Often, his exhausted mother fell asleep before a story’s conclusion, leaving her precocious son to finish it alone. As she dozed, he would read each word aloud, sure she was dreaming about the characters and desperate to know each story’s end.
Simon took this precious memory, locked it back deep within his heart, and refocused his mind on the present. His cockpit radio was tuned to a live broadcast from the protest. Over the air Ava’s confident voice began to proclaim the prophecy. He smiled: such a brave, brilliant young woman. He coaxed the Comanche into a steep bank, flew low behind a granite hillock, hovered, and scanned the radar. Four blinking icons represented the Italian helicopters he’d eluded. The Comanche’s advanced tactical avionics provided a detailed description of each Mongoose’s position, bearing, speed, and weapon status. His adversaries had separated into a standard military search pattern. DeMaj calculated he had forty seconds, perhaps a minute, until they pinpointed his location.
Then, a fifth icon appeared. It wasn’t searching for him; rather, it was flying directly toward Ava, and it was armed with a heat-seeking missile.
“Fire!” Don VeMeli shouted at his subordinates. “Why don’t you fire?”
“A moment longer,” said the copilot. “It’s difficult to attain missile lock on such a weak heat source. These weapons were designed for antitank combat.”
At starboard, the sun was a disk of burnished gold. Wincing from the glare, the master shielded his eyes. “I don’t care if it locks. Precision is unnecessary. Destroy the whole stage.”
“Sir, you don’t understand. If the missile won’t lock, it won’t arm. It wouldn’t detonate.”
Don VeMeli bristled with rage. “Imbecile! Use the guns then. Do whatever it takes!”
“Right away, sir.” Flicking a switch, the pilot aborted the missile launch, swooped down into cannon range, and reduced speed. Below them, a young woman was shouting strange words into a microphone. As the helicopter maneuvered for a clear shot, Don VeMeli whispered, “We have you now.”
Then the copilot screamed. Don VeMeli looked east, and for a second saw his doom.
Almost silent, invisible to radar, and hidden by the brilliant sun, DeMaj had advanced with impunity. Achieving tactical surprise, he flashed out of the morning sky and bore down upon his target. One final time he urged the Comanche’s engines to maximum thrust and then attacked his enemy’s flank, rushing forward like a divine wind. He hoped his mother would be proud. With a joyful heart, he looked forward to seeing her again. Just before impact, he caught the devil’s eye. Smiling, Simon whispered, “Shah mat.”
Paul moved the instant he saw the helicopter. It was painted military green and was fully armed. As it circled, Paul dropped his makeshift club and rushed forward. He didn’t dive. He didn’t jump. He ran directly at Ava and tackled her from behind. The impact knocked her off her feet, scattering her papers. Paul and Ava flew three rows into the crowd, where a cluster of astonished protesters broke their fall. Despite the collision, Paul heard no complaint, because at that moment, the sky exploded from a massive detonation. He felt searing heat on his back. If a piece of shrapnel found them, it would be fatal. Keeping Ava’s body underneath him, he held his breath, clasped his hands, and prayed.
Chapter 18
The helicopter’s impact had created an enormous fireball, and the flaming debris demolished the makeshift stage. Like a bonfire, it blazed for hours. Several protesters were injured, hit by shrapnel or doused with burning gasoline. Many more were hurt in the rush to escape, as terrified activists and concertgoers stampeded away from the flames. A young boy’s shoulder was shattered. An Italian girl, trampled by the hysterical crowd, required surgery and a middle-aged man from California suffered a stroke. Nevertheless, not a single bystander died. The press dubbed it the “miracle at La Maddalena,” and Ava couldn’t really disagree.