Thirty minutes later, he stepped down from the railcar into the bustling mob that was Roma Termini.
Outside, he ignored the cabstand. Only tourists waited in orderly if futile fashion while the experienced traveler walked a block or so farther to catch cabs as they arrived at the station. Lang was aware of the man from the train at his elbow. He stood patiently until the white taxi stopped to unload its passenger and what must have been her entire wardrobe. The cabby yelled for a porter and a dolly was soon loaded with an assortment of mismatched luggage from the largest on bottom to the small overnight case crowned by a… what? A rat with a rhinestone collar around its neck? Lang wasn't sure until the creature began to bark crossly. Its mistress's alternating coos and pleas failed to silence the ill-natured canine. Lang pitied the traveler who shared a car with that animal. He could only imagine the haggle involving the porter's tip.
As the porter staggered away under his load, the cab- driver looked expectantly at Lang, who stepped back, indicating the man beside him should have the taxi.
The Italians are a civilized, graceful people.
Except when it comes to the last seat on a bus, train, cab or in a trattoria.
Lang's shadow gaped, uncomprehending. He had two immediate choices: expose his intent to follow the American or accept the offer and lose his mark.
He chose the latter.
Perhaps so he might regale his grandchildren with the story of how someone had voluntarily relinquished a taxi to him.
More likely because he feared a confrontation.
Lang leaned into the next cab, giving his destination and asking the fare. Roman cabdrivers are notorious for bilking strangers to their city. A ride that should consist of a few blocks easily becomes an hour's tour.
The driver held up both hands, ten euro.
Lang shook his head, knowing the distance he would travel. He held up one hand, fingers spread. "Five."
Ultimately reaching an agreement, Lang climbed in. The ride in Roman traffic was the usual blaring horns and ignored traffic signals. It would be impossible to spot a tail in the chaos. As always, Lang was a little surprised to arrive intact.
The cab jolted to a stop at the limit of vehicular traffic at the edge of the crowded Piazza della Rotonda. Lang paid the driver, adding a small tip, retrieved his bag from the trunk and set out across the square. For what might have been the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the Pantheon, Rome's ultimate example of simplicity and symmetry.
Built under the direction of the second-century emperor Hadrian, it had served as a temple to all gods and now as a church and final resting place of Raphael, Marconi and several kings of modern Italy. Its dome of equal height and width had been studied by Michelangelo as a potential model for the new Vatican (the commission for the dome's construction ultimately went to someone else). Unlike other temples, its only natural illumination came from the oculus, the hole at the top of the dome.
With some difficulty, Lang turned his back on the building and continued across the cobblestoned pavement to a glass door bearing a drawing of a smiling sun and gilt letters announcing the Sole al Pantheon. A fifteenth-century palazzo, it was one of the city's oldest hotels. It had been occupied when Columbus first sailed and into its second century long before the rebuilding of the Vatican.
Happily, the plumbing had been updated.
In more contemporary times, it had housed the writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.
More important for Lang's purposes, it was centrally located, discreet and had a single entrance/exit, one easily monitored from his room's window.
He entered the tiny lobby and submitted his passport to the young man behind the desk. "I'm expecting a package. It should have arrived last night."
Lang faced a small fountain behind a pane of glass at the far end of the room while the clerk glanced around, stooped and retrieved a parcel from beneath the desk before finishing entering Lang's passport into a computer. Declining the use of the hotel's claustrophobic elevator, Lang climbed two flights of winding stairs and walked down a short tiled hall that changed levels every few feet. He unlocked a door and stepped into semidarkness. Crossing the tiled floor, he opened a shuttered window. Sounds of the piazza below as well as light flooded the room.
He had an unobstructed view of the Pantheon and its fountain and obelisk to his left, the same view a resident of the original palazzo might have had.
Except for the McDonald's almost directly below him, an anachronism that had delighted Dawn when they had stayed here a lifetime ago. The whole city had delighted her. From this window, in this room, they had made plans for other trips, plans both would shortly realize would never be fulfilled.
Had he chosen to return here because of a memory, deceiving himself that location and layout were the reasons? No matter; he was here. He sighed deeply as he unwrapped the package, marked machine parts. He opened a sturdy cardboard box and removed pieces of the Browning HP 35 he had purchased in Monk's pawnshop and two loaded clips. The risk in having it delivered via FedEx had been minimized by its disassembly. No one part would be recognizable to random X-ray. Besides, security for freight carriers was considerably more lax than at passenger terminals.
He spent the next few minutes reassembling the weapon and then shoved a magazine into place with a decisive click. Removing the holster from his suitcase, he placed the pistol into position in the small of his back, put on a light jacket and went out.
He found a cab where he had left the one in which he had arrived, negotiated a fare and directed the driver to the Via Veneto entrance to the Villa Borghese, Rome's largest park and site of one of its most impressive palaces. Upon arrival, he waited for the taxi to depart before setting off. He wanted whoever had been trying to kill him to know he was in town but making no effort to foil observation might well seem suspicious.
A few blocks from the park he dodged his way across the busy Corso D'ltalia, cut down a side street and entered an office of Hertz. Although he still experienced nightmares from the last time he drove in Rome, an automobile was essential to his plan. He had reserved not just any car but a bright red Alfa Romeo two-seat sport model, one that would draw attention.
It would also draw the car thieves for which Italy was famous.
Either way, if his plan worked, Mr. Hertz was never going to see this baby again.
Before getting in the car, he stopped at one of the stands that seemed to have been randomly scattered throughout Rome, selling maps, photographs and prints of the city's attractions. It took him only a minute to find what he wanted.
He returned to the car rental, where a young man was standing over the sports car with the hood raised.
Lang had had enough experience with Italian cars to expect the worst. "Problem?"
"Si, signore. She will not start. Perhaps domani?"
"Tomorrow won't do."
Lang took a look at the engine compartment, an incomprehensible spaghetti of various colored wires, ducts that seemed to go nowhere and somewhere beneath, an engine block.
The man from the rental agency slid into the driver seat and cranked the car. The starter ground away, the engine turned over once, twice and died. Perhaps that was why the US Department of Transportation no longer allowed importation of Alfas: terminal frustration. That was certainly the reason Lang slammed the hood shut.
The engine purred to life.
Lang was thankful his plan did not call for reliability.